
Book ,/1^6r"i 



I'RKSKNTi:!) IIV 



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LTuMI ii-, kUi 






WILLIAM COWPER. 




THE WORKS 



WILLIAM COWPER: 



HIS LIFE, LETTERS. AND POEMS. 



■MP* Jk 

NOW VIRST t'OMXa.KTfcD BV THE INTRhDtC TION OF 

COWPERS PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE. 



I'DITF.D BY THK 

REV. T. S. GRIMSHAWE, A.M., F.S:A., M.R.S.L., 

VICAR OF BInOENHAM. DGDFORtlslIlRIi ; 
AND AVTIIOR OF **THE LIFE OF THE REV. I.EOII RlflLHOSD." 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 



NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER ic BROTHERS, 
No. 285 BROADWAY. 

1849. 






am. 

Kant l*^ Booli O 
j«n. 22. 10»T 



■^r.^A 



THUMAS U. SMITH. STUREOTVPKP. RUOERT CRAIOliEAn, PRINTBK, 

216 WIf.I.lAM STREET. N. Y. 112 FULTON STREET 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



The very extensive sale of the former editions of the Works of Cowper, in 
eight volumes, now comprising an issue of no less than seventy thousand volumes, 
has led tlie publishei-s to contemplate the present edition in one volume 8vo. This 
form is intended to meet the demands of a numerous class of readers, daily be- 
coming more literary in t;iste, and more influential in their character on the great 
muss of our population. At a period like the present, wlien the great framework 
of society is agitated by convulsions pervading nearly the whole of continental 
Europe, and when so many elements of evil are in active operation, it becomes a 
duty of the highest importance to imbue the public mind with whatever is calcu- 
lated to uphold national peace and order, and to maintain among us a due reverence 
for laws, both human and divine. The faculty also and taste for reading now ex- 
ists to so great an extent, that it assumes a question of no small moment how this 
faculty is to be directed ; whether it shall be the giant's power to wound and to 
destroy, or like the Archangel's presence to heal and to save ? Many readers re- 
quire to be amused, but it is no less necessary that they should be instructed. To 
seek amusement and nothing further, denotes a head without wit, and a heart and 
a conscience without feeling. An author, if he be a Christian and a patriot, will 
never forget to edify as well as to amuse. There are few writers who possess and 
employ this happy art with more skill than Cowper. His aim is evidently to in- 
terest his reader, but he never forgets the appeal to his heart and conscience. It 
is strange if amidst the flowers of his poetic fancy, and the sallies of his epislolarj- 
Imraor, the Rose of Sharon does not insinuate its form, and breathe forth its sweet 
fragrance. No one knows better than Cowper how to interweave the sportiveness 
of his wit with the gravity of his moral, and yet always to be gay without levity, 
and grave without dulness. He is also IhorouyMij Enylish, in the structure of his 
mind, in tlie honest expression of his feelings, in his hatred of oppression, Iiis ardor 
for true liberty, his love for his countrv, and for whatever concerns the weal and 
woe of man. Nor does he ever fail to exhibit National Religion as the only sure 
foundation for national happiness and virtue. The works of such a writer can never 



iv PREFATORY REMARKS. 

perish. Cowper has earned for himself a name which will always rank him among 
the houseliold poets of England ; while his prose has been admitted by the higliest 
authority to be as immortal as his verse.* 

In presenting therefore to the class of readers above specified, as well as to the 
public general!}', this edition of the Works of Cowper, in a form accessible to all, 
the Publishers tnist that the undertaking will be deemed to be both seasonable 
and useful. In this confidence they offer it with the fullest anticipations of its 
success. It remains onlj' to state that it is a reprint of the former editions without 
any mutilation or curtailment. 

It is gratifying to add that the Portrait, drawn from life by Romney in 1192, 
and now engraved by W. Greatbaeh in the first style of art, is esteemed by the 
few persons living who have a vivid recollection of the person and appeaj-ance of 
the Poet, as the most correct and happy likeness ever given to the public. The 
Illustrations, too, presented with this edition, are procured without regard to cost, 
so as to render the entire work, it is hoped, the most complete ever published. 

December 3, 1848. 

* Such is the recorded testimony of Charles James Pox, and the late Robert Hall. The 
latter observes as follows :— " The letters of Mr. Cowper are the finest specimens of the episto- 
lary style in our language. To an air of inimitable ease they unite a high degree of correct- 
ness, such as could result only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. 
There is scarcely a single word capable of being exchanged for a better, and of htcrary errors 
there are none. I have perused them with great admiration and delight." 



DEDICATION 



DOWAGER LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Your Ladysliip's peculiar intimacy witli 
tlie poet Cowper, and your former residence 
at Weston, wlicre every oliject is enil>ellislicd 
by liis muse, and clothed witli a species of 
])oetieal verdure, give you a just title to 
liave vour name associated with his endeared 
memory. 

15ut, independently of these considerations, 
you are recorded both in his poetry and 
prose, and have thus acquired a kind of 
doiible immortality. These reasons are suf- 
ficiently valid to authorize the present dedi- 



cation. But there are additional motives, — 
tlie recollection of tlie happy hours, formerly 
spent at Weston, in your society and in that 
of Sir George Throcl<morton, cnliaiiccd by 
the presence of our common lamented friend, 
Dr. Johnson. A dispensation which spares 
neither rank-, accomplislnnents, nor virtues, 
has unhappily terminated this enjoyment, but 
it has not extinguished those sentiments of 
esteem and regard, with which 
I have the honor to be. 

My dear Lady Throckmorton, 
Your very sincere and obliged friend, 
T. S. GRIMSIIAWE. 

Biddenliam, Feb. 28, Igri. 



PREFACE 



In presenting to the public this new and 
complete edition of the Life, Correspondence, 
and Poems <d' Cowper, it may be proper for 
me to state the grounds on which it claims 
to be tlie only complete edition that has been, 
or can be published. 

After the decease of this justly admired 
a\ithor, Hayley received from my lamented 
brother-in-law. Dr. Johnson, (so endeared by 
his exemplary attention to his afflicted rela- 
tive,) every facility for his intended biography. 
Aided also by valuable contributions from 
other quarters, he was thus furnished with 
rich materials for the execution of his inter- 
esting work. The reception with which his 
Life of Cowper was honored, and the suc- 
cessive editions througli which it passed, 
alTorded unequivocal testimony to the indus- 
try and talents of the biographer and to the 
epistolary merits of the Poet. Slill there 
were many, intimately acquainted with the 
character and principles of Cowper, who con- 
sidered that, on the whole, a very erroneous 
impression was conveyed to the public. On 
this subject no one was perhaps more com- 
petent to form a just estimate than the late 
Dr. Johnson. A long and familiar inter- 
course with his endeared relative had af- 
forded him all the advantages of a daily and 
minute observation. His possession of docu- 
ments, iind intimate knowledge of facts, en- 
abled him to discover the partial suppression 



of some letters, and the total omission of 
others, thai, in his judgment, were essential 
to the development of Cowper's real char- 
acter. The cause of this procedure m.ay be 
explained so as fully to exonerate ILiyley 
from any charge injurious to his lionor. His 
mind, however literary and elegant, was not 
precisely qualilied to present a religious char- 
acter to the view of the British public, 
without commilting some important errors. 
Ilefice, in occasional parts of his work, his 
reflections are misplaced, sometinu>s injurious, 
and often injudicious: and in no portion of it 
is this defect more visible than where he at- 
tributes the malady of Cowper to the oper- 
ation of religious causes. 

It would be dilticult to express the painful 
feeling produced by these facts on the minds 
of Dr. Johnson and of his friends. Hayley in- 
deed seems to be afraid of exhibiting Cowper 
too much (H a religious gurh, lest he should 
either lessen his estimation, alarm the reader, 
or compromise himself. To these circum- 
stances may be attributed the defects that we 
have noticed, and which have rendered his 
otherwi.se excellent production an imperfect 
work. The consequence, as regards Cowper, 
has been unfortunate. " People," observes 
Dr. Johnson, " read the Letters with ' the 
Task' in their recollection, (and vice rersA,) 
and are perplexed. They look for the Cowper 
of each in the other, and find him not; tlii^ 



PREFACE. 



correspondency is destroyed. The character 
of Cowper is thus undetermined ; mystery 
hangs over it, and the opinions formed of 
him are as various as tlie minds of the in- 
quirers." It was to dissipate this illusion, 
that ray lamented friend collected the '•Pri- 
vate Correspondence," containing letters that 
had been previously suppressed, with the 
addition ol' others, then brought to light for 
the first time. Still there remains one more 
important object to be accomplished : viz., to 
present to the British public the while Cor- 
respmidence in ils entire and unbroken, form, 
and in its chronological order. Tlien, and not 
till then, will the real character of Cowper be 
fully understood and comprehended; and the 
consistency of his Christian character be 
found to harmonize with the Christian spirit 
of his pure and e.xalted productions. 

Supplemental to such an undertaking is 
the task of revising Ilayley's life of the Poet, 
purifying it from the errors that detract from 
its acknowledged value and adapting it to 
the demands and expectations of the religious 
public. That this desideratum has been long 
felt, to an e.\tent far beyond what is com- 
monly supposed, the Editor has had ample 
means of kuovvintr, from his own personal 
observation, and from repeated assurances 
of the same import from his lamented friend, 
the Rev. Legli Richmond.* 

The time for carrying this object into effect 
is now arrived. The termination of the copy- 
right of Ilayley's Life of Cowper, and access 
to the Private Correspondence collected by 
Dr. Johnson, enable the Editor to combine 
all these objects, and to present, for the first 
time, a Complete Edition of the Works of 
dou-per, which it is not in the power of any 
individual besides himself to accomplish, be- 
cause all others .are debarred access to the 
Private Correspondence. Upwards of two 
hundred letters will be thus incorporated 
with tlie former work of Ilayley, in their due 
and chronological order. 

The merits of " The Private Correspond- 
ence" are thus attested in a letter addressed 
to Dr. Johnson, by a no less distinguished 
judge than the late Rev. Robert Hall. — "It is 
quite unnecessary to say that I perused the 
letters with great .idmiratiim and delight. I 
have always considered the letters of i\Ir. 
Cowper as the finest specimen of the epis- 
tolary style in our language ; and lliese ap- 
pear to me of a superior description to- the 
t'ormer, possessing as much beauty, with 
more piety and pathos. To an air of inimi- 
table ease and carelessness they unite a high 
degree of correctness, such as could result 
' onty from the clearest intellect, combimed 

* or the Idlers contained in tlie " Private Corre- 
ppomlence" lie einpliatically remarked, "Cowper will 
never be clearly and satisfactorily iinderstootl without 
them." 



with the most finished taste. I liave scarcely 
found a single word which is capable of be- 
ing exchanged for a better. Literary errors 
I can discern none. The selection of words, 
and the construction of periods, are inimitti- 
ble ; they present as striking a contrast as 
can well be conceived to the turgid verbos- 
ity which passes at present for fine writing, 
and which bears a great resemblance to the 
degeneracy which marks the style of Ammi- 
anus Marcellinus, as compared to that of 
Cicero or of Livy. In my humble opinion, 
the study of Cowpcr's prose may on this ac- 
count be as useful in forming the taste ot 
young people as his poetry. That the Let 
ters will atibrd great delight to all persons 
of true taste, and that you will confer a most 
accept;ible present on the reading world by 
publishing them, will not admit of a doubt." 
All that now remains is for the Editor to 
say one word respecting himself He has 
been called upon to engage in this undertak- 
ing both on public and privtite grounds. He 
is not insensible to the honor of such a com- 
mission, and yet feels that he is undertaking 
a delicate and responsible ofhce. May he 
execute it in humble dependence on the 
Divine blessing, and in a sjiirit that accords 
with the venerated name of Cowper ! Had 
ihe life of his endeared friend. Dr. Johnson, 
been prolonged, no man would have been 
better qualified for such an othce. His am- 
ple sources of. information, his name, and his 
profound veneration for tlie memory of Cow- 
pcr, (whom he tenderly watched while living, 
and whose eyes he closed in death,) would 
have awakened an interest to which no other 
writer could presume to lay claim. It is un- 
der tlie f likire of this expectation, which is ex- 
tinguished by the grave, that the editor feels 
himself called upon to endeavor to supply the' 
void : and thus to fulfil what is due to the 
characterof Cowper, and to the known wishes 
of his departed friend. Peace be to his ashes ! 
They now rest near those of his beloved 
Bard, while their happy spirits are reunited in 
a world where no cloud obscures the mind, 
and no sorrow depresses the heart : and 
where the mysterious dispensations of Prov- 
idence will be found to have been in accord- 
ance with his unerring wisdom and mercy. 

It is impossible for the Editor to specify 
the various instances of revision in the nar- 
rative of Hayley, because they are sometimes 
minute or verbal, at other times more en- 
larged. The object has been to retain the 
basis of his work, as tar as possible. The- 
introduction of new matter is principally 
where the interests of religion, or a. regard 
to Cowpcr's character seemed to require it ; 
iind for such remarks the Editor is solely 
responsible. 



CONTENTS. 



PART THE FIRST. 

PaKe 

The family, birth, and first residence of Cowper. '23 

His verses on llie portrait of his mother 23 

Epitaph on his mother by her niece. 24 

The schools that Cowpnr altt^nded 24 

His suflerinsra during childhood 24 

His removal from Wt-sl minster to an attorney's office 25 

Verses on his eaily lUlUdiona 26 

His settlement in the Inner T.-inple 2G 

His acquaintance with eminent authors. 20 

His translations in Dune. i tube's Horace, 26 

His own account of his early life 28 

Stanxaji on reading Sir ( liarlcs Grandison 2)) 

His verses on tindim,^ the heel of a shoe. 27 

His nouiinulion to the office of Reading Clerk in the 
Mouse of Lords 27 

His nomination to be Clerk of the Journals in the 
House of T-onls 27 

T<r Lady Heskelh. Journals of the House of Lords. 
Reflection on the singular temper of his mind. 
Aug. II, 17rK! 27 

His extreme dread of appearing in public 28 

His illness and rcmo%'al to St. Albaiis, 28 

Chani^e in his ideas of religion 29 

His recnvfry. 29 

His sritlcin.'nl. at Huntingdon to be near his brother 29 

TIk' tran-'^lalion of Voltaire's Henriadc by the two 
brothers, 29 

The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with the Uuwius 29 

His adoption into the family 30 

His early friendship with Lord Thurlow, and J. Hill, 
K?g 30 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Account of his situation at 
Htuilingdon. Jtme 24, 1765 31 

To Lady Hesketh. On his illness and subsequent 
recovery. July 1, 17(i5. 31 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Huntingdon and its amuse- 
ments. July 3, l'Hi3 32 

To Lady Hesketh. .Salutary etTwts of allUclion on 
the human mind. Jidy 4, 1765 32 

To the same. Ac»_'ount of Huntingdon; distance 
(rom his Brother, &c July 5, 176.1 33 

To the same. Newton's Treatise on Prophecy ; Re- 
llectir)ns of Dr. Young on the Truth of Christianity. 
July 12, 17G5 .'. 31 

To the same. On ihe Beauty and Sublimity of Scrip- 
tural Language. Aug. 1, 1765 34 

I'o Joseph Hill, Esq. Kxpecled excursion. Aug. 14, 

^'""'5 35 

To r,ady Hesketh. Pear^lfs Meditations ; detinilion 
offaiUi. Aug. 17, 176.5 36 

To the same. On a particular Providence ; experi- 
ence of mercy, &C. Sept. 4, 17(».5 36 

To the same. Fii-st introduction to the rnwin fam- 
ily ; their characters. Sei)t. 14, 1765. .37 

To the sjinie. On the thankfulness of the heart, its 
inequalities, ««. Oct. Jt), 1765 3J^ 

To the same. Miss rnwin, her chariKter and niely. 
Oct. lis 1765 3H 

To Major Cowper. Situation at Hmitingdon; his 
perfect satisfaction, Uc, OcL lA 1765... 39 

To Joseph Hill. Esq. On those who confine all mer- 
its to their own iic<iuaintanc<?. (^ct. 2.5, I7r>5 3;i 

T« the same. Agreement with the Rev, W. rnwin, 
Nov. .5. 1765 40 

To the same. Declining to rend lectures at Linooltrs 
Un. Xov.>*, 1765 40 

To Lady HesktJh. Ou solitude; on the desertion of 
his friends. March 6, 176G 41 

To Mrs. Cowper. Mrs. rnwin. and her son; his 
cousin Martin. Mim:h 11, r76«i 41 

To the same, letter: the fniit of fiieiidship; his 
convci-siou- April 4, i766 42 , 



Pago 
To the same. The probability of knowing each other 

in Heaven. April 17, 17C6 42 

To the same. On the recollection of earthly affaire 

by departed spirits. April 18, 17ti6 43 

To the same. On the same subject ; ou his own state 

of body and mind. Sept. 3, 1766 4-1 

To the same. His manner of Ifving; rea-sons for his 

' not taking orders. Oct. 20, 1766 45 

To the same. Rcnectiona on reading Marshall. Mar. 

II, 1767 46 

To the same. Introduction of Mr. Unwiu's son ; his 

gardening; on Mai-shall. March 14, 1767 46 

To the same. (-)n the motive of his introducing Mr. 

Unwinds son to her. April 3, 1767 47 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. General election. June IC, 

1767 47 

To Mrs. Cowper. Mr. Unwin's death; doubts con- 
cerning Cowper's future abode. July 13, 1767 47 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Uotlections arising from Mi'. 

Unwin's death. Jidy 16, 1767 48 

The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Mr. Ntw- 

ton 4i^ 

Cowper's removal with Mrs. Unwin to Olney 49 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Invitation to OIncy. 'Oct. 20. 

1767 49 

His devotion and chanty in his new residence 49 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Ou the occurrences during his 

visit at St. Albans, June 16, 1768 49 

To the same. On the difference of (lispositions; his 

lovo of retirement. Jan. 21, 1769 49 

Tothesame. OnMrs. Hill's late illness. Jan. 29, 1769 50 
To the same. Declining an invitation. Fondness 

for retirement. July 31. 1769 .'iO 

His poem in memory of John Thornton, Esq 5it 

1 1 is beneflcencc to a necessitous child 51 

To Mrs. Cowper. His new ? itualion ; reasons for 

mixture of evil in the world. 1769 51 

To the same. The consolations of religion on the 

death of her husband. Aug. 3J, 1769 51 

Cowper's journey to Cambridge on his brother's ill- 
ness .'j^ 

To Mrs. Cowper. Dangerous illness of his brother. 

March 5, 1770. 52 

Tlie death and character of Cowper's brother. .53 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Religious sentiments of his 

brolht-r. May 8, 1770 ,'>3 

To -Mrs. (.\.wper. The same subject. June 7, 1770. 53 
To Jiiseph Hill, Esq. Expression of hisgratitude for 

instances of friendship. Sepi, 25, J77o. 54 

To the same. Congralidations on his raan-iagc. 

Aug. 27, 1771 55 

To jhe same. Declining offers of service. June 27, 

To (he same. Acknowledging obligations. July 2, 1772 .'J5 
To the same. Declining an invitation to London. 

Nov. 5, 1772 ,-,1 

The composition of the Olney Hymns by Mr. Xewlon 

and (ViwjKjr ." rid 

The interruption of the olnev Hvmns by the illnt-ss 

of CoW[KT. '...'. r>(\ 

His lonx and severe depression .57 

His tame hares, one of his first amusements on his 

recover)' .-7 

The origin of his friendship with Mr. BulL Cu 

His translations fl-om M;ulame de la Mothc Cuinn.. . .''.7 
To J{»sepli Hill, Es(j. On Mr. Ashley CooperV recov- 
ery from a nervous fevt-r. Nov. 12, 1776 .57 

To the sauu'. On (.'ray's Works, April 20,1777.... 58 
To the siiine. On Cray's later episthw. West's I^'t- 

lors. May 2.5, 1777 5fl 

To the same. Seiection of books. July 13, 1777 ... 58 
To the same. Supposed diminution of Cowper's in- 
come. Jan. 1, 1778 58 



CONTENTS. 



To the same. Death of Sir Thomas Hesketh, Bart. 
April 11, 1778 59 

To the same. Raynal's works. May 7, 1778. . .... 59 

To the same. Congratulations on preferment. June 
18, 1778 59 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Disapproving a proposed 
application to Chancellor Thurlow. June IH, 1778 59 

To the same. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, May 
26, 1779 .• GO 

To the same. Remarks on the Isle of Thanet. July, 
1779 tJO 

To the same. Advice on sea-bathing. July 17, 1779 GO 

To the same. Hia hot-house ; tame pijjeous ; visit 
toGavhurst. Sept. 21, 1779 GO 

To Josuph Hill, Esq. With the fable of the Pine-ap- 
ple and the Bee. Oct. 2, 1779 61 

Tu tlio Rev. W. Uuwiu, Johnson's Biography ; his 
treatment of Milton. Oct. 31, 1779 61 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. With a poem on the promo- 
tion of Edward Thm-low. Nov. 14, 1779 6i 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Q,uick succession of human 
events ; modern patriotism. Deci % 1779 62 

To the same. Burke's speech on reform : Nightin- 
gale and Glow-worm. Feb. 27, 1780 62 

To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's removal from 
Ohiey. March 4, 1780 03 

To Joseph Hill, Eaq. Congratulations on his profes- 
sional success. Mai'ch 16, 1780 C-1 

To the Rev. J. Newlon. On the danger of innova- 
tion. March 18, 1780 64 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. On keeping the Sabbath. 
March 28, 1780 64 

To the same. Pluralities in the church. April 6, 1780 65 

To the Rev. J. Newton. Distinction between a trav- 
elled man, and a travelled gentleman. April 16, 
1780 60 

To the same. Serious reflections on rural scenery. 
May 3, 1780 66 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. The Chancellor's illness. May 
6, 1780 66 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. His passion for landscape 
drawing; modern politics. May 8, 1780 67 

To Mrs. Cowper. On her brother's death. May 10, 
1780 68 

Tu the Rev. J.Newton. Pedantry of commentators; 
Dr. Bentley, &c. May 10, 1780 68 

To Mrs. Newton. Mishap of the gingerbread baker 
and his wife. The Doves. June 2, 178i) 68 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Cowper's fondness of 
praise — Can a pai'son be obliged to take an ap- 
prentice? — Latin translation of a passage in Para- 
dise Lost; versilication of a thought. June 8, 1780 GO 

To tho Rev. J. Newton. On the riots in 1780; dan- 
ger of associations. June 12, 1780 70 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Latin verses on ditto. June 
18, 1780 70 

To the same. Robertson's History; Biogruphia Bri- 
taunica. June 22, 1780 71 

To the Rev. J. Newton. Ingenuity uf slander ; lace- 
makers' petition, J une 23, 1780 72 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. To touch and retouch, the 
secret of good writing ; an epitaph. July 2, 1780. 72 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the riots in London. July 
3, 1780 ". 72 

To the same. Recommendation of lace-makers' pe- 
tition. Julys, 1780 73 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Translation of the Latin 
verses on the riots. July 11,1780 74 

To^hc Rev. J. Newton. With an enigma. July 12, 
17S0 74 

To Mrs. Cowper. On the insensible progress of age. 
Julv 29, 17f^0 7,"> 

To the Rev, W, Unwin. OIney bridge. July 27, 1780 70 

To tho Rev. J. Newton. A riddle, July 30, 1780. . , 76 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Human nature not changed ; 
a mudern, only an ancient in a different dress. 
August 6, 1780 76 

To Jiiseph Hill, Esq. On his recreations. Aug. 10, 
1780 77 

To the Rev. J, Newton, Escape of one of his hares. 
Aug. 21, 1780 77 

To Mrs. Cowper. Lady Cowper's death. Age a 
friend to the mind. Aug. 31, 1780 73 

To tho Rev* W. Unwin. Biographia ; verses, parson 
and clerk. Sept. 3, 1780 78 

To the same. On education. Sept. 7, 1780 79 

To the same. Public schools, Sept. 17, 1780 80 

To the same. On the same subject. Oct. 5, 1780. . . 80 

To Mrs, Newton. On Mr. Newton's arrival at Rams- 
gate, Oct, 5, 1780 81 



Page 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Versos on a goldlinch 
stan'ed to death in his cage, Nov. 9, 1780 82 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On a point of law. Dec. 10, 
1780.. 82 

To the Rev, John Newton, On his commendations 
of Cowjjer's poems, Dec. 21,1780 82 

To J. Hill, Esq. With the memorable law-cxse be- 
tween nose and eves. Dec. 2.'>, 1780 83 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. With the same. Dec., 1780 83 

To the Rev. John Newton. Progress of Error. Mr. 
Newton's works, Jan, 21, 1781 84 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. On visiting prisoners. 
Feb. 6, 1781 85 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. Hurricane in West Indies. 
Feb. 8, 1781 - 85 

To the same. On metrical law-cases; old age. Feb. 
15,1781 65 

To the Rev. John Newton. With Table Talk. On 
classical literature. Feb. 18, 1781 86 

To Mr. Hill. Acknowledging a present received. 
Feb. 19, 1781 86 

To tho Rev. John Newton. Mr. Scott's curacies. 
Feb. 25, 1781 87 

To the same. Care of myrtles. Sham fight at Olney. 
March .% 1781 87 

To the same. On the poems, " Expostulation,*' &c. 
March 18, 1781 88 

To the Rev. \V. Unwin. Consolations on the asper- 
ity of a critic. April 2, ]781 89 

To the Rev. John Newton. Requesting a preface to 
"Truth." Enigma on a cucumber. April 8, 1781 9.1 

To the same. Sohition of the enigma. April 2:t, 17dl 90 

Cowper's first appearance as an author 91 

The subjects of his first poems suggested by Mrs. 
Unwin 91 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Intended publication of his 
first volume. May L 1781 91 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the composition and pub- 
lication of his first volume. May 9, 178 1 91 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Reasons for not showing 
his preface to Mr. Unwin. May 10, 1781 ^92 

To the same. Delay of his publication ; Vincent 
Bourne, and his poems. May 23, 1781 92 

To Oie Rev. John Newton. On the heat ; on disem- 
bodied spirits. May 22, 1781 93 

To the Rev. W, Unwin, Corrections of his proofs ; 
on his horsemanship. May 28, 1781 93 

Tothesame. Mrs. Unwin'scriticisms ; adistinguish- 
ing Providence. Jmie .'>, 1781 93 

To the same. On the design of his poems; Mr. 
I'liwiii's iKishfuhiess. June 24, 1781 95 

Ori.,'iii <>i'(.'(>wpfr's acfiuaintance with Lady Austen 96 

Pntiiea! (■|u>tk- addressed to that lady by him 96 

DirtidriK-e nf the poet's gcnius 97 

To ihi- Iti'v. Jnhn Newton. His late visit to Olney. 
Lady Aiistt-n's first visit. Correction in "Progress 
of Error." Intended Portrait of Cowper. July 7, 
1781 97 

To the same. Humorous letter in rhyme, on his 
poetry. July 12, 1781 98 

To the same. Progress of the poem, " Conversation," 
July 22, 1781 99 

To the Rev. W. Unwin. Though revenge and a 
spirit of litigation are contrary to the Cospel. still 
it is the duty of a Christian to vindicate his riu'ht. 
Anecdote of a French Abbe. A lite champfetre. 
July 29, 1781 99 

To Mi's. Newton. Changes of fiLshion. Remaiks on 
his poem, " Conversation." Aug., 1781 100 

To the Rev. John Newton. Conversion of the green- 
house into a summer parlor. I'rogress of his 
work. Aug. 10,1781 101 

To the same. State of Cowper's mind. Lady Aus- 
ten's intended settlement at Olney. Lines on co- 
coa-nuls and fish. Aug. 21, 17MI 102 

To the Rev. W, Unwin. Cunu'ralulaiit.'us cm the birth 
of a son, RemiU-ks <in lii> pumi, *' lletiremenf." 
Lady Austen's proposed settlement at Olney. Her 
character, Aug. 25, 1781 Iil2 

To the Rev. John Newton, Progress of the priiil- 
iog of his poem, '• Retirement." Mr. Johnson's 
corrections. Aug. 2.1, 1781 103 

To the same. Heat of the weather. Remarks on 
the opinion of a clerical acquaintance concerning 
certain amusements and music. Sept. 9, 1781... . 104 

To Mrs. Newton. A poetical ei)istle on a barrel of 
oysters. Sept, 16, 1781 104 

To the Rev. John Newlun. Dr. Johnson's criticism 
on Watts and Blackmore, Smoking. Sept. 18, 
1781 : 105 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
To Ihe Rev. W. irnwiii. Thoiighls on theses. Char- 

acliT of Lady AiisK'n. Si-nt. 20, 1781 105 

To ihf Ri!V. John Newton. Keligioua poetry. Oct. 
4. 17MI 106 

To lln' siiine. Hri^htim Ainimomenta. Ilia project- 
ed Authorship. Oct. 6. IT^^l 107 

'J'o till! Kev. John Nuwtou. Disputes hetwet^n the 
Uev. Mr. Scott and ttie Rev. Mr. R. Oct. 14, 1781 107 

To Mrs. Cowper. His llrst vohime. Death of a 
trieml. Oct. 19, 1781 lOH 

Reasons why the Rev. Mr. Newton wrote Ihe Preface 
to Cowper's Poems 109 

To the Rev. Jolin Newton. Remarks on the pro- 
posed Pretace to the Poems. Mr. Scott and .Mr. R. 
Oct. 22,1781 109 

To the Uev. \V. Unwin. RriKhton dissipation. Ed-, 
neat ion of younLC Fnwin. Nov. 5, 1781 110 

To the Rev. John Xi-wion. Cowper's inditference to 
Fame. Anecdote oniic Kev. Mr. Bull. Nov. 7. 1781 110 

To the Rev. \Vm. I'nwiii. .Vpparilion of Paul While- 
head, at West Wycombe. Nov.24, 1781 Ill 

To Joseph Hill, Esq. In answer to his account of 
his landlady and her coltai^e. Nov. 20, 1781 112 

To the Rev, Wm. L'nwin. Oriijin and causes of so- 
cial feeling. Nov. 26, 1781 113 

To Che Rev. John Newton. rnfavoral)lo prospect 
of the American war. Nov. 27, 1781 113 

To Hut saintr. With lines on Murv and John. Sarao 
date '. 114 

To Joseph Hill, Est). Advantage of having a tenant 
wiio is irregular in his pavinenls. Sale of cham- 
bers. Stale of affuira in Anieriea. Dec. 2, 1781 . . . 114 

To the Rev. John Newton. With lines to Sir Joshua 
Ri'vnolds. Political and patriotic poetrv. Dec. 4, 
1781 '. 115 

Circumstances luider which Cowper commenced his 
career as an author 116 

Letter to the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 17, 1781. Re- 
marks on his poems on Friendship, Retirement, 
Heroism, and jfelna; Nineveh and Rrilain 116 

To the Rev. William Tiiwiti, Dec. 19, 1781. Idea of 
alhencracy; the American war 117 

To the Rev. John Newton : shortest day, 1781. On 
n national miscarriage ; with lines on a flatting- 
mill 117 

To the same, last day of 1784. Concerning Ihe prints 
ini? of his Poems ; the American contest 118 

To the Rev. William L'nwin, Jan. .1, 1782. Dr. John- 
son's critique on Prior and Pope.. 119 

To the Uev. John Newton, Jan. 13, 1782. The Amer- 
ican contest 120 

To tho Rev. William l'nwin, Jan. 17, 1782. C.>nduct 
of critics ; Dr. Johnson's remtu-ks on Prior^s Poems'; 
remarks on Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets ; po- 
etry suitable for the reading of a bov 120 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 31, 1782. Political rellec- 
lions 122 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 2, 17P2. On liis 
Poems then printing; Dr. Johnson's character us 
a ( rilic; severity of" the winter 123 

To Ihe Rev. Wm. Tnwin, Feb. 9, 1782. Bishop 
L(»wih's juvenile verses; acquaintance with Lady 
AnsWn 124 

.\ttitition:* of Lady Austen to Cowper 124 

Ltll«T from liim to Lady Austen 124 

She becomes his next door neighbor 125 

To the Rev. William rnwin. On Lady Austen's 
opinion ofhim ; ailempus ai robbery ; observations 
on religious characters; genuine benevolence 125 

Tti the Rev. John Newlon, Feb. Hi, 1782. Charms of 
auth<»rship 126 

To llie Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 24, 1782. On the 
publication of his poems; his K'tler to the Lord 
Chancellor '. 126 

To Lord Thurlow, Feb. 2.'), 1782, encloseti to Mr. 
IJtiwin 127 

To III.* Rev. John XewKni. Feb., 1782. On Mr. N.'s 
Pn-faee In his Poem;'. Remarks on a Fast Sermon 127 

To the same, Marcli 0,1782. Pnliliral remarks; 
character uf Oliver Cromwell 128 

Pecit^ion and boldm-ss of Cnimwell 128 

To Hie Rev. Wm. I'liwin, .March 7, 17W. Remon- 
slnnice against Sunday rnuls 128 

Remarks on ihe reawms for rt-jecling the Rev. Mr. 
Newton's Preface to Cuwner's Poems 129 

To the Rev. John Newlon. March 11, 1782. On the 
intended Preface lo his Poems; critical Uict of 
JohnsKu the book-eller 129 

To Joseph Hill. E-'q., .March 14, ITftl On the publi- 
cotiouof hisPucmi 130 



Page 
To the Rev. William Unwin, March 18, 1782. On 

his and Mrs. I'nwin's (qtinion of his Poems-. 130 

Improvements in prison discipline 131 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 24, 1782. Case of 

Mr. B. comj>ared with Cowper's 131 

To the Rev. Williiun Unwin, April I, 1782. On his 

commendulimis of his Ptn-nis 131 

To the same, Ajiril 27. 1782. Military music; Mr. 
Unwin's expected visit; dignity of the Latin lan- 
guage ; use i>f parentheses '. 132 

To the same. May 27, 1782. Dr. Franklin's opinion 
of his i>oems ; remarkable instance of proviuenlial 
deliverance from dangers; effects of the weather; 

Rodney's victory in the West Indies 133 

To the same, June 12, 1782. Anxiety of Authors 

respecting the opinion of others on their works. . . 134 
Reception of the Ilrst volume of Cowper's Poems. . . 134 

Portrait of the true j)oet 134 

Picture of a person of fretful temper 135 



PART THE SECOND. 

To the Rev. Wm. Bull, June 22, 1782. Poetical epis- 
tle on Tobacco ] 35 

To the Uev. Wm. Unwin, July 16, 1782. Remarks 
on political affaii-s; Lady Austen and her project 136 

To the same, Augiist 3, 1782. ( )n Dr. Johnson's ex- 
pected opinion of his Poems; encoimter with a 
viper; Lady Austen; Mr. Bull; Madame Guion's 
Poems 137 

The Colubriad, a poem 138 

Lady Austen comes to reside at the parsonage at 
Olney 138 

Songs written for her by Cowper 138 

His song on the loss of the Royal George 139 

The same in Latin " 139 

Origin of his ballad of John Gilpin 140 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 6, 1782. Visit of Mr. 
Small 140 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Nov. 4, 1782. On the bal- 
lad of John (Jilpin; on Mr. I'nwin's exertions \i\ 
behalf of the prisonei-s at Chelmsford; subscrip- 
tion for the widows of seamen Uist in the RoyaJ 
George 140 

To the Uev. William Bull, Nov. 5, 1782. On his ex- 
pected visit 141 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 11, 1782. On the elate 
of his health; encouragement of planting; Mr. 
P , of Hastings 141 

To Joseph Hill, Fsq., Nov., 1782. Thanks for a pres- 
ent ot ttsh ; on Mr. Small's repoi t of M r. IIUI and his 
improvements 112 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 18, 1782. Ac- 
know ledgmtinls to a benelicent friend to the poor 
of Olney ; on the nppe;u-anee of John Gilpin in print 142 

To the Rev. William Unwin. No date. Cliaracter 
of Dr. Bcaltie and his poems; Cowper's transla- 
tion of Madame Guion's poems 143 

To Mrs. Newton, Nov. 23, 1782. On his poems; se- 
verity of the wijiter ; contrast between a spendthrift 
and an Olney cottager; method recommended for 
settling disputes 143 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 7, 1782. Recollections of 
the coH'ee-house ; Cowper's mode of spending hia 
evenings; poliijcal contradictions 144 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 19, 1783. His oc- 
cup.itions ; beneficence of Mr. Thornton lo the poor 
ofolnev 145 

To the Uev. John Newtou, Jan. 26, 1783. On the an- 
ticipations of peace; conduct of the belligerent 
powers 1 4.'i 

To the Kev. Wni. Unwin. Feb. 2, 1783. Ironical con- 
gralulalions on the peace; generositv of England 
to France ". ~. HC 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 8, 1783. Remarks 
on the peace 146 

To Joceph Hill, Esq., Feb. 13, 1783. Remarks on 
his poems 147 

To the same. Feb. 20, 1783, With Dr. FranUin's 
letter on his poems 117 

To the same. No date. On Ihe coalition ministry 
Lord ( -hancellor Thurlow 148 

Neglect of Cowper by Lord Thnrlow 148 

Lord Thiirlow's generosity in the case of Dr. John- 
son, and Crabbe. the poet 148 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 24, 17a3. On the 
peace 148 

To the Rev. Wilhaufc Bull, March 7, 1783. On the 
peace ; Scotch Uighlanderfi at Newport FagnoL ■ . 149 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 7, 178:^. Compare 
ison of hia and Mr. Newtoifs letters; march of 
Ilii^hlamlers beUinj;in? to a mutinous regiment. . . 149 

To the same, April 5, 1783. lUiiess of Mrs. U. ; new 
method of trealini^consumpUve cases. 150 

T.) the same, April -21, 17S3. His occupations and 

studies; writinifs of Mr. ; probability of his 

conversion in his last moments 150 

To the Rev. John Newton, May 5, 1783. Vulgarity 
in a rainisti.'r particularly offensive 151 

To the Rev. William Unwin, May 12, 1783. Re- 
marks on a sermon preached by Paley at the con- 
f^ucration of Bishop L 151 

Severity of Cowper's strictures on Paley 15:i 

Important question of a church establishment 152 

Increase of true piety in the Church of Euj^land ... 152 

I.;nr^uai;e of Beza respectmg the established church 152 

Ti) Joseph Hill, Esq., May 26, 1783. On the death 
of liis uncle's wife 153 

To the Rev. John Newton, May 31, 1783. On Mrs. 
(J.'s death...' 153 

To the Rev. William Bull, June 3, 1783. With stan- 
z;w on peace 153 

To the Rev. William Unwin, June 8, 1783. Beau- 
ties of the greenhouse ; character of the Rev. Mr. 
Bull 153 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 13, 1783. On his 
Review of Ecclesiastical History; the day of judg- 
ment ; observations of natm-al phenomena 154 

I'xtraordinary natural phenomena in the summer of 
1783 155 

l>u la Lande's explanation of them 155 

Earthquakes in Calabria and Sicily 155 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 17. 1783. Ministers 
must not expect to scold men out of Iheir sins- . . . 156 

'J'endcrness an important qu;ililic;ilion in a raioister 156 

To tlie Rev. John Newton, .liim- lH, 1783. On the 
Dutch translation of his "<';irdiphonia'' 1,56 

To the same, July 27, 1783. A country life barren of 
incident; Cowper's attachment to his solitude; 
praise of Mr. Newton's style as an historian 156 

Remarks on the influence of local associations 157 

Dr. Johnson's allusion to that subject 1.57 

To the Rev William Unwiu, Auicust 4, 1783. Pro- 
posed inquiry concerning the sale of his Poems; 
romarks on English ballads; anecdote of Cowper'a 
(goldfinches 158 

To the same, Sept. 7, 1783. Fault of Madame Guion's 
writings, too great familiarity in addressini? the 
Deily 1.59 

To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 8, 1783. On Mr. 
Newton's and his own recovery from illness ; anec- 
dote of a clerk in a public office ; ill health of Mr. 
Scott ; message to ^I^. Bacon l.")9 

To the same, Sept. 15, 1783. Cowper's mental suf- 
ferings IGO 

To the' same, Sept. 23, 1783. On Mr. Newton's re- 
covery from a lever ; dining with an absent man ; 
his niche for meditation IHO 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Sept. 29, 1783. Effect 
of the weather on health ; comparative happiness 
of the natural philosopher ; reflections on air-bal- 
loons lol 

To the Rov. John Newton, Oct. G, 1783. Relii,anii^ 
animosities deplored; more dangerous to llic in- 
terests of religion than the attacks of its adversa- 
ries; Cowprr's foiiilness for narratives of voysiges 1G2 

To Joseph Hill, i:-ii., i )ct. 10, 1783. Cowper declines 
the discussion ut")>uliiic:il subjects; epitaph on sail- 
ors of the Royal lleorge 103 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 13, 1783. Neglect of 
American loyalists ; extraordinary donation sent to 
Lisbon at the time of the great earthquake ; pros- 
pects of the Americans H^3 

To the same, Oct. 20, 1783. Remarks on Bacon's 
monument of Lord Cliatham llM 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 20, 1783. Anticipations 
of winter 1C4 

('owper's winter evenings Iii5 

The subject of his poem, "The Sofa,'" suggested... 1G5 

Circumstances illustrative of the origin and progress 

of "The Task" 1G5 

Extracts from letters to Mr. Bull on that subject 165 

Particulars of the time in which " The Task'' was 

composed 105 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 3, 1783. Fire at 01- 

ney described IGO 

To the Rev. WiUiam Unwin, Nov. 10, 1783. On the 
neglect of old acquaintance ; invitation to Olney ; 
exerciae recommended ; fire at Olney 166 



Pago 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 17, 1783. Homor- 
ous description of the punishment of a thief at 
Olney ; dream of an air-balloon 167 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 23, 1783. On his opinion 
of voyages and travels ; Cowper's readinic 168 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 24, 1783. Com- 
plaint of the neglect of Lord Thurlow ; character 
of Josephus's History 169 

To the Ryv. John Newton, Nov. 30, 1783. Specula- 
tions on the employment of the antediluvians; 
the Theological Review 169 

To the same, Dec. 15, 1783. Speculations on the in- 
vention of balloons ; the East India Bill 170 

To the same, Dec. 27, 1783. Ambition of public men ; 
disnli^s;^l <.if Tiiuiisters ; Cowper's sentiments con- 
cerning Mr. l>;icon; anecdote of Mr. Scott 172 

To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. Account of 
Mr. Throckmorton's invitation to see a balloon 
filled ; attentions of the Throckmorton family to 
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin 173 

Circumstances which obliged Cowper to relinquish 
hia friendship with Lady Austen 174 

Hayley's account of this event 174 

To the Rev.WilU;ini Uiiuin, Jan. 3, 1784. Dearth of 
subjects for wriiiiii; upon at olney; reflections on 
the monopoly ot the East India Company 175 

To Mrs. Hill, Jan. 5, 1784. Requesting her to send 
some books 176 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 8, 1784. On his political 
letters; low state of the public funds 176 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 18, 1784. Cowper'a 
religious despondency; remark on ftlr. Newton's 
predecessor 176 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan., 1784. Proposed 
alteration in a Latin poein of Mr. Unwin's ; re- 
raai'ks on the bequest of a cousin ; commenda- 
tions on Mr. Unwin's conduct ; on newspaper 
praise 177 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 25, 1784. Cowper'a 
sentiments on East India patronage and East India 
dominion 178 

State of our Indian possessions at that time 178 

Moral revolution effected there 179 

Latin lines by Dr. Jortin, on the shortness of human 
life 179 

Cowper's translation of them 179 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1781. On Mr. New- 
ton's " Review of Ecclesiastical Histoiy ;'* proposed 
title and motto ; Cowper declines contributing to a 
Review 179 

To the same, Feb. 10, 1784. Cowper's nervous state ; 
comparison of himself with the ancient poets; hia 
hypothesis of a gradual declension in vigor from 
Adam downwards 179 

To the same, Feb., 1784. The thaw ; kindness of a 
benefactor to the poor of Olney ; Cowper's politics, 
and those of a reverend neighbor; projected trans- 
lation of (^araccioti on selt-ucquaintiuice 180 

To llie Rev. AVilliam Bull, Feb. 22, 1784. Unknown 
benefactor to the poor of Olney ; political profes- 
sion 180 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 29, J784. On Mr. 
Unwin's acquaintance with Lord Petre; unknown 
benefactor to the poor of Olney ; dittidcnce of a 
modest man on extraordinary occasitins 181 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 8, 17^4. The The- 
ological Miscelhtny ; abandonment of the intended 
translation of Caraccioli 182 

To the same, March 11, 1784. Remarks on Mr. New- 
ton's " Apology ;■" East India patronage and do- 
minion 182 

To the same, March 1.5, 1784. Cowper's habitual 
despondence; verse his favorite occupation, and 
why ; Johnson's '■ Lives of the Poets'' 183 

To the same. March 19, 1784. Works of the Mar- 
quis Caraccioli ; evening occuiiations 184 

To the Rev. William Unwin, March 21, 17rt4. Cow- 
per's sentiments on Johnson's "Lives of the Po- 
ets ;" characters of the poets 164 

To the Rev. John Newton, March 20, 1784. Visit 
of a candidate and his train to Cowjicr; angry 
preaching of Mr. S 185 

To the same, April, 1784. Remarks on divine wrath ; 
destruction in Calabria - 186 

Effects of the earthquakes, and total loss of human 
lives 186 

To the Rev. William Unwin, April 5, 1784. Charac- 
ter of Beattie and Blair; speculation on the origin 
of speech 186 

To the same, April 15, 1784. Further remarks on 



CONTENTS. 



1S9 



190 



Blair's " Lectures ;'" censure of a particular obsei^ 

vjitimi in Hint t>ook 187 

To the saiiif, April aS, 1T84. Lines to the memory 

of u tialvbutt Ifi^ 

To ihc licv. Jolm Ni'wlon, April 21!, I7H4. IJo- 
marlcs on Iteiutic Hiid on IJIiiir's *M,fctnres;" 
L'conomy of tlie counlj ciiii(Iid;itc*s and its conse- 

qui.-nci-s I,,jj4 

■i'o llu! Kiv. William lii«in. May 3, 1784. Kc-ripc^ 
lions on faco-puintin? ; innocent in French women, 
)>ut immoral in KnRlisJi.. 
To Ihi^ same, Jlav 8, 1784. Cowpcr's reasons for not 
MTilins- a sequel to John (iilpiu, and not \vi.<liin}; 
that baJlud lo apfuMr with his Poems; protji-esfi 

made In printing them 

I'olhe Itev. .John Newton, .May 1(1, 17S4. (Xinver- 
sion of Dr. Johns4>n ; unsuccessful attempt with a 

balloon at ThntekmortonV 191 

Circumstances attendini; Dr. •lohnson's conversion., ihl 
To the Rev. John iVewton, May 24, 17*4. iln Dr. 
Johnson's opinion of Towper's'" Poems;" .Mr. Bull 

and his refractory pupils — 19-2 

To the same, June 5, J784. On Ihc opinion of «'ow- 

per's "Poems" attributed to Dr. Johnson 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 21, I7i>4. fommem- 
oralinn of ManiJel : unplensaut summer ; character 

of .Mr. and Mr^. I.'nwin 

To Uu^ Itev. William Lnwiii, July 3, 17AI. Severity 

of the weather; its effects on vegetation 

To the Rev. John .Vewton, July .5. I7(^ Itefereiice 
to ft pr.ssuite in Homer; couk'l tho wise men of an- 
linuily have believeil in the fables of the he:iihen 
myllicilo','y V t'owper's neslecl of politics ; hishos- 

^tiltiy to the tA.v on caudles 

To the Bev. William Unwin. July 12, 1784. Remarks 
on a line in VinceiU llourne'a Latin poems ; draw- 
ing of .Mr. I'nwin's house ; Hume's" Es-soy on Sui- 
cide" 
To thi 



192 

192 
193 



.. 193 



To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 27, 1784. Sketch 
of the contents and purpose of his new volume. . . 206 

To the Rev. William I'nwin, filney, 178-1. (»n the 
tran9mi8,«ion of his Poems; elTeelof medicines on 
the composition of poetry 207 

To the same. Nov. 211, 1784. Substance of his I'oi't 
letter to Mr. Newton 307 

To Joseph Hill. Es<)., Dec. 4, I7A1. Ai!rial vovages.' 208 

1 o th.' Rev. John .XewUui, Dec. 1.1, 17S4. ()n the 
verailication and titles of his new Poems; propri- 
ety of usinffthe word worm for serpimt 208 

Pllssayes in Milton and .Shakespeare in which worm 

is so used oQg 

To the Hev. William I'nwin, Dec. If, 17W. Baliooii 
travellers; inscription (o his new poem; reasons 
lor coraplimenlint' ilisbuii Rauot 209 

To the Rev. John .\ewlon, fhrislmas-eve, 1784 
Cowper declines givini; a new title to his new vol- 
ume of Poems; remarks on a person tately de- 
ceased 210 



194 



same, July 13, 17t<4. Latin Dictionary ; an- 
im,adversioiLs on the tax on candles; musical aj*s. . 

To the Rev. John Newton. July 14, 17S4. Commem- 
oration of Handel |96 

Mr. .Vewion's. sermon on that subjt^t '.'. 19G 

To the Rev. John Newton, July lit, 1784. The world 
compared with Redlam 

To the same, Julv 2H, 1784. On Mr. .Newton's 
tended visit to the Rev. Mr. Gilpin at Lvmins'ton; 
* literary adversaries '...... 



195 



. . 196 



bis 



V 



1.17 



200 
200 



To the Rev. Win. I'nwin. Am;. 14, 1784. Reflections 
on iravellint'; Cowjier's visits u> Weston : dilTer- 
euce of character in the inhabilanls of the South 

Sea islands; cork suppl«'menl.s; irants 

Oriainal mode of frankins, and reasons for the ailop- 

tion of the ureseiil method I. 193 

To ihe Rev. John Newton, Au','ust 16, 1784. Pleas- 
urcs 01 OIney ; a.scent of a balloon ; excellence of 

the Friendly islanders in dancini; 196 

.'o llu! Rev. William I'nwin, Sept. (1, 17,'M. Cow- 
pir'B pr»K;ress in hi« new volume of iHjems ; opin- 
ions of a visitor on his flrst volume 199 

To Jo.«<ph Hill, 1-iiq., S<pl. 11, 1784. Character of 

Dr. Colton 199 

lo the Rev. John Niwton, S,-pl. 18, 17*4.' ' A'te'ration 
01 franks; Covper's EreenUou.s« ; his enjovincnl 

ol natural souniis , . ." 

To the Rev. William rnwin, Oct 2. 1784. Pun<il,'ii. 

IKJU ol>oelrj ; visit to .Mr. Tlirockmwion 
lo Uie Kev. John .Newton, Oct. 9. 1781. Cowper 
maintains not only ihat his tfcouKlits are niicon- 
nocleil. but Ihiii irtKiuently he does not think at all • 
remarks on tliu character and death of Canlain 

took ■ 2„j 

1.1 the Hev. Willmm I'nwin, Oct. 10, 1784 Willi 
the manuscript of the new volume of his Poems, 

and remarks on them .^t 

To tiK- Mine, OcL 20. 1781. Instructions' rcsp«iin!! " 

a publisher, and eorrictions in his Poems.. ! 203 

lo Uie Hev. John .Newton, OcL 22, 1784. Remarks 

on Knox s Ks'-nvs ojji 

To the same, Oct', 30,1784. Heroism "of the Sand- 
wich islanders; Cowper informs Mr. NewUm of 

his intention lo publish a new volume 204 

To the Rev. William I'nwin, Nov. 1, 1784. Covr- 
per sreaxwis for not earlier acquainting Mr New- 
ton with his intention of piihlishini! mrain • he 
resolves lo include "John tJilpin". .......... .. ■>»', 

y, ,,''}!■ "'"' '•"'l' ^■">" '"*'■'■ <♦" 'l'" <l''atli of 
Jir. Mills mother; Cowper's recollections of his 
own mother ; departure of Lady Austen ; his new 
volume of Poems oQg 



General remarks on tho piu-ticular« of Cowper's per- 

sonal history ._ 219 

Remarks on the completion of the second volume of 

Cowper's Poems 312 

<;ibbon's record of his feeling on the conclusion of 

his Historj; 211 

Moral drawn from the evanescence of life... ..!...! o|l 
lo the Rev. John Newton, Jan. i, I7S5. On the ro- " 
nouncement of the Christian character; enitaph 

on Dr. Johnson o]o 

To the Rev. Wm. I'nwin, Jan. 15, 1785. On delay 
in leller-writiug; sentiments of Rev. .Mr. Newton- 
< owper s contributions to Ihe Gentleman's .Mn-a- 

_7.ine; Lunardi's narra(i\e op* 

Explanalions respectiiiic Cowpcr's poem, entitied 

" I he Poplar Held" 013 

To Joseph Hill, r.sq„ Jan. 22, 1785. Breakini;" up of " 
me Irost; anlicipations of proceedinss in Parlia- 

mtmt 213 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 7, 17aV. Prol 
Ifress of Cowper's second volume of Poems; his 
pieces in the Gentleman's Maffaziiie; sentiments 
01 a neiehborinj; nobleman njid gentleman re- 
specting Cowper . 013 

To the Kev. John .Newton, Feb. 19, 1785. An iiiec- " 
nious bookbinder; poverty at OIney; severity of 

the late winter 0J4 

To Joseph Hill, Esq, Feb. 27, 178.5. Inquin-'TOn- ' 

cerning his lieidlh. and account of his own 215 

lo llie Rev. John Newlon, March 19, 1785. Uses 
and descrijilion of an old cnril table ; want of ex- 
ercise dering Ihe winter ; jielilion against conces- 
sions lo Ireland 215 

To the Rev. William I'nwin, Slareh 20, 1785. Re- * 
marks on a nobleman's eve ; progi-ess of his new 
volume ; political r«llections ; celebrity of " John 

Gilpin 216 

To the Rev. Jolm iNewUin, April 9, 1785. On tiii.' ' 
prediction of a dcstructivo earthquake, bv a Ger- 
man eccle3ia.stic * 216 

To the same, April 22, 1785. On the popularity'of 

"John Gilpin" ;. . 017 

To the Rev. William I'nwin, April 30, 1785. oii" ihe " 
cclebiily of "John Gil|>in ;" progress of Cowper's 
new volume; Mr. Newton's senliments in regard 
to hiin; mention of some old acquaintances; dis- 

covery ol a bird's ne.st in a gate-post S 

To Ihe liev. John .Newton, May, 1785. Sudden death 
of .Mr. Ashburiier ; remarks on the slate of Cow- 
per s mind; reference lo his fii-st acquaintance 

wilhNewton 0]g 

1'o the same, June 4. 178.5. Character of the Rev'. " 
Mr. (Ireatheed ; cninphlion of Cowper's new vol- 
ume ; Bacon's monuminl to Lord I halbnm 220 

loJostph Hill, Esq., June 25, 17S>. Cowper'ssum- 

iner-hoiise ; dilatoriiies-H of his bookseller 221 

To the Rev. John Newlon, Jiuh- 2.5, 1783. Allusion 
to the mental depression under wliirh Cowper I.n- 
bored ; .Nathan's last nuuneiits; complaint of 
Ji'hnson's delay; effeels of drought; lax on gloves 221 
To the same, July 9, 1785. Menlioii of leliere in 
praise of his Poems; condiiclof the Lord Chancel- 
lor and G. (.kilman ; n-fereiice lo the comniemorn- 

Uon of Handel: cutting dc^«•n of the spinney KS 

T o the Rev. William I'nwin, July 27, 178.5. Violent 
thunder-stonn ; counige of a dog; on Ihe tove of 

Christ 223 

To Ihe Rev. John .Newton, Aug. fi. 178.5. Fellings on 
the subject of aulhoi^hip ; rea.sons for introducing 
John (Jilplii in bis new volume 224 



217 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 17, 1785. Rotisons 
for not writing to .Mr. Bacon: Dr. Johnson's Di- 
ary: ilhiesaol Mr. Terry --> 

Chanicter ot" Dr. Johnson's Diary 'i'^ 

Flxlraels IVom it "--* 

Arguments lor the necessity of conversion '^-21 

Jolinson'snPiTlHCtof Ihe Sabbath 227 

Testimony ol .Sir William Jones respectinff tlie Holy 
Scriptures -^ 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 27. 17H5. Thanks 
fur presi'nts; his second volume of Poems; re- 
marks on Df. Johnson's Joui'nal ; claims of who 
ami fh-it '^28 

To Ihe Rrv.Jnhn Kcwton, Sept. 24, 1785. Recollec- 
tions i>rS)iulh:uniiton: recovery of Mr. Perry; pro- 
posed .^uMdHy 8L-hMol 229 

Orii^'iii uf Sunday Schools 230 

Their utility 2110 

Sentiments of the late Rev. Andrew Fuller on the 
Bible Society and un Sunday Schools 230 

To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Oct. 11, 1733. Cowper excuses 
himself fur not visiting Wargrave; on his printed 
epistle to Mr. Hill 231 

Renewal of Cowper's intimacy with his coiisin, Lady 
Hesketh 231 

To Lady Hesketh, Oct. 12, 1785. Recollections re- 
vived by her letter ; account of his own situation : 
allusion to his uncle's health ; necessity oV mentiil 
employment for himself 231 | 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 16, 1785. On the 
death of Miss Cunnina;ham; expected removal of 
the Rev. Mr. Scott from Olney ; Mr. Jones, stew- 
ard of Lord Peterborou^'h burned in efflgy 232 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 22, 1785. Pro- 
gress of his translation of Homer ; course of read- 
ing,' recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 233 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 5, 1785. On his tar- 
diness in writing; remarks on Mr. N.'s narrative 
of his life ; strictures on Mr. Heron's critical opin- • 
ions of Virtiil and the Bible; lines addressed by 
('owner to Heron 234 

Remarks on Heron's " Letters on Lileratm-e" 235 

To J()sei)h Hill, Esf].,Nov.7, 1735. On the interrup- 
tions expeilenced by men of business from the 
idle..... 235 

To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 9, 1785. Reference to his 
poems ; he signifies his acceptance of her offer of 
jiecuniai-y aid ; his transialioa of Homer ; descrip- 
liun of his person 236 

To the same, without date. His feelings towards 
her; allusion to his translation of Homer 2.37 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 9, 1785. On Bishop 
Bagot's charge 237 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 3, 1735. Causes 
which led him to undertake the translation of Ho- 
mer; visit from Mr. Bagot; renewal of his corre- 
spondence with Lady Hesketh ; complains of indi- 
gestion 238 

Tu tliu same, Dec. 10, 1785. On the favorable re- 
ports of his last volume of poems; censure of 
Pope's Homer. 23'J 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 24, 1785. On his 
translation of Homer - 239 

To Joseph Hill, Ks(i., Dec. 24, 1785. On his transla- 
tion of Homer 240 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 31, 1785. On his 
negotialioii with Johnson respecting The Transla- 
tion of Homer: want of bedding among the poor 
of Olney 240 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 10, 1786. Ilia consciousness 
of defects' in his poems ; On his Translation of 
Homer ■- 241 

To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 14, 1786. On Mr. 
Unwin's introduction to Lady Hesketh ; specimen 
uf Cowper's translation of Homer, sent to Ceneral 
Cowper ; James's powder ; what is a friend good 
for '.' unreasonable censure 242 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 14, 178r». On his 
translation of Homer 242 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 15, 173o. Explana- 
tion of the delay in the publication of his propo- 
sals; allusion to Bishop Bagot 242 

To the same, Jan. 23, 1786. Dr. IMaty's intended re- 
view of " The Task ;" Dr. Cyril Jackson's opinion 
■ of Pope's Homer 243 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 31, 178G. Acknowledgment 
of presents from Anonymous ; state of his health ; 
I rou'ie-Js of his translation of Homer; ciu'respoud- 

ence with (General Cowper 243 

To liiL' same, Feb.)>, 1786. Anticipatio:is of a visit 



Page 

from her; description of the vestibule of his resi- 
dence 244 

To the same, Feb. 11, 1786. He announces that he 
has sent off to her a portion of his translation of 
Homer; effectof criticisms onhis health; promise 

of Thurlow to Cowper 245 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 18, 1786. On their 
correspondence; his translation of Homer; pro- 
posed mottoes 240 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb, 19, 1786. Preparations for 
her expected visit; character of Homer ; criticism 
on Cowper's specimen 247 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 27, 17^6. Condo- 
lence on the death of his wife 248 

To Lady Hesketh, March 6, 1786. On elisions in his 
Homer ; progress of the work 248 

To the Rev. W. Unwin, March 13, 1736. Character 
of the critic to whom he had submitted his Homer 24:> 

To the Rev. John Newton, April 1, 1786. Expected 
visitors 249 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 5, 1786. Reasons for de- 
clining to make any apology for his translation of 
Homer 250 

Motives which induced Cowper to imdertake a new 
version 250 

To Lady Hesketh, April 17. 1786. Description of 
the vicarage at Olney, where lodgings had been 
taken for her ; Mrs. Unwin's sentiments towards 
her ; letter from Anonymous ; his early acquaint- 
ance with Lord Thurlow 250 

To I<ady Hesketh, April 24, 1780. On her letters; 
anticipations (jf her coming; General Cowper — 251 

To the same, May 8, 1736. On Dr. Maty's censure 
of Cowper's translation of Homer ; Colman's opin- 
ion of it ; Cowper's stanzas on Lord Tliurh>w ; in- 
vitation to Olney ; specimen of Maty's animadver- 
sions ; recommendation of a house at Weston ; 
blunder of Mr. Throckmorton's bailiff; recovery 
of General Cowper 252 

To tiie same, May 15, 1786. Anticipations of her ar- 
rival at Olney ; proposed arrangements forthe oc- 
casion ; presumed motive of Maty's censures ; 
coulfssidu ni ambition 254 

To tlie Rev. Widter Bagot, May 20, 1736. His trans- 
lati(jn of Homer ; reasons for not adopting Horace's 
maxim about publishing, to the letter 2.'J5 

Secret sorrows of Cowper 2J36 

To the Rev. John Newton, May 20, 1786. Cowper's 
^nhappy state of mind ; his connexions 25fi 

Remarks on Cowper's depression of spirit 2.')7 

Delusion of supposing himself excluded from the 
mercy of God 257 

Religions consolation recommended in cases of dis- 
ordered intellect 258 

To Lady Hesketh, May 25. 1786. Delay of her com- 
ing : visit to a house at Weston ; the Throekmoi^ 
hms ; anecdote of a quotation .from "The Task ;" 
nervous aOections 258 

To the same, JMay 29, 1786. Delay of her coming; 
l)rei)aratious for it; allusion to his flts of dejec- 
tion 259 

To the same, June 4 and 5, 1736. Cowper rallies 
her on her foars of their expected meeting ; dinner 
at Mr. Throckmorton's 2G0 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 9, 1780. Relapse of the 
Lord Chnncellor; renewalof correspondence Willi 
Colman; the Nonsense Club ; expectation of Lady 
Ite.kelh's arrival 261 

Anivnl of Lady Hesketh at Olney 261 

Inlluence of that event on Cowper- 201 

Extract from a letter from him to Mr. Bull 262 

Description of a thunder-stoi-m, from a letter to the 
same 202 

Cowper's House at Olney 262 

His intimacy with Mr. Newton 262 

His {lions and benevolent habits 262 

He removes from Olney to the Lodge at Weston 263 

His acqimintance with Samuel Rose, Esq., and the 
late Rev. Dr. Johnson 263 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 19, 178G. His intended 
removal from Olney 203 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 22, 1780. I!is em- 
ployments; interruption given to them by Lady 
lle?keth's arrival ; Newton's Sermons 203 

To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, July 3,^36. Lady IIcs- 
ki-tli's arrival and character; state of his old abode 
and (li.M-ripIion of the new one at Weston; books 
reeomineiuled for Jilr. Unwin's son 264 

To the Rev. Waiter Bagot, July 4, 1780. Pnrticulars 
relative to the translation of Homer ■■ 205 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

To Ihe Rev. John Newlon, Auii. 5, 178G. His tnleiid- 
fd removal IVoni Olney ; ita unhealthy situation; 
his uiihiippy slalo ofniiiid ; comfort of Lady lles- 
krthV presoHCO 2*i5 

(•n\v[.<r's siiirita iiol affectod appareutly by his men- 
tal in:itudy '2t!() 

To lIiL" Key". William rnwiiu Aug, 24, 1786, Pro- 
irrvas uf his Translation ; thi; Tli roc kmor tons 'i6ti 

To the !Mime, without ilate. His lyric productions ; 
recollections of \>n\ huoti '^(>T 

Kxtrarl uf a U-lter tu'lhe K«v. Mr. Unwiu '2*17 

LiiH's iiddrcssod to a ynunir lady on her birth-day. . . *2ii7 

Prupusi-d plan of .Mr. Unwin for clieckini,' sabbath- 
break iin; anil drunkcnnes-* 367 

Til Ibe Itev. \Vm. I'nwiu, uo dale. Cowpi-r's opin- 
inu uf Ihe inutility of Mr. Tuwm's efforts 207 

lOxhortution to perseverance in a good cause ii6ri 

Hopes uf present improvement 268 

To the Rev. William L'nwin, no dale. State of the 
national atTairs 269 

To the »ame, uo date. Character of Churchill's po- 
etry 269 

To the same, no date. Cowper's discovery in the 
Reirister of poems long composed and forgotten 
bv him 270 

To the Rev. Walter Itairot, Aucj. 31, 1786. Defunce 
of elisions; intended removal to Weston 270 

To the Rev. .lohu .Newton. Sent. 30, 17tfO. Defence 
uf bis and Mrs. Uuwin's conduct 271 

Explanatory r. marks on the preceding letter 272 

Amiable spirit and temper of Newtou 272 

To Joseph Hill, Ksq., Oct, 6, 1786. Loss of the MS. 
of part of his translation 273 

Cowp«r's removal to Weston 273 

'i'o the Rev. Waiter Ba(;ot, .Nov. 17, 1786. On his rc- 
moviU from Olney; invitation to Weston 273 

To the Rev. John N^ewion, Nov. 17, 1780. KxciLSe 
for delay in writing; his new residence; aflection 
for his old abode 273 

To Liidy Heskelh,Nov.26, IVr'O. Comforts of his new 
residence; thecliffs; hisrambles 274 

L'nexpected death ol'tlio Rev. Mr. Unwin 275 

To Liuly Heskelh, Uec.4, 1786. On the death of Mr. 
Tnwiu 275 

To the same, Dec. 9, 1786. On a singular circum- 
b'tunce relating to an intended pupil of Mr. Unwiu'a 275 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 9, 1786. Death of Mr. 
Unwin; ('owper's new situation at Weston 276 

To tiie Rev. John Newton, Dec. 16, 17H6. Death of 
Mr, Unwin ; forlorn stale of his old dwelling 276 

To Lady H.-:?keth, Dec, 21, 1786. Cowner's opinion 
uf priiise ; Mr. ThrockniortiHrs chaplain ■ 277 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 3, 17^7. Reasons 
why a translator of Homer should not be calm; 
praises of his works; death of Mr. Unwin 277 

Cowper has a severe attack of nervous fever 278 

To Lady Heskelh. Jan. H. 1787. State of his health ; 
pro|toSJil of <;eneral Cowper respecting his Ho- 
mer; letter from Mr, Smith M.P. for -Nottingham; 
Cowper's song of "The Rose" reclaimed by him 278 

To the Uev.Johu .Newton. Jan. 13, 1787. inscription 
fur .Mr. Unwin's tomb ; government of Providence 
in his pfK;lical labors 279 

I'o Lady Heskeih, Jan. IB, 1787. Suspensiun of Ins 
translation by fever; his sentiments respecting 
dreams; visit of Mr. Rose 279 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., July 24, 1767. On Ilurns^ 
poems SeO 

Remarks on Burns and his poetry 280 

l*ius:4!»(rt_s from hia poems 281 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 27, 1787. hivitation to 
Wu'ston ; state of Cowjwr's health ; remarks on 
IJurclay's ^ Argenis," and on Wums.- 281 

Tu Lady Heskeih, August 30, 17>*7. Improvement 
in his health; kindness of Hie Throckmortons... . 2P2 

To Ihe same, Sept. 4, 1787. Delay of her coming ; 
Mre. Throckniurton's uncle: books read by Cow- 



per. 

To the same, .Sept. 1.5, 1787. His meeting with her 
friend. Miss J ; new gravel-walk 283 

To tht; same, Sept. 29, 1787. Remarks on the rela- 
tive situaliou of Russia luid Turkey 283 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 2, 1787. Cowner 
confesses that for thirii-oii \ears he doubted S\r. 
N.'s identity ; iu:knowIedu'nieiit!:» for thekiiid ritfers 
of the -Newtons; preparations for Lady He^keth's 
coming 28-1 

To Samuel Rose, Esq.. (>et. HI, 1787. State of his 
health; strength of local attachmenta 284 

To the Ilev. John .Newton, Ocl. 20, 1787. His miser- 



Page 

able elate during his recent indisposition ; petition 
to Lord Dartmouth in behalf of the Rev. Mr. Pus- 
llelhwaile 285 

To Lady Heskeih. Nov. 10, 1787. On the delay of 
h('r Cuming ; Cowper's kitten; changes of weather 
foretold by a leech -. 285 

To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Nov. 16, 1787. On his own 
present occupation 28C 

To Lady Heskeih. Nov. 27, 1787. Walks and scenes 
about Weston : apphcationfnira a parish clerk for 
a copy of verses ; papers in '* The Lounger ;" anec- 
(htte of a beggar and vermicelli soup 286 

To the sume, Dec. 4, 1787, Character of the Throck- 
mortons 287 

To the Rev. Walter Bagol, Dec. 6, 1787. Visit to 
Mr. H.'s sister at Chichely ; Bishop Bagot; a case 
of ridiculous distress 287 

To Lady Heskeih, Dec. 10, 1787. Progress of hia 
llunirr; rbariiies iu lite 288 

To Samuel Rnse. Esq., Dec. 13, 1787. Requisites in 
a Iran-litturui" llumer 288 

To l,acly Ik-skrili, Jau, 1, 1788. Extraordinary coin- 
cidence between a piece of his own and one of Mr. 
Merry V; "Tlie Poet's New Year's Cift ;" compul- 
sory iiioculuiion for small-pox 289 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 5, 1788. Translation 
of the commencing lines of the Iliatl by Lord Ba- 
got ; revisal uf Cowper's translation ; the clerk's 
verses 290 

To I^ady Heskeih, Jan. 19, 1788. His engagement 
with Homer preveut-s the pr(»duction of occasional 
poems; remarks on a new print of Bunbury's... . 290 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan.* 21, 1788. lieasons 
for not writing to him; expected arrival of the 
Rev. Mr. Bean; chanuesofneiirhburinu' ministers ; 
nju-row escape of Mrs. Inwin iVoni being burned. . 291 

To Lady Hesketb, Jan. ."iO, 1788. His anxiety on ac- 
count of her silence 2!t2 

To the same, Feb. 1, 1788. Excuse for his melan- 
choly ; his Homer ; visit from Mr. tirealheed .... 202 

Causes of Cowper's correspondence with >irs. King 293 

To Mrs. King, Feb. 12, n8.-'. Relerence to his de- 
ceased brother ; he ascribes tlie elTcct produced by 
his poems to Cod 293 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 14, 1788. A sense of the 
value of time the best security for its improve- 
ment ; Mr. C ; brevilyofhumau life illustrated 

by Homer 294 

Commencement of the efforts for the abolition of the 
slave trade 294 

To Liidy Hosketh, Feb. 16, 1788. On negro slavery; 
Hannah More*s poem on the Slave Trade ; extract 
from it ; advocates of the abolition of slavery ; trial 
of Warren Hastings ' 294 

To the same, Feb. 22, 1788. Remarks tm Burke's 
speech impeaching Warr4'n Hastings, and on the 
duty of public actmsers 296 

To the Rev. John Newton, March I, 1788. Excuse 
for a lapse of memory in regard to a letter of Mr. 
Bean's 296 

To the same. March 3, 1788. Arrival of Mr. Bean at 
Olney; Cowper's correspondence with .Mrs. lyng 296 

To Mrs. King, March 3, 1788. Brief histor> of his 
own life 297 

To Lady Heskeih, March 3, 1788. Catastrophe of a 
fox-chase; Cow|K-'r in at the death 298 

To the same, M;u-ch 12, 1788. Remarks on Hannah 
More's works, and on Wilberforco's book ; the 
Throckmortons 298 

Cowper is solicited lo write in behalf of th^ negroes 299 

To <;encral Cowper, 1787. Stmgs written by him on 
the condition of negro slaves 299 

" The Morning Dream," a ballad 2it9 

Efforts for the abolition of the slave trade 300 

Wilbcrforce. the liberator of Africa 300 

Cowjier's biilbuls on negro slavery 300 

The negro's Complaint ;iOO 

The question why Cireat Britain Fhoutd he the Hrst 
to sacrifice interest to humanity answered by Cow- 
per 300 

Lines from Goldsmith's *' Traveller,'*' on the Eng- 
lish character 301 

Exposition of the cruelly and injustice of the slave 
trade, by (Jranville Sharp 301 

Proof of the slow progress of truth 301 

1-xlracts from Cowper's poems on negro slavery 302 

Case of Somerset, a slave, and Lord NIansfield's judg- 
ment 302 

Final abolition of slavery by Great Britain, and efforts 
making for the religious instruction of the negroes 302 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Probability that Africa may be enlightened by their 
means 303 

Cowper's lines on the blessinqrs of apiritual liberty. . 303 

Letter tn Mre. Hill, March 17, 1788. Thanka for a 
present of a turkey and ham ; Mr. \UlVs indispoai- 
lion; inquiry coiieeniing Cowp-r's Iii>rary 303 

Tu the Kev. John Newton, M;irch 17, 1788. With a 
Son", written at Mr. N/s request, for Lady Bal- 
V'..rne 304 

Tu t!io Rev. Walter Bai^ot, March 29, 1788. Coldness 
n the spring ; remarks on " The Manncra of the 
(ii t* at ; progress of his Homer 304 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 'Z9, i7H8. He express- 
es his woiider that his company should be desira- 
ble to Mr. R. ; Mrs. Unwin's character ; acknowl- 
edges the receipt of some books; Clarke's notes 
on Homer; illusion to his own ballads on negro 
slavery 305 

To Lady llesketh, March 31, 1788. He makes men- 
lion of his song, "The Morning Dream;" allusion 
to Hannah-More on the '* Manners of the Creat". . 305 

Character of and extracts trom Mrs. More's work. •• 30li 

To Mrs. King, April 11, 1786. Alhision to his melan- 
choly, aiicT necessity for constant employment ; im- 
probability of their meeting 306 

To the Rev. John Newton, April 19, 1788. Remarks 
on the conduct of government in regard to the 
Slavery Abolition question 307 

To Lady Heskelh, May G, 1788. Smollett'a Don 
Q,uixotte ; he thanks her for (he intended present 
of a box for letters and papers ; renewal of his cor- 
respondence with Mr. Rowley ; remarks on the ex- 
pression, *' As great as two iukle-weavers" 307 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 8, 1783. Lament for the 
loss of his library ; progress of his Homer 308 

To Lady Heskoth, May l-i, 1788. Mrs. Montagu and 
the Blue-Stocking Club ; his late feats in walking 308 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 2-1, 1788. Thanks for the 
present of prints of the Laceraoker and Crazy 
Kate ; family of Mr. Chester ; progress of Homer ; 
antique bust of Paris 309 

To the Rev. William Bull, May 25, 1788. He declines 
the composition of hymns, which Mr, B. had urged 
him to undertake 309 

To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 17^8. His lines on Mr. 
Henry Cowper; remarks on Mrs. Montagu's Essay 
on the Genius of Shakespeare ; antique head of 
Paris; remarks on the two prints sent him bv Mr. 
Hill :.... 310 

To the same, June 3, 1788. Sudden change of the 
weather; remarks on the advertisement of a dan- 
cing-master r)f Newport-Pagnell 310 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 5, 1788. His writ- 
ing engagements; ulTect of the sudden change of 
the weather on his health ; character of Mr. Bean ; 
visit from the Powleys ; he declines writing fur- 
ther on the slave-trade; invitation to Weston; 
verses on Mrs. Montagu 311 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 8, 1788. On tlie death of 
his uncle, Ashlev Cowjier 312 

To Ladv Heskclli; Jum- 10. 1788. On the death of 
her father, Ashley Cuwper 312 

To the same, June 15, 1788. Recollections of her 
father 319 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Juno 17, 1788. Coldness 
of the season; rea-simsfor declining to write on 
slavery; contrast between the awful scenes of na- 
ture and the horrors produced by human passions 313 

To Mrs. King, June 19, 1788. He excuses his silence 
on account of inflammation of the eyes ; sudden 
charge of weather ; reasons why we are not so 
hardy as our forefathers; his opinion of Thomson, 
the poet 313 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 23, 1788. Apology for 
an unanswered letter; providence of God in re- 
gard to the weather ; visitors at Weston ; brevity 
of human life 314 

To the Rev. John Newton, Juno 24, 1788. Difficul- 
ties experienced by Mr. Bean in enforcing a stricter 
observance of the Sabbath at Olncy ; remarks on 
the slave-trade 315 

To Lady Hesketh, June 27, 1788. Anticipations of 
her next visit; allusion to Lord Thurlow's prom- 
ise to provide for him; anecdote of his dog Beau; 
remarks on his ballads on slavery 3I6 

The Dog and the Water Lily 317 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., July 6, 1788. He gives Mr. H. 
notice that he has dr.iwn on him; allusion to an 
engagement of Mr. H.'s 317 

To Lady Hesketh, July 28, 1788. Her talent at de- 



.scription; the lirae-walk at Woston ; remarks on 
the " Accoimt of Five Hundred Living Authors".- 317 

To the same, August 9, 1788. Visitors at Weston ; 
motto composetl by Cowper for the king's clock. . 318 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 18, 1788. Circum- 
stances of their j>arting; he recommends Mr. R. 
to take due care of himself in his pedestrian jour- 
neys : strictures on Lavater's Aphorisms ■ . . - 313 

Remarks on physiognomy and on the merits of La- 
vater as the founder of the Orphan House at Zu- 
rich- v J^Toti- 31ff 

To Mrs. King, August 23, 1788, He playfully guesses 
at Mrs. King's figure and features '■ 319 

To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 2, 1788. Reference 
to Mr. N.'s late visit ; his own melancholy state of 
mind ; Mr. Bean's exertions for suppressing publk; 
houses 319 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 11, J788. Remarkable 
oak ; lines suggested by it ; exhortation against 
bashfulness 320 

To Mrs. King, Sept. 95, 1788. Thanks for presents; 
invitation to Weston 32! 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 25, 178H. A riddle ; su- 
perior talenls no security for propriety of conduct ; 
progress of Homer; Mrs. Tliixckmorton's bullfinch 321 

To Mrs. King, Ocl. U. 1788, Account of his occu- 
pations at difr.rcTit p.M-iods of his life 322 

To the Rev. .lutm .\<-wion, Nov. 29, 1788. Declin- 
ing state of Jenny Raban ; Mr. Greathe(;d 223 

To Samuel Rose," Esii-, Nov. 30, 1788. Vincent 
Bourne; invitation to Weston 323 

To Mrs. King, Dec. 6, 1788. Excuse for not being 
punctual in writing; succession of generations; 
Cumberland's " Observer" '323 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 9, 1788. Mr. Van 
Lier's Latin MS.; Lady Hesketh and the Throck- 
mortons ; ptjpularity of Mr. C. as a preacher .324 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 19, 1789. Local helps 
to memory; Sir John Hawkins' book 325 

To the same, Jan. 24, 1789. Accidents generally oc- 
cur when and where we least expect them 325 

To the Rev. Waltrr Bagot, Jan. 29, 1789. Excuse tor 
irregularity in correspondence ; progress of Ho- 
mer; allusion to political affairs 325 

To Mrs. King, Jan. 29, 1789. Thanks for prt.-sents ; 
Mrs. Unwin's fall in the late frost ; distress of the 
Royal Family on the stale of the King, and anec- 
dote of the Lord Chancellor .325 

To the same, March 12, 1789. Excuse for long si- 
lence, and for not having sent, according to prom- 
ise, all the small pieces he had written ; his poem 
on the King's recovery 326 

To the same, April i^2, 1789. He infoniw Mrs. K. that 
he has a packet of poems i-e-ady fur her ; his verses 
on the Queen's visit to London on the night of the 
illuminations for the King's retxnerj': disappoint- 
ment on account of her not coming to Weston ; 
Twinint;*s translation of Aristotle 327 

To the same, April 30, 1789. Thanks for presents; 
his brother's poems 328 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 20, 1789. Reference to 
his lines on the tiueen's visit; character of Haw- 
kins Brown 328 

To Mrs. King, May 30, 1789, He acknowledges the 
receipt of a packet of papers ; reference to his pacm 
on the Queen's visit .329 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 5, 1789. He commis- 
sions Mr. R. to buy him a cuckoo-clock ; Boswell's 
Tour to the Hebrides; Hawkins' and BmswcH's 
Life of Johnson 32D 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 16, 1789. On his 
marriage ; allusion to his poem on the Queen's 
visit.. ^ 329 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 20, 1789. He expresses 
regret at not receiving a visit from Mr, R.; ac- 
knowledges the arrival of the cuckoo-clock; re- 
mark on Hawkins' and Boswell's Life of Johnson. 33il 

To Mrs. Throckmorton, July 18, 1789. Poetic lun» 
of Mr. George Throckmorton; newa concerning 
the Hall S.'M 

To Samuel Rose. Esq., July 23, 1789. Importance 
of improving the early vears of life; anticipations 
ofMr. R.-svisit '. XIG 

To Mrs. King. August 1, 1789. Grumbling nf his 
correspondents on his silence; his time engrossed 
by Homer; he professes himself an admirer of 
pictures, but no connoisseur 331 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 8, 1789. Mrs. Piozzi's 
Travels; remark on the author of the "Dunciad" 331 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., August 12, 1789. Unfavorable 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
weather and spoiled hay; multiplicity of his en- 
gaffi'inenls; Simdiiy schuol hymn 332 

To the Ui'v. John Newton. Au^iii^t 16, 1789. Excuse 
fur Inn'.; aik-ncc; pnigrrss of Hotner 33:J 

Rt'niiirks on Cowpi'r's obytTvalion that authors are 
rL'spotisible lor iheir writing 333 

To Siunui-1 Rose, Esq., fn-pl. 24, 1789. Coldness of 
the HciL^^on 333 

To the siinus t)ct. 4, 17ti!). Description of the re- 
ceipt of a hamper, in the manner of Homer 333 

To the Rev. \Valt<*r I{Ht^>t (without dale). Kxctise 
for lonj; silence; why winter is tike a backbiter; 
Villoi:joii*d Homer; death of Lord Cowper 334 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot {without date). Remarks 
on V'iUoison's Prolegomena to Homer 334 

Note on the reveries of leariu'd men 335 

To the Rev. John Xewlon, Dec. 1, 17H9. Apology 
fi»r not writini;; Mrs. Unwin'a stale of health; 
refi-rejice to political events 335 

To .loseph Hill, Kaq., Dec. 1», 1789. Political rellec- 
tions 335 

Characler of the French Revolulton 330 

Uurke on the features which dislintjuish the French 
Revolution from that of Enuluml in lti88 330 

PoIilic;il and moral o^iusrs of the French Revolution 33ti 

Origin of the Revolution in v\merica 337 

Tlie K^tublished Church endunyered by resistance to 
the Hpiril of the ase 337 

To Samuel Rose, Ksq., Jim. 3, 1790. Excuses for si- 
lence; ini|uiry concerning Mr. R.'s health; labori- 
ous Uisk of revisiU 338 

To Mrs. Kint;, Jan 4, 1790. His anxiety on account 
of her long silence; his occupations ; Mrs.rnwin^s 
sLUe 338 

To the same, Jan. 18, 1790. He contradicts a report 
thai he intends to quit Weston; referenctt to his 
Homer 339 

Commencement of Cowper's acquaintance with his 
cousin the Rev. John .itihnson 339 

To Lady Hesketh, Jan. -"i. 1790. Particulars concern- 
ing a poem of his cousin Johnson's; anticipations 
of lh« Cambridge critics respectint^ his Ihuner.... 339 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 2, 1790. Ho impugns 
the "Opinion of Bentley that the last Odyssey is 
tpurinus 340 

To the Rev. John Xewlon. Feb. 5, 1790. Arcount of 
hi!< painful jipprehen^ions in the month of January 3-10 

To l-ady Heskelh, Fel>. 9, nWO. t?ervice rendered 
l>y her to his cousin Johnson ; Cowper's Iine« on a 
transcript of an Ude of Horace by Mrs. Throck- 
morton 3-11 

To the same, Feb. 26, \'W. He promises to send her 
a specimen of his Homi-r for Itie perusal of a lady ; 
his delight at being presented by a relative with 
his mother's picture 3-12 

To Mrs. Hodimm, Feb. 27, 1791). He expresses his 
delight at receiviner his mother's picture IVomher; 
lines written by hini on the occJision ; recollec- 
tions of his mother; invitation to Wrsion ; re- 
membrances of other maternal relatives 342 

To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 28, 1790. He refers to 
the pri'Ment of his ntulher's picture; he mentions 
hi:* invitation of the family of the Donnes to Wes- 
ton; inquiries concernini,' Mr. J."p poem 343 

To Ijuly Heskclh, March H, I7l«t. On Mrs. 's 

opinion of his Homer; his sentiments on the Test 
Act; pa?s:iu'e from his poems on that subject; ill 
hf.ilth of Mw. Unwin 344 

To Sannn'l Rose. Esq., March II, J790. On the stale 
of his hr;ilth ; he condemns the praclice of dissem- 
blini,' itnlispositions 345 

To Mrs. King, March 12, 1790. On her favorable 
opinion of hif< poems; his mother's picture and his 
poem on the receipt of it 31.^ 

To .Mrs. Throckmorton. .Murch 21. 1790. He ivgreis 
her absence from Wrston ; Mrs. Carter's opinion 
of his Homer ; his new wig 315 

To Ludy Hesketh. March 22, 1790. His opinion of 
the style best adanled to a translation of Ih.mer. . 34G 

To John Johnson, h\»t\., March 23, 1790. Characler 
of the Odyssev ; Cowper professes his afTeclion for 
Mr.J 347 

To the same, April 17, 1790. Remark on an innocent 
deception practised by Mr. J. ; t;owpiT honsls of 
hi.s skill in physiognomy, and recommends the 
study of fJreek 317 

To Lady Hesketh. April 19. 1790. Hi» revisal of 
Homer ; anealote of a prisoner in the Rastile, and 
lines on the subject 348 

To the same, April 30, 1790. Message to Bishop 



Page 
Madan ; remarks on General Cowper's approbation 
of his picturp M-rses .... 348 

To Josi-|.li llill. [:>q.. May 2, 1790. <>n the anproach- 
ing tuniuiuiiiun of his employment with Homer.. . 3-IS 

To Mrs. I'hrockniortou, May 10, 1790. Humorous 
account of a boy sent with letters to her in Berk- 
shire; Cowper's adventure with a dog 3iS 

To Lady Hesketh, May 28, 1790. He declines the 
offer of her services to procure him the place of 
poet laureal 3IC 

Tothe same, June 3, 1790. He is applied to by a 
Welshman to get him made poet laureat 3;!) 

To John Johnson, Esq., June 7, 1790. Ad\ic& to 
Mr. J. on his future plans and studies; with re- 
marks on Cowper's strictures on the University of 
Ciimbridge 349 

Remarks on Cowper's exhortation respecting the di- 
vinity of the glorious Reformation 350 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 8. 1790. Congratulations 
on his intended marriage ; proposed riddle SCO 

To Mis. King, June 14, 1790. His literarj- occupa- 
tions ; state of Professor Martyn's health ; ill health 
ofMrs. Cnwin •.. 351 

To Lady Hesketh. June 17, 1790. Grievance of 
going a-visiiing; his envy of a poor old woman; 
inscriptions for two oak phiutations XjI 

To the Rev. Walter Bagol, June 22, 1790. Snakes 
and ants of Africa ; Itishop Bagot and his mutinous 
clergy 3J2 

To Mrs. Bodham, June 29, 1790. Anticipations of a 
visit from her 352 

To Lady Hesketh, J uly 7, 1790. Slate of Mrs. I f nwin ; 
remarks on the aholilion of ranks by the French.. 353 

To John Johnson, Esq., Jvily 8, 171MI. Recommen- 
dation of music as an amusement ; expected visit 
from Mr. J. and his sister 354 

To Mrs. King, July 16, 1790. On their recent visit to 
Weston; reference to his own singiUaritles ; re- 
grets for the distance between them 354 

To John Johnson, Esq., July 31, 1790. Warning 
•igainst carelessness and shyness ; proposed em- 
piovinents and amusements 354 

To the Rev. John Xewton, Aug. 11, 1790. On the 
slate of Mrs.Xewlon's health ; he refers to his own 
state, and declines the offer of trying the effect of 
animal magnetism 355 

To Airs, Bodham, Sept. 9, I71H1. He informs her of 
the termination of his labors with Homer, and the 
conveyance of his tnuislalion to London by Mr. 
Johnson 35G 

To Samuel Rose. Esq., Sept. 13, 17<K). On his mar- 
riage ; Cowper's preface to his Homer ; solution of 
the riddle in a former letter to Mr. R 350 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 17, 1790. On Iho list of 
subscribers to his Homer 357 

To Mrs. Kim,', Oct. 5. 1790. On her illness ; allusion 
to a coimltTpane which she had presented to him ; 
reference to the list of subscribers to his Homer, 
and the lime of jiublication 357 

To the Rev. John Xewton, Oct. 15, 1790. On the 
death of Mrs. Scotl ; translnlion of Van Lier's let- 
ters; concern for Mrs. Newton's sufferings 357 

To Ihe same, Oct. 26, 1790 His instructions to. 
Johnson, the bookseller, to affix to Ihe first volume 
of his poems the preface written for it hy Mr. N. ; 
fall of the leaves a token of the shortness of human 
life 358 

On Christian submission to Ihe divine will in regard 
to life and death 359 

To Mrs. Bodhatn, Nov. 21. 17S«). Character of her 
nephew. Mr. Johnson ; Mrs. Hewitt 359 

To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 2«, 1790. On the study 
of jurisprudence ; visit from the Dowager Ladv 
Spencer '.359 

To Mrs. King. Nov. 29. 1790. On the praises of 
friends ; his obligations to Professor Martyn ; prog- 
ress in printing his Homer ."JCO 

To Samuel Etose. Esq., Nov. 30. 1790. On his pro- 
ft^*ionaI exertions in behalf t)f a friend : revisal of 
])roofs of his Homer 3f»0 

To the Rev. Walmr Bagol, Dec. I, 1790. He retorts 
the charge of Ion:; silence, and boast** of his inten- 
tion to write; progress in printing his Homer; his 
reasons for not soliciting the hiun-alshin 3G0 

To Ihe Rev. J.>hn Newton, Dec. 5. 1790. Dying stale 
of Mrs. Newlnn 301 

Uemnrkfl on the doubts and fears of Christians 361 

To John Johnson, Esq., Dec. IH. 1790. Cambridge 
subscription for Homer: progre-*n in prinling the 
work 361 



Page 

To Mrs. King, Dec. 31, 1790. Thanks for the present 
of a counterpauc ; hisownindispoHilion; bis poet- 
ical operations 362 

Cowper's verses on the visit of Miss Stapleton to 
Weston 362 

To the Rev. \V:Uter Baj^ot, Jan. 4, 1791. On his 
own state of health ; on the quantity of syllables 
in verse 363 

To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 20, 1791. On Ihe 
death of Mrs. N 363 

To John Jolinsoii, Esq., Jan. 21, 1791. He urges Mr. J. 
to come to Weston ; caution respecting certain sin- 
gularities 3G3 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. ."), 1701. Thanks for sub- 
Pcrii)lions from Scotland, and for liie present of 
Pope's Homer 364 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 13, 1791. Influence of a 
poet's reputation on an innkeeper 364 

To tlie Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 26, 1791. He play- 
fully gives Mr. B. leave to find fault with his 
verses; his sentiments respecting blank verse... . 3G4 

To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 27, 1791. Progress in 
printing Homer; neglect of his work by Oxford.. 365 

To Mrs. King, March 2, 1791. Apology lor forget- 
ting a promise, owing to his being engrossed by 
Homer ; success of his subscription at Cambridge ; 
the Norlhaniplon dirge 365 

To Josci)h Hill. i:sq., March 6, 1791. Progress in 
printing his Iloiuer 366 

Cotnmeiicernent tjf Cowper's acquaintance with the 
Rev. James Hurdis 3G6 

To iho Rev. James Hurdis, March 6, 1791. He com- 
pliments Mr. H. on his poetical productions ; thanks 
liim for offers of service ; excuses himself from vis- 
iting him, and invites him to Weston 366 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 10, 1791. Simile drawn 
from French and English prints of subjects in 
Homer 3G7 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 18, 1791. On Dr. 
Johnson's taste lor poetry ; aptness of Mr. B.'s quo- 
tations ; Mr. Chester's indisposition 367 

To John Johnson, Esq., March 19, 1791. On the 
poems of Elizabeth Bentley, an untaught female of 
Nor^vich '. 3G7 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 24, 1791. On his ap- 
plication to Dr. Dimbar relati\e to subscriptions 
to Cowper's Homer 368 

To Lady Viesketh, March 25, 1791. Slight of Horace 
Walpnli- ; anight alarm and its effects; remarks 
on a book sent by Lady H. 368 

To the Rev. John "Newton, March 29,1791. Recol- 
lections of past times; difference between dreams 
and realities ; reasons why the occasional pieces 
which he writes do not reach Mr. N. ; expected 
visit of his maternal relations ; his mortuary verses 369 

To Mrs. Throckmorton, Apiil 1, 1791. On the fail- 
ure of an attempt in favor of his subscription at 
Oxford; remarks on a pamphlet bv Mr. T 396 

To John Johnson, Esq., April 6, 1791. Thanks for 
Cambridge subscriptions 370 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., April 29, 1791. Subscriptions 
to his Homer 370 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 2, 1791. Progress in 
printing Homer; visit from Mr. B.'s nephew ; Mil- 
ton's Latin poems 370 

Dr. Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems 371 

To the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, May 11, 1791. On a 
poem of Mr. B.'s 37] 

To Lady Hesketh, May 18, 1791. Complaint of her 
not writing; letter from Dr. Cogswell, of IS'ew 
York, rcispecling his poems '. 371 

To John Johnson, ICsq., May 23, 1791. On his trans- 
lation of the Battle of the Frogs and the Mice 371 

The JudL'uient nt" ilir Ports, a poem, by Cowper, on 
the relative elianii^ nf May and June 372 

To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1791. Tardiness of the 
printer of his Homer 372 

To John Johusou, Esq., June 1, 1791. He congratu- 
lates Mr. J. on the period of his labors as a tran- 
scriber 372 



PART THE THIRD. 

Observations on Cowper's version of Homer 373 

Reasons of his failure in that work to satisfy public 

expectation 373 

Comparative specimens of Pope's and Cowper's ver- 
sions 374 



Page 

To the Rev.Mr. Hurdis, June 13, 1791. Completion 
of his Homer ; their mutual fondness for animals ; 
a woman's character best learned in domestic life 374 

To Samuel Rose, Esq.. June 15, 1791. Man an un- 
grateful animal ; visit from Nort'ulk relations 375 

To Dr. James Cogswell, June 1.5. 1791. Acknowledg- 
ment of a present of books ; his translation of Ho- 
mer ; books sent bv him to Dr. C 376 

To the Rev. John Newtnn, June 24, 1791. Exhorta- 
tion to more freqiient correspondence ; affectionate 
remembrance of Mr. i\. ; on the recent loss of his 
wife ; value of Homer 376 

To Mrs, Budham, July 7, 1791. Apology for having 
omitted to send a letter which he had written ; he 
declines visiting Norfolk; state of health of her 
relatives then at Weston 377 

To the Rev. John Newton, July 22, 1791. His en- 
gagement in making corrections for a new edition 
of Homer; decline of the Rev. Mr. Venn; refer- 
ence to the ritits at Birmingham 378 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Aug. 2, 1791. Visit of 
LadyBj^ot; riot* at Birmingham 379 

To Mrs. King, Aug. 4, 1791. State of her health ; his 
own and Mrs. Unwin's ; invitation to Weston ; 
publication of his Homer 379 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Aug. 9, 1791. His study 
being liable to all sorts of intrusions, he cannot 
kcc[) his upiTatious secret ; reason for his dissatis- 
faction with Pope's Homer; recommendation of 
Hebrew studies 360 

To John Johnson, Esq., Aug. 9, 1791. Causes for his 
being then an idle man 360 

Cowper undertakes the office of editor of Rlilton's 
works 380 

Regret expressed that he did not devote to original 
composition the time given to translation 381 

Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Hayley 381 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept, 14, 1791. He informs 
him of his new engagement as editor of Milton. .. 381 

To the Rev. Walter Bak'ot, Sept. 21, 1791. Pleasure 
afforded by Lord Bau'ot's totimony in favor of his 
Homer; inqtnry concerning persons alluded to in 
an elegy of Milton's 381 

To the Rev. Mr. King, Sept. 23, 1701. On Mrs. ».*s 
indisposition. 382 

To Mrs. King, Oct. 21, 1791. Congratulation on her 
recovery ; he contends that women possess much 
more fortitude than men ; he acquaints her with 
his new engagement on Milton 382 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Oct. 25, 1791. Visit of 
Mr. Chester ; poem of Lord Bagot's ; condemnation 
of a remark of Wharton's respecting Milton 383 

To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 31, 1791. "His delight to 
hear of the improved health of Mr. J. and his sis- 
ter; his own state of health ; his new engagement 3^3 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 14, 1791. On compound 
epithets; progress in his translation of Milton's 
Latin poems 384 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 16, 1791. Apology 
for not sending a poem which Mr. N. had asked 
for ; Mr. N.'a visit to Mrs. Hannah More ; her sis- 
ter's application for Cowper's aulogmpli ; Cowper 
regrets that he had never seen a mountain ; his 
engagement on Milton 384 

To the Rev. Walter Bai,'ot,Dec. 5, 1791. Expectation 
of a new edition of his Homer; he defends a pas- 
sage in it; his engagement upon Milton 385 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Dec. 10, 1791. His engage- 
ment upon Milton 385 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 21, 1791. Sudden seiz- 
ure of Mrs. Tnwin 3S6 

Cowper's affliction on occasion of Mrs. Unwin's at- 
tack 386 

To Mrs. King, Jan. 26, 1792. He describes the cir- 
cumstances of Mrs. Unwin's alarming seizure; he 
asserts that women surpass men in true fortitude ; 
hisenu'ageuii-nts 386 

To till- Rev. Walter Bagot. Feb. 14, 1792. On the in- 
disposition of Mr. B. and his children ; he professt^ 
his intention to avail himself of all remarks in a 
new edition of his Homer; conrse which he pur- 
poses to pursue in regard to Milton; his corre- 
spondence with the Chancellor 387 

To Thomas Piirk, Esq., Feb. 19, 1792. Acknowledg- 
ment of the receipt of books sent by him ; he sig- 
nilles his acceptance of the offer of notices relative 
to Milton 387 

To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 20, 1792. Lines 
written by him for Mrs. Martha More's Collection 
of Autographs ; his reply to the demand of more 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
orifnnal composition ; remarks on the settlement 
al BolanV Bav. and African colonization 388 

To the Riv. Mr. Hurdis, Feb. 21, 17*^2. Reasons for 
deforrintf Ihe examination of Homer; progress 
made in Milton's poems 389 

To the Rev. Mr. Ilnrdis. March 2, 1792. He expresses 
hisublitpilions for Mr. H.'s remarks on Homer; he 
permits the tragedy of Sir Thomas More lo be in- 
scribed to him 389 

To the Rev. John Xewton, March 4. 17It2. Departure 
of the Throckmortons from Weston ; his dislike of 
change 389 

To Mrs. Kinff, March 8, 1792. On her late indisposi- 
tion : testimonies concernin? his Homer 390 

To Thomas Park. Esfj., March 10. 1792. On Mr. P's 
prolt'spional piirMUtts ; he disclaims a place among 
ihi- liierali ; luid asks for a copy of Thomson's mon- 
nniiiilul inscription 390 

To .l.-lin .lohnstm. E^q.. March 11, 1792. He mon- 
tiuit!.havini: heard nniRhiinealesing on new vear's 
dav ; departure of Lady ileskelh ; expected visit 
of Mr. Kose 391 

^'ers^^s addressed to '• The Niyhtinffale which the au- 
thor heard on new vear's dav, 1792" 3'Jl 

To the Rev. John Newton, Ma'rch 18, 1792. He as- 
sures Mr. N. that, tho\igli reduced to the com- 
pany of Mrs. I'nwin alone, they are both com- 
fortable 391 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, March 23, 1792. Remarks 
on Mr. H.'s ira^edv of Sir 'I'homas More 392 

To Lady Hesketh, Alarch 2.1, 1792. Cause of the 
delay of a preceding letter lo her; detention of 
Mr. Havlev's letter to Cowper, at Johnson tho 
bookseller's 392 

To Thomas Park, Esq., March 30, 1792. Remarks 
on a poem of Mr. P.'a 393 

To Sumuel Rose, March 30, 1792. Spends his morn- 
inL's in letter-writing 393 

To the same, April 5, 1792. Vexatious delays of 
printers; supposed secret enemy 393 

To William Huyiey, Esq., April 0, 1792. Expected 
visit of .Mr. H.; Cowper introduces Mrs. Unwin, 
and advises hira to bring books with him, if he 
should want any ". 394 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, April 8, 1792. Apology for 
delay in wriiing ; reference lo Mr. H.'s sisters ; and 
to an unanswered letter 394 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 15, 1792. Thanks for a 
romittaiicc ; satirical stanzas on a blunder in his 
Homer; progress in Milton 395 

To Lady Throckmorton, April 16, 1792. I-ady 
thieves; report of bis being a friend to the slave 
trade ; means taken by him to refute it 395 

Sonnet addressed to William Wilberforce, Esq., and 
published by Cowper in coutradicilon of the report 
above mentioned 396 

Remarks on a report respecting Cowper's sentiments 
relative to the slave trade 396 

Redections on Popularity 396 

Leiter to the Rev. J. Jek^ll Rye, April 16. 1792. 
Cowper a.<!serls the falsehood of a report that he 
was friendly to the slave trade 396 

To the Printers of the Northampton Mercury ; on tho 
same subject, with a Sonnet addressed to* .Mr. Wil- 
berforce 397 

Remarks on the relative merits of rhyme and blank 
verse, wilh reference to a translation of Homer. . 397 

Cowper's sentiments on Ihe subject, and on transla- 
tion in general 398 

To the I^ord Thurlow, on the inconvenience of rhyme 
in translation 398 

Lord Tliurlow to William Cowper, Esq. On the 
value of rhyme in certain kinds of poems: on 
metrical translations; close translation of a pas- 
sage in Homer 399 

To tho I^rd Thurlow. Vindication of Cowper's 
choice of blank verse for his translation of Homer; 
his version of the passage given by Lord T 400 

Lord Thurlow lo William Cowper, Esq. On his 
translation of Homer 401 

To the Lord Tliurlow. On the same subject 401 

Pa.Hsages from Cowper's troDSlatlon 401 

Facts respecting it 402 

To Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, Feb. 11, 1790. Cow- 
W'r acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Fuaeli,for 
bis remarks on his translation of Homer 402 

To the same, Sept. 7, 1790. On the same subject. . . 402 

Indignant remonstrance of Cowper's, addressed to 
Johnson on the alteration of a line In one of his 
poems 402 



Page 

To Thomas Park. F^„ April 27, 1792. Remarks on 
some poems of Mr. P.'s, and on his own literary 
engagements 403 

Marri;ige of Mr. ( 'onrtenaT to Miss Stapleton 403 

To Lady Hesketh, May 20, 1792. On the marriage 
of Mr. Courtenay ; Dr. Madan's promotion to a 
Bishopric ; complimentary Sonnet produced by 
Cowper, addressed to Mr. Wilberforce; Lines to 
Warren Hastings, Esq 404 

To John Johnston. Esq., May 20, 1792. On the posV 
poiiemi'tit of his Ordination, 4:c 404 

Hayley's visit lo ('i>wper, and his account of It 405 

Sonnet addressed by i'owper to Mrs. Uuwin 405 

Mrs. I'nwin's paralytic attack 405 

Kind alteii(i(ms of Hnyley 405 

To Latly Hesketh, May 24, 1792. Seizure and slate 
of Mrs. rnwin 405 

To the same. May 26, 1792. Stale of Mrs. I'nwin. . . 406 

Lines adilressed lo l)r. Austen 406 

To .Mrs. Hodham, June 4, 1792. On the postpone- 
ment of Mr. Johnson's Ordination 406 

To William Hayley. Esq., June 4, 1792. Slate of Mrs. 
Cnwin 407 

To the same, June 5, 1792. On the same subject. . . 407 

To the same, June 7, 1792. On the same subject. . . 407 

To the same. June 10. 1792. On the same subject ; 
Line- .-iiMn^-ed to Dr. Darwin 408 

f)rigin oi" l);ir\\ in's poem of the '• Botanic Carden". . 408 

To Lady Mr^keih, Jmie II, 1792. On his growing 
correspondence; improvement of Mrs. L'nwin's 
health ; events of the past two months ; arrival of 
Mr. Johnson 409 

To William Hayley, Esq., June 19, 1792. Stale of Mrs. 
Hnwiu; ice-islands and cold summers; proposed 
visit to Hayley at Earthara 409 

Remarks on a supposed change in the climate, with 
passiiges from Cowper's translation of a Poem of 
Milton's on that subject 409 

To Williriui Hayley, Esq., June 27,1792. Intended 
journey to Kar'tham ; Catharina, on her marriage to 
(ieorge tdiirtenay, Esq 410 

To the same, July 4. 1792. Suspension of his literary 
labors ; his solicitude for Mrs. Unwin ; his visit to 
Weston Hall 410 

To the same, July J5, 1792. On the proposed journey 
to Earthani ; translations from Milton ; portrait of 
Cowper bv Abbot 411 

To Thomas *Park. Esq., July 20, 1792. On the obsta- 
cles to his literary engagements ; reference to Cow- 
per's drawings, and to the Olney Hymns 411 

To William Hayley. Esq., July 22, 1792. Preparations 
for the jovimev to Eartham 412 

To the Kev. William Bull, July 25. 1792. On hia sil- 
tinir to Abbot for his portrait; his intended jomxey 
to f^artham 412 

To William Hayley, Esq., July 29, 1792. His terror 
al the proposed journey ; resemblance of Abbot's 
portrait 413 

To the Rev. John Newton. July 30. 1792. State of 
Mrs. Unwin; intended journey to Eartham; recol- 
lections awakened by Mr. N.'s" visit to Weston. .. . 413 

To the Rev. Mr. Creatheed, Aug. 6. 1792. Account 
of his journey to Earthani. and situation there — 414 

To Mrs. Courteiiay, Aug. 12, 1792. Particulars of the 
journey lo Eartham, and description of the place. . 414 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 14, 1792. Invitation to 
Eartham 415 

To the same, Aug. 18, 1792, Cowper wishes him to 
join the party at Eartham 415 

To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 2.5, 1792. Epitaph on Fop ; 
arrangements for the return lo Weston ; state of 
himself and Mrs. Unwin 415 

To the Kev. Mr. Hurdis, Aug. 26, 17K. On the death 
ofhis sister; invitation to Eartham 415 

To Lady Hesk(Mh. Aug. 26, 1792. Company at Ear- 
tham : his own stall? and Mrs. I'nwm's; portrait 
of Cowper by Romney 4iC 

To Mrs. Chariolte Smith. Sept., 1792. Sympathy of 
himself and Hayley in her misfortunes : remark on 
an expression in her h-tter; state of Mrs. Unwin.. 417 

To Liidy Hesketli, Sept. 9, 17ir2. Reiisons for prefer- 
ring Weslonto Eartham; stale of Mrs. Unwm ; ar- 
rangements for their return ; character of Mr. 
Hurdis 417 

Cowper's occupations at Eartham 418 

Account of Adreini's Adauio. which suggested to ' 
Milton the design of his Paradise I>ost 418 

To Mrs. Courtenay, .Spt. 10, 171*2. Reference lo Iho 
French Revolution; slate of Mrs. I'nwin ; remem- 
brances lo friends at Weston 418 

2 



CONTENTS. 



Departure from Eartham 4l9 

To Williura Haylry. Esq., Jfi'pl. 18, 1792. Cowpcr's 
feL'Iiriirs on lu> cltpartuve 419 

To ihii same, ^^t'pl. '2U H^-. Particulars of his jour- 
ney and arrival at Wealon 419 

To the s:ime, Oct. 2, 17y'2. Unsuccessful attempt at 
wi-itin? 420 

To the siime, Oct. 13, 1792. Cowper's impatience for 
the arrival of llayley's portrait; his intention of 
paving a poetical tribute to Romnev 420 

T<» Mrs. King, (Jet. 11, 1792. Reference to the visit 
to Earlham 421 

To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 18, 1792. His em- 
ployments at Earlham, and indisposition at Wes- 
ton, urtfed as an excuse fur not writing ; reference 
to his visit to Havley 421 

To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 19, 17D2. On his ex- 
pected visit; Cowper's unfitness for writing 422 

To John Johnson. Esq., Oct. 22, 1792. Reflections on 
J.'s sitting for his picture 422 

To William Hayley, Esq., Oct. 28, 1792. Cowper com- 
plains of his imlitness for literary labor, and the 
grievance that Milton is to him ; jsonnct addressed 
to Romney 422 

To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 5, 1792. Cowper^s opin- 
ion of his Homer 4513 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 9, 1792. Hindrances to 
Ills hterary hibors ; Mrs. Unwin's situation and his 
own depression of spirits ; he consents to the pre- 
fixing his portrait to a new edition of his poems. - 423 

To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. U, 1792. Apology 
for not writing to liim ; his gloomv state of mind. . 423 

To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 20. 1792. Thanks him 
for his versus ; his engagement to supply the new 
clerk of Northampton with an annual copy of 
verses; reference to his indisposition 424 

To William Hayley, Esq., Nov. 2.i, 1792. Acknowl- 
edgment of his friendship ; his acceptance of the 
office of Dirge-writer to the new clerk of North- 
ampton 424 

To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 9, 1792. Reasons 
for not being in haste with Milton ; injm-ious eflcct 
of the season on his spirits 424 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Deo. 16, 1792. Political reflec- 
tions with reference to the qneslion of Parliament- 
ary Reform, reformation of the Clmrch, and the 
rights of Catholica and Dissenters 425 

First agitation of the question of Parliamentary Re- 
form 425 

To Thomas Park, Esq., Dec. 17, 1702. Obstacles to 
his writing while at Jlr. Hayley's, and since his re- 
turn home ; on Johnson's intention of prefixing his 
portrait to his poems 425 

Anecdote of Mrs. Boscawen 426 

To William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 26, 1792. The year '92 
a most melancholy one to him 426 

To Thomas Park, Esq., Jan. 3, 1793. Introduction 
of Mr. Rose to him ; Cowper refers to a remedy 
recommended by Mr. P. for inflammation of the 
eyes; his share in the Olncy Hymns 42G 

To William Hayley, Esq., Jan. 20, 1793. Cowper's 
solicitude respecting his welfare ; arrival of Hay- 
ley's picture 427 

To the same, Jan. 29, 1793. On the death of Dr. 
Austen 427 

To John Johnson, Esq., Jan. 31, 1793. Thanks for 
pheasants, and promises of welcome to a bustard. 428 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5, 1793. Revisal of Ho- 
mer 428 

To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 10, 1703. Necessity for his 
taking laudanum; he rallies her on her political 
opinions 428 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 17, 1793. Remarks on 
a criticism on his Homer in the Analytical Review 428 

To the Rev. Mr. Hm-dis, Feb. 22, 1793. He con- 
gratulates Mr. H. on the prospect of his being 
elected Poetry Professor at Oxford; observations 
in natural history 429 

To William Hayley, Esq., Feb. 24, 1793. Complains 
of inflamed eyes as a hindrance to writing ; revi- 
sal of Homer ; dream about Milton 429 

Millon's Vision of the Bishop of Winchester 430 

To the Rev. Walter Ragot, Slarch 4, 1793. His ail- 
ments and employments ; reference to the French 
Revolution 430 

Letter from Thomas Hayley (son of William Hayley, 
Esq.,) to William Cowper, Esq., containing criti- 
cisms on his Homer 430 

To Mr. Thomas Hayley, March 14, 1793. In answer 
to the preceding 431 



Page 

To William Hayley, Esq., March 19, 1793. Complains 
of being harassed by a multiplicity of business ; 
his progress in Homer; reference to Mazarin's 
epitaph 431 

Last moments of Cardinal Mazarin 431 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 27, 1793. On the con- 
clusitm of an engagement with Johnson for a new 
edition of his Homer 433 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 29, 1793. Reference 
to his pecuniary circumstances ; preparations for a 
new edition of his Homer ; remarks on an intended 
canal 432 

To John Johnson, Esq., April 11, 1793. On sending 
his pedigree to the Herald's College ; liberaUty of 
Johnson the bookseller; on Mr. J.'s determination 
to enter the church 433 

riustrious ancestry of Cowper 433 

To William Hayley, Esq., April 23, 1793. His en- 
gagement in writing notes to Homer 433 

To liie Rev. John Newton, April 2.'>, 1793. He urges 
business as an excuse for the unfrequency of his 
leltei-s; his own and Mrs. Unwin's state; his ex- 
change of books with Dr. Cogshall of New York ; 
reference to the epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Unwin. . 433 

To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 4, 1793. On the 
death of Bishop Bagot 434 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 5,' 1793. Apology for si- 
lence ; his engagement in writing notes to his Ho- 
mer; intended revisal of the Odyssey 434 

To Ijady Hesketh, May 7, 1793. His corj'espondence 
prevented by his Homer; Whigs and Tories 435 

To Thoma3 Park, Esq., May 17, 1793. Chapman's 
translation of Homer ; Cowper's horror of Loudon 
and dislike of leaving home; epitaph on the Rev. 
Mr. Unwin; his poems on Nearro Slavery 435 

To William Hayley, Esq., May 21, 1793. Employ- 
ment of his time ; insensible advjmce of old age ; 
" Man as he is" attributed erroneously to the pen 
of Hayley ; notes on Homer 43G 

To Lady Hesketh, June 1, 1793. Desiring her to fix a 
day for coming to Weston; lines on Mr. Johnson's 
arrival at Cambridge 436 

To the Rev.Mr.Hurais, June 6,1793. Uses of aftlic- 
lion ; suspension of his literary labors ; proposed 
revisal of his Homer 437 

To the Rev. John Newton, June 12, 1793. State of 
Mrs. Unwin's and his own health ; reference to a 
new work of Mr. N.'s 437 

To William Hayley, Esq., June 29, 1793. Sonnet ad- 
dressed to i\lr. II. ; Cowper declines engaging in a 
work proposed by Mr. ii. ; " The Four Ages" .... 437 

To the same, July 7, 1793. He promises to join Mr. 
H. in the production of "The Four Ages," ref- 
erence to his oddities; embellishments of his 
]iremises 438 

Antifiue bust of Homer, presented to Cowper by Mr. 
Johnson 433 

rowi)er's poetical tribute for the gill 439 

To Thomas Park, Esq., July 15, 1793. Chapman's 
translatinu ofilie Iliad ; Hobbc's translation ; Lady 
Hesketh; Ins lilorary engagements 439 

To Mrs. Cliarloltc .Smith, July 25, 1793. On her pnem 
of "The Emigrants," which was dedicated to Cow- 
per 439 

To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed, July 27, 1793. He thanks 
Mr.O.for the offer of part of his house ; reasons for 
declining it; promised visits 340 

To William Hayley, Esq., July 27, 1793. Anticipa- 
tions of a visit from Mr. H. ; head of Homer and 
pro]K)sed motto for it ; question concerning the 
cause of Homer's blindness ; garden shed 440 

To the Rev. Joim Johnson, Aug. 2, 1793. On his or- 
dination ; Flaxman's designs to the Odyssey 441 

To Lady Hesketh, Aug. U, 1793. Miss Fahshaw ; 
present from I-ady Spencer of Flaxman's designs. . 4-11 

Explanation respecting Miss Fansh aw ; verses by 
her; Cowper's reply ; his lines addressed to Count 
Gravina 442 

To William Hayley, Esq., Aug, 15, 1793. Epigram 
on building; inscription for an hermitage; Flax- 
man's designs; plan of an Odyssey illustrated by 
them; inscription for the bust of Homer 442 

To Mi-s. Courtenay, Aug. 20, 1793. Story of Bob 
Archer and the fiddler; Flaxman's designs to 
Homer 443 

To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 22, 1793. Allusion to 
scenery on the south coast of England ; his literary 
occupations ., 443 

To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 27, 1793. Question 
respecting Homer's blindness ; Flaxman's illustra- 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
lions uf Homer ; recollections of Lord Mnnsflcid ; 
en-ction of Homer's bu>*t 443 

To 1-atly Heskelh. Au2. -29. 1793. Ou her iutended 
visit loWeslon; Miss Faiishaw 444 

To Ihe Rev. Mr. Johnson. ^■epI. 4. 1793. His agree- 
ulile surprise on the uppeanince of a sun-dial, a 
prc-^ent from Mr.J.; revlsal of his Homer 444 

To William Hayley, Estj.. SepL 6, 1793. Flaxraaii's 
designs to Hoine'r ; anticipations of Mr. H.'s visit. 445 

To -Mr:'. <:>>urlenay, Sept. 15, 1703. His improve- 
ments at Westtin; the sun-dial ; Pitcairne 445 

To the Uev. Mr. Johnson, Sept. 29. 1793. VisiU de- 
vourers oftime; expected visiters nt Weston 446 

To William Hiiyley, Esq., Oct. 5, 1793. IVmands 
upon his time; expected visiters ; reference lo H.'s 
Life of Milton 446 

To the same, Oct. 18, 1793. Anticipations of his visit 
lo Weston 446 

To Ihe Uev. .lolin Newton, Oct, 2-2i 1793. Apolou'y 
for not writini; ; reference tti a late journey of Mr. 
N.'s : thanks for his last publication 447 

To the Rev. J. Jekyil Kye, Nov. 3, 1793. Thanks 
for his support of Sir. Hurdis ; reference to the ap- 
plication of the clerk of Northampton 147 

Hayley's second visit to Weston 447 

Invitation lo Cowper and his quests, from Lord 
Spencer to Alihorpe, to meet Gibbon the historian, 
declined by him 447 

To Mrs. C'o\irtenay, Nov. 4. 1793. He complains of 
Ileum distracled'with business ; Hayley's visit ; ep- 
idemic fever ; Mrs, Un win 447 

Slate of Cowper and Mrs, Dnwin as described by 
llavley 448 

To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 5. 1793. Lady Heskcth'a 
vi-it to Wanirave ; his house at Weston, and pros- 
pects from it 448 

To the Rev. Walter Bagol, Nov. 10, 1793, Thanks 
him fnr hig support of Mr. Hurdis; reference to 
the French Revolution 448 

To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Nov. 01, 1793. Con?ratula- 
liona on his election to the professorship of poetry 
at Oxford; Hayley's visit ; his Life of Milton; re- 
visal of his Homer; invitation to Weston 449 

To Samuel Rose, I-j^q., Nov.29. 1793. Kxpected visit 
from him and Mr. (the late Sir Thomas) Lawrence ; 
Buhject fnmi Homer proposed by the latter for his 
pencil; a c<»mpanion to it suHKCsted by (.'owper; 
lutrntiuu of Lawrence to take Cowper's portrait 
for eu;,'ravin£; 449 

To the same. Dec. 8, 1793. Thanks him for books; 
history of Jonathan Wild ; character of "Man as 
hois" 450 

To William Hayley, Esq.. Dec. 8, 1793. Inquiries 
concerning his Life of Milton ; his own literary oc- 
cupations 450 

.Susr>ension of ("owper's literary labor?, and decline 
of his mental powurs 450 

Results of ('owper's literary labors on the works of 
Milton 4.^1 

Specimens of the translalion of the Latin poem ad- 
dressed by Milton lo his father 452 

Hayley's remarks on that poem 452 

Passages from Cowper's notes on Milton 453 

ru*eli"s Milton Gallery 454 

Orii,'in of HavIeyV acquaintance with I'owpcr 454 

Hayley's first letter, with a sonnet addresssed lo 
Gitwper 454 

To Joseph Hill, F,sq., Dec. 10, 1793. On a sprain re- 
ceived by Mr. II. : r«:'visal of Homer ; inquiry con- 
ceniinir Lord Howe's Heel 4.}5 

TIk- idea of the projected poem of ■•■ The Four Ages,'* 
sut.'i;e?ted by Mr. Ituchanan 455 

To the Rev. Mr. Ihiehjinan, May 11, 1793. Compli- 
meiilinii Mr. IJ. on Ihe sketch'which he furnished 

for the poem 455 

Incrfa^-inE; inllrmitics of Mrs. I.'nwin, and their effect 

on Cowper 4.i5 

1 1 is atfectinc situation at this period 456 

Dissatisfaction of I^rd Thurlow with a paj$sagc in 
Gowper's Homeland his and Hayley's attempts lo 
improve upon it 450 

To William llayU y, Esq., Dec. 17, 1793. With a new 
version of the pas-sage above mentioned ; criti- 
cisms on their performances; bis own tuitions of 

the principles of transliUion 056 

To the same, Jan. 5, 179-1. New translation of the 
bifort^niiiitioned passage ; remarks on translation, 

and particulary of Homer 457 

To Hie same, from the Rev. William Greatheed, 
April 8, 1794. He acquaints Mr. H. with the alarm- 



Pago 
ing situation of Cowpor, agd urges his coming to 

Wtston r 4.'»8 

Hayley repairs to Weston 458 

Lady Ilcsketh obtains the advice of Dr. Willis 458 

Grant of a pension of 300/. per aimum, by his Majesty, 

to CViwper 459 

Plan for the removal of Cowper and Mrs. Unwin to 

Norfolk 459 

Cowper's sensations on leaving Weston 459 

Lines "To Marj'," the hast ori,gin;d production com- 
posed by him at Weston 459 

Journey from Weston to North Tuddenbam, in Nor- 
folk 460 

Stay at Tuddenham 460 

Removal to Mundsley, a village on the coast 460 

Letter from Cowper to the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, de- 
scribing his present situation, and soliciting news 

of Weston 460 

Cowper becomes settled at Dunham Lodge, near 

Sw-atfliam 461 

He is induced by the appearance of Wakcdeld's edi- 
tion of Pope's Homer, lo engjige in the revisal of 

his own version 461 

Death of Mrs. Unwin 461 

Her Funeral and Inscription 461 

Cowper's malady renders him insensible to her loss 461 
Successful effort of Mr. . Johnson to engage him lo re- 
turn to the revisal of Homer, which he had discon- 
tinued 462 

Hayley's teslmiony to the afTeclionatc offices rendered 

to Cowper by Mr. Johnson 462 

Trial of the etfecl of frequent chiuige of place 463 

Visit from Dowau'er Lady Spencer 463 

Attempts of Mr. Johnson to amuse him 463 

Letter trom Cowper lo Lady Ilesketh, referring to 

his melancholy situation 463 

He finishes the revisal of his Homer 46.3 

"■The Cast-away," his last original production 464 

His removal to Dereham 464 

His translations of Latin and Greek epigrams, and of 

some of ('ay's Fablos into Latin 464 

New version of a passiige in his Homer, being the last 

effort of his pen 464 

Appearance of dropsy 465 

His last illness 465 

His death 465 

His burial, and inscription by Hayley 405 

Remarks on the mental delusion under which he la- 
bored to the last 466 

Memoir of the early life of Cowper. written by himself 467 

Remarks on the preceding Memoir 478 

Death of Cowper's friend, Sir William Russel 479 

Cowper's attachment to his cousin. Miss Theodora 

Jane Cowper 479 

Nervous attacks, and their presumed causes 480 

Distinguishing fealiires In his mahuly 481 

His deprrssion did not prevent the free exercise of 

his mental powers 481 

It was not pcrwptible to others 481 

It wiL-j not inconsistent with a rich vein of humor. .. 4*^! 

His own picture of his mental siinerings 482 

His religious views not the occasion of his wretched- 
ness, but a support under it 462 

Sketch of the character, and account of the last ill- 
ness uf the late Rev. John Cowjier. by his brother 483 

Narrative of Mr. Van Lier 4i)2 

Niitic'S of Cowper's friends 492 

The Rev. W. Cawthome Unwin 492 

.losej.h Hill, Esq.. 493 

Samuel Rost^ Esq 493 

Ijidv Austen 494 

Rev! Waller Bagot 494 

Sir George Throckmorton 494 

Uev. Dr. Johnson 495 

Rev.W. Bull 495 

Particulars concerning the person and character of 

Cowper 495 

C\)wpiT's personal character illustrated by extracts 

fnmi his Works 496 

Poetical portraits drawn by him 497 

His poem on the Vardley Oak 4*»9 

Description of the 'I'ree 499 

Original poem on the subject, by the late S^imuel 

Whitbread, Esq 499 

Cowper's moderation amidst literary fame 499 

Anecdote of Dr. Parr 500 

Cowper's sensibility lo unjust censure 500 

Letlwr to John Thornton, Esq.. on a severe criticism 
of his first volume uf poems in the *^ Analytical 
Review" 500 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

His excellence as an epistolary writer SW 

Character of his Latin poems SJJl 

The Wish, an EnKlish version by Mr. Ostler 501 

Sublime piety and morality of Cowper's works 501 

Beneficial influence of his writings on the Church ol 

England ^™ 

Concluding remarks 504 

Essay on the genius and poetry of Cowper, by the 

Rev. J. W. Cuimingham, A. M 507 



THE POEMS. 

Preface to the Poems 517 

Table Talk 519 

The Progress of Error 525 

Truth 530 

E.xpostulation 534 

Hope 540 

Charity 546 

Conversation 551 

Ketirement 553 

The Task, in Six Books :— 

Book I. The Sofa 564 

II. The Time-Piece 570 

III. The Garden 576 

IV. The Winter Evening 5R3 

V. The Winter Morning Walk 588 

VI. The Winter Walk at Noon 594 

Epistle to Joseph Hill. Esq 602 

Tirocinium ; or, a Review of Schools 603 

The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time at Stock, in 

Essex 610 

Sonnet addressed to Henry Cowper, Esq 610 

Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 610 

On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hangings 611 

Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 

during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan 

Fernandez 611 

On observing some Names of little note in the Bio- 

graphia Britannica 611 

Report of an adjudged Case 612 

On the Promotion of Edward Thurlow Esq., to the 

Lord High Chancellorship of England 612 

Ode to Peace 612 

Human Frailty 612 

The Modern Patriot 613 

On the Burning of Lord Mansfield's Library, &.C — 613 

On the same 613 

The Love of the World Reproved 613 

On the death of Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton's 

Bullfinch 613 

The Rose 614 

The Doves 614 

A Fable 615 

Ode to Apollo 615 

A Comparison 615 

Another, addressed to a Young Lady 615 

The Poet's New Year's gift 615 

Pairing-time anticipated 616 

The Dog and the Water Lily 616 

Ttie WintiT Nosegay 617 

Tlie Poet, tlie Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant 617 

The Shrubliery 617 

Mutual Furboiirance necessary to the Married State. 618 

The Negro's Complaint 618 

Pity for Poor Africans 618 

The Morning Dream 6ia 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin 611) 

The Nightingale and Glow-worm 621 

An Epistle to an afflicted Protestant Lady in France 622 

To the Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 622 

To the Rev. Mr. Newton 622 

Catharina 623 

The Moralizer corrected 623 

The Faithful Bird 624 

The Needless Alarm 624 

Boadicea 625 

Heroism 625 

On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk 626 

Friendship 627 

On a mischievous Bull which the Owner of him sold 

at the Author's instance 629 

Annus mcmorabilis, 1780. Written in commemo- 
ration of his Majesty's happy recovery 629 

Hymn for the use of the Sunday School at OIney 629 



Stanzas subjoined to a Bill of Mortality for the year 
1787 

The same for 1788 

The same for 1789 

The same for 1790 

The same for 1792 

The same for 1793 

On a Goldfinch starved to Death in his Cage 

The Pineapple and the Bee 

Verses written at Bath, on finding the heel of a Shoe 

An Ode, on reading Richardson's History of Sir 
Charles Grandison 

An Epistle to Robert Llovd, Esq 

A tale foimded on a Fact, which happened in Jan., 
1779 

To the Rev. Mr. Newton, on his return from Rams- 
gate . 



Page 



630 
630 
630 
631 
631 
632 
632 
632 
632 

633 

633 

631 

634 
634 
635 
635 
636 
636 

636 
636 
637 
637 

637 
637 
638 
639 
639 



Love Abused 

A poetical Epistle to Lady Austen 

The Colubriad 

Song. C)n Peace 

Song — "When all within is Peace" 

Verses selected from an occasional Poem entitled 

"Valediction" 

Epitaph on Dr. Johnson 

To MissC , on her Birthday .-.. 

Gratitude 

Lines composed for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, 

On the Queen's Visit to London 

The Cockflghter's Garland 

To Warren Hastings, Esq 

To Mrs. Throckmorton 

To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut on which I 

dined "••» 

Inscription for a Stone erected at the sowing of a 

Grove of Oaks". CaO 

Another 639 

To Mrs. King 639 

In Memory of the late John Thornton, Esq 640 

The Four Ages 640 

The Retired Cat 641 

The Judgment of the Poets 041 

Yardley Oak 642 

To the Nightingale which the author heard sing on 

New Year's Day 643 

Lines written in an album of Miss Patty More's — t)43 

Sonnet to William W^ilberforce, Esq 643 

Epigram on refining Sugar 644 

To Dr. Austen, of Cecil Street, London 644 

Catharina; on her Marriage to George Coiu-tenay, 

Esq 644 

Epitaph on Fop, a dog belonging to Lady Throck- 
morton 644 

Sonnet to George Romney, Esq 644 

Mary and John 644 

Epitaph of Mr. Chester, of Chichely 644 

To my Cousin, Anne Bodhani 645 

Inscription fur a Hermitage in the Author's Garden. 645 

To Mrs. Unwin 645 

To John Johnson, on his presenting me with an an- 
tique Bust of Homer 645 

To a young Friend 645 

To a Spaniel called Beau, killing a young bird 645 

Beau's Reply - 645 

To William Hayley, Esq 646 

Answer to Stanzas addressed to Lady Ilcakcth, by 

Miss Catharine Fanshawe 646 

On Flaxman's Penelope ()46 

To the Spanish Admiral, Count Gravina 646 

Inscription for the tomb of Mr. Hamilton 646 

Epitaph on a Hare 646 

Epitaphium .\lterum 647 

Account of tlie Author's Treatment of his Hares 617 

ATale 648 

To Mary 649 

The Castaway 649 

To Sir Joshua Reynolds 0.10 

The Distressed Travellers ; or, Labor in Vain 6.50 

On the Author of " Letters on Literature" 651 

Stanzas on Liberties taken with the Remains of 

Milton 651 

To the Rev. William Bull 651 

Epitaph on Mrs. Iliggiiis 652 

Sonnet to a Ycung Lady on her Birth-day 6.52 

On a Mistake in his Translation of Homer 652 

On the Benefit received by his Majesty from Sea- 
bathing 6.52 

Addressed to Miss on reading the Prayer for In- 

dilference 652 



CONTENTS. 



Pace 

From a letter to the Rev. Mr. Newton 653 

The KhUtini< Mill 653 

Epiiiiph oil II free bill tame Redbreast 654 

Sonnel iHldrcssuJ to W. Ihijiey, Esq fi54 

An Kpilnph 654 

On receiving Hayley'a Picture 654 

On a Pliuit of Virgin*s Bower 6.>4 

On receivini; Ileyne's Viri?)! 654 

Sijiiizas by a Lady 6.54 

CuwpiT's'Ueply 655 

Lines addressed to Miss T.J. Cowper 655 

To the same 655 

On a sleeping Inrant G55 

Lines 655 

Inscription for a Moss-house in the Shrubbery at 

Weston 655 

Lines on the Death of Sir William Ru&sel 655 

On the hi?h price of Fish 656 

To Mrs. N'ewkm 656 

Verses printed by himself on a flood at Olney 656 

Extnict from a Sun(iay-;ichn<il Hymn G56 

Oil the receipt of a Hamper (in the manner of Homer) 6.56 

On the neglect of Homer O.'ie 

Sketch of the Life of the Rev. John Newton 657 

OLNEY BVMN8. 

Preliminary Remarks on the Olney Hymns G66 

Hymn 1. Walking with God 670 

II. -lehovah-Jireh. The Lord will provide. .. 670 
, ni. Jehovah-Rophi. I am the Lord that heal- % 

eth thee 6*0 

IV. Jehov8h-Ni*si. Tlie Lord my Banner 671 

V. Jehovab-Shalom. The Lord send peace . . 671 

VI. Wisdom 671 

VII. Vanity of the World 671 

vin. O Lord, I will praise thee 672 

IX. The contrile Heart 672 

X. The frilure Peace and Glory of the Church 672 

XI. Jehovah our Riyhteousness 672 

XII. Kphraim repenting 673 

xm. TheCV)Venunt 673 

XIV. Jehovjih-Sh.immah 673 

XV. Praise for the Fountain opened 673 

XVI. The Sower 673 

xvu. The House of Prayer 674 

xmi. Lovest thou me? 674 

XIX. Content ment 67* 

XX. Old Testament Gospel 674 

XXI. Sardb 074 

xxii. Pmying for a Blesisintj on the Young 674 

XXIII. Pleading for and with Youth 675 

xxiv. Prayer for Children 675 

XXV. Jehovah-Jesus 676 

XXVI. On opening a Place for social Prayer 676 

xxvii. Welcome to the Table 676 

xxviii. JeRUs hastening to suflTer 676 

XXIX. Kxhortatirm to Pravcr 676 

XXX. The Liuht and Gjnry of the Word G77 

XXXI. On the Death of a Minister 677 

XXXII. The shining Light 677 

XXXIII. Seeking the Beloved 677 

xxxiv. The Wailing Soul...; 677 

XXXV. Welcome Cross 678 

xxxvi. Afflictions sanctifled by the Word 67H 

xxxvii. TempUtion 678 

xxxviii. Looking upwards in a Storm 678 

xxxix. The Vulley of the Shadow of Death 678 

XL. Peace after a Storm G79 

XVI. Mourning and Longing 679 

XLM. Self-Acquaintance- 679 

XLUi. Prayer for Patience 67!) 

XLiv. Submission 68<) 

XLv. The happy Change iiftt 

XLvi. Kelirement r>80 

XLvii. The hidden Life (i>^0 

xi.vm. Joy and Peace in BeUeving 681 

XLix. True Pleasures C8I 

L. The Christian 6h1 

LI. Lively Hope and Gracious Fear 681 

Lii. Fur the Poor 681 

LIU. My Stml Ihirslelh for God 682 

Liv. Love coiistrairieth to Obedience 682 

Lv. Tile Heart be;Ued and changed by Mercy. . G82 

Lvi. Haired ofSin 682 

Lvii. The new Convert 6^ 

LVMi. True and false Comforts 683 

Lix. .\ living and a dead Faith 683 

LX. Abu!>e of the Gus|>el 683 

Lxi. 'i'hc uarrow Way 683 



Pll-O 

Lxil. Dependence liH4 

Lxm. NotofWorks 684 

Lxiv. Praise for Faith CS-i 

Lxv. (Jrace and Providence 684 

i.xvi. I will praise the Lord at all timea 685 

Lxvii. Longing lo be with Christ 685 

Lxvui. Light shining out of darkness 685 

TRANSLATIONS FROM TIIK FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA 
MOTIIt: QtnON. 

Brief Account of Madame Guion, and of the Mystic 

Writers 085 

The Nativity 691 

God neither known nor loved by the World 692 

The Swallow 693 

The Triumph of Heavenly Love desired 693 

A figurative Description of the Procedure of Di\ino 

Love 693 

A Child of God longing to see him beloved 694 

Aspirations of the Soul after God 694 

Gratitude and Love to (iod 694 

Happy Solitude— Cnhappy Men 694 

Living Water 695 

Truth and Divine Love rejected by the World 095 

Divine Ju>iice amiable 695 

The Siiiil that Loves God finds him everywhere.... 695 

The Testimony of Divine .\doption 690 

Divine Love endures no rival 696 

Self-Diflidenco 696 

The Ac<iuiescencc of Pure Love 697 

Repose in (Jod 697 

Glory til God alone 097 

Self-Love and Truth incompatible 097 

The Love of God, the End of Life 697 

Love faithful in the Absence of the Beloved 698 

Love pure and fervent 698 

The entire Surrender 698 

The perfect Sacrifice 098 

God hides his People ^ 698 

The Secrets of Divine Love are to be kep* 699 

The Vicissitudes experienced in the Christian Life. . 700 

Watching unto God in the Night Season 701 

On the same 701 

On the same 702 

The Joy of the Cross 702 

Joy in Miirtyrdom 702 

Simple Trust 703 

The necessity of Self-Abasement 703 

Love increased by Sufleriug 703 

Scenes favorable "to Meditation 704 

TRANSLATIONS OF THE LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF 
MILTON, 

Elegy L To Charles Deodatl 705 

U. On the Death of the University Beadle at 

Cambridge 706 

in. On the Death of the Bishop of Winchester. 706 

IV. To his Tutor, Thomas Young 706 

V. On the Approach of Spring 707 

VL To Charles Deodati 708 

VII 709 

Epigrams. On the Inventor of Guns 710 

To Leonora singing at Rome 710 

To the same " lO 

The Cottager and his Landlord. A Fable 710 

To Christina, Queen of Sweden, with Cromwell's 

Picture 710 

On the death of the Vice-Chancellor, a Physician... 711 

On the Death of the Bishop of Ely 711 

Nature unimpaired by Time 711 

On the Plutonic Idea as it was understood by Aris- 
totle 712 

To his F.ither 7i2 

To Salsillus, a Roman poet, much indisposed 714 

To Giovanni Baltista Manso, Marquis of Villa 714 

On the Death of Damon. 715 

An Ode, addressed to Mr. John Rouse, Librarian of 
the University of Oxford 717 

Ponnet— '' Fair Lady, whose harmonious name"... . 7J8 
Sonjiet — "As on a hill-top rude, when closing day" 718 

Canzone—" Th<'v mock my toil" 718 

Sonnet— To Charles Deodali 719 

Sonne! — " Lady I it cannot he but that thine eyes". . 719 
Sonnet— " Enamor'd, .artless, young, on foreign 
ground'' 719 

Simile in Paradise Lost 719 

Translation of Drydon's Epigram on MUlon 719 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 

Tlie Glowworm 719 

The Jackdiiw "-0 

The Cricket 720 

The Parrot "-0 

The Thracian 7'^ 

Reciprocal Kindness the Primary Law of Nature. . . 721 
A Manual more ancient than the Art of Printing.... 721 
An Enigma—'* A needle, small as small can be" — 721 
Sparrows sell-domesticated in Trinity Coll., Cam- 
bridge 723 

Familiarity dangerous 722 

Invitation to the Redbreast 722 

t^trada's Nightingale 722 

Ode on the Death of a Lady who lived one hundred 

years 722 

The Cause won 723 

The Silkworm 723 

The Innocent Thief 723 

Denner's Old Woman 723 

The Tears of a Painter 724 

The Maze 724 

No Sorrow Peculiar to the Sufferer 724 

The Snail 724 

The Cantab 724 

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 

From the Greek of Julianus 725 

On the same by Palladas "^5 

An Epitaph 725 

Another 725 

Another 725 

Another 725 

By Callimachiis 725 

On Miltiades 725 

On an Infant 725 

By Heraclides 'So 

On the Reed 725 

To Health 725 

On Invalids.. f 726 

On the Astrologers 726 

On an Old Woman 72(5 

On Flatterers 726 

On a true Friend 726 

On Ihe.^Wiillnw 720 

On late iiL-quired Wealth 726 

On a Bath, by Plato 796 

On a Fowler, by Isidorus 726 

On Niobe 726 

On a good Man 726 

On a Miser 726 

Another 726 

Another 726 

On Female Inconstancy 727 

On the Grasshopper 727 

On Ilermocratia 737 

From Menander 727 

On Pallas bathing, from a Hymn of CalUmachus 727 

To Demosthenes 737 

Qua similar Character 727 



Page 

On an ugly Fellow 737 

On a battered Beauty 727 

On fl Thief 727 

On Pedigree 728 

On En\'y 728 

By Moschus 728 

By Philemon 728 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY. 

Lepiis multis Amicus 728 

A varus et Plutus 729 

Papilio et Limax 729 

EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED PROai THE LATIN OF OWEN. 

On one ignorant and arrogant 729 

Pi-udent Simplicity 729 

Sunset and Sunrise 739 

To a Friend in Distress 729 

Reliiliation 72d 

"■•■Wlien little more than Boy in Age" 729 

TRANSLATIONS FROM \nRGIL, OVID, UOKACE* AND 
HOMER. 

The Salad, by Virgil 7no 

Translation from Virgil, jEneid, Book VUL Line 18 731 

Ovid. Trist. Book V. Eleg. Xn 734 

Hor. Rook I. Ode IX 735 

Hor. Book I. Ode XXXVIII 735 

Hor. Bonk I. OdeXXXVni 735 

llur. Hook 11. Ode X 735 

A/Rellectiun on the foregoing Ode 73Ji 

Hor. Hook II. XVI 735 

The Fifth Satire of the First Book of Horace 736 

The Ninth Satire of the First Book of Horace 737 

Translation of an Epigram from Homer 738 

COWPER's LATIN POEMS. 

Montes Glacialet*, in Oceano Germanico natautes . . . 739 
On the Ice Islands seen floating in the Certnau Ocean 739 

Monumental Inscription to William Northcot 740 

Translation 740 

In Seditionein Horrendam 740 

Translation 740 

Motto on a Clock, with Translation by Hayley 740 

A Simile Latinised 740 

On the Loss of the Royal George 740 

In Submersioncm Navigii, cui Georgius Regale ^ 

Nomen indituni 74 1 

In Brevitatem Vit}e Spatii Homtnibus concessi 741 

On the Shortness of Humau Life 741 

The Lily and the Rose 741 

Idem Latine reddituin 742 

The Poplar Field 742 

Idem Laline redditum 742 

Votum 742 

Translation of Prior's Chlo'e and Euphelia 742 

Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 742 

The same in Latin 743 

Papers, by Cowper, inserted in *^ The Connoisseur"- 744 



THE LIFE OF COWPER. 



PART THE FIRST. 



The family of Cowper appears to have 
held, for several centuries, a respectable rank 
among the merchants and gentry of England. 
We learn from the life of the first Earl Cow- 
pcr, in the Biographia Britaniiica, that his an- 
cestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the 
reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is 
found repeatedly among the sheriffs of Lon- 
don ; and William Cowper, who resided as a 
country gentleman in Kent, was created a 
baronet by King Charles the First, in 1641.* 
But the family rose to higher distinction in 
the beginning of the last century, by the 
remarkable circumstance of producing two 
brothers, wlio both obtained a seat in the 
House of Peers by their eminence in the pro- 
fession of the law. William, the elder, be- 
came Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spen- 
cer Cowper, the younger, was appointed 
Chief Justice of Chester in 1717, and after- 
wards a Judge in the Court of Common 
Pleas, being permitted by the particular fa- 
vor of the king, to hold those two oliiees to 
the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, 
on the 10th of December, 17-28, and has the 
higher claim to our ntrtice as the immediate 
ancestor of the poet. By his first wife, Ju- 
dith Pennington (whose exemplary character 
is still revered by her descendants). Judge 
Cowper left several children ; among them a 
daughter, Judith, who at the age of eighteen 
discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the 
praise of her eonfemporary [loets Pope and 
Hughes. This lady, the wife of Colonel Ma- 
dan, transmitted her own poetical and devout 
spirit to her daughter Frances Maria, who was 
married to her cousin, ^lajor Cowper: the 
amiable character of .Maria will unfold itself 
in the course of this work, as the friend and 
correspondent of her more eminent relation, 
the second grandchild of the Judge, destined 
to honor the name of Cowper, by displ.iying, 

* This genlloman wiis a writer of Kn'.;)Lsh verse, nnd, 
with r-ire iiiunillceiice, besl.iweil botli iin epitaplt and a 
motiumcDt on lliat illii>'lrinim divine, the venerable 
Hoolier, lu the edition of Walton's Lives, by Zouch, 
tile curious reader may fliid the epitaph written by Sir 
William Cowpor. 



with peculiar purity and fervor, the double 
enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The 
tiither of the subject of the following pages 
was John Cowper, the Judge's second son, 
who took his degrees in divinity, was chap- 
lain to King George the Second, and resided 
at his Rectory of Great Berkhamstead, in 
Hertfordshire, the scene of the poet's in- 
fancy, which he has thus commemorated in a 
singularly beautiful and pathetic composition 
on the portrait of his mother. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; 
Children not thiiie have trod my nursery Hoor: 
And where the gard'ncr Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school aionij the public wuy, 
Delighted with itiy bauble coach, and wrapt 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. 
Short-Hv'd possession T but the record fair 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm, that has clTac'd 
A thousand other themes less tlef ply traced. 
Thy ni<flitly visits to my chamber made, [laid ; 
That thou miohtst know me safe and wannly 
Thy morning bounties ere I lef) my home, 
The biscuit or confectionary plum; 
The fragrant waters on my elieeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, tdl I'rcsh tliey shone and glow'd ; 
All this, and, more emlearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; 
Ne er rou^hen'd by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interpos'd too often makes : 
AH this, still leirible in memory's page, 
Ani\ still to be so to my latest age, 
.\dds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may. 

The parent, whose merits are so feelingly 
recorded by the filial tenderness of tlie poet, 
was Ann, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of 
Ludhain Hall, in Norfolk. Tliis ladv, whoso 
family is said to have been originally from 
Wales, was married in the bloom of youth 
to Dr. Cowper: after giving birlh to several 
children, who died in their infancy, and leav- 
ing two sons, William, the immediate subject 
of this memorial, born at Berkham,stead on 
the 26th of November, 1731, and John (whose 



24 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



accomplishments and pious death will be de- 
scribed in the course of this compilation), she 
died in childbed, at the early age of thirty- 
four, in 1737. Those who delight in con- 
templating the best atfections of our nature 
will ever admire the tender scnsiliility with 
which the poet lias acknowledged his obli- 
gations to this amiable mother, in a poem 
composed more than fifty years after her de- 
cease. Readers of this description may tind 
a pleasure in observing how the [iraise so 
liberally bestowed on lliis tender parent, at 
so late a period, is confirmed (if praise so 
unquestionable may be said to receive con- 
firmation) by another poetical record of her 
merit, which the hand of affinity and aflTection 
bestowed upon lier tomb — a record written 
at a time when the poet, who was destined 
to prove, in his advanced life, her most pow- 
erful eulogist, had hardly begun to show the 
dawn of that gcnivis which, after many years 
of silent affliction, rose like a star emerging 
from tempestuous darkness. 

The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected 
by her husband in the diancel of St. Peter's 
church at Berkhamstead, cont.ains the follow- 
ing verses, composed by a young lady, her 
niece, the late Lady Walsingliam. 

Here lies, in early years bereft of life, 
The best of mothers, and the kindest wife : 
Who neither knew nor practis'd any art. 
Secure in all she wisli'il, her husband's heart. 
Her love to him, still prevalent in death, 
Pray'd Heav'n to bless him with her latest breath. 

Still was she studious never to ofl'end, 
And glad of an occasion to commend : 
With ease would pardon injuries rcceiv'd, 
Nor e'er was cheerful when another griev'd ; 
Despising state, with her own lot content, 
Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well spent ; 
Resign 'd, when Heaven demanded back her 

breath, 
Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of ileath. 

Whoe'er thou art that dost this tomb draw near, 
O stay awhile and shed a friendly tear; 
These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. 

The truth and tenderness of this epitaph 
will more than compensate with every can- 
did reader the imperfection ascribed to it by 
its young and modest author. To have lost 
a parent of a character so virtuous and en- 
dearing, at an early period of his childhood, 
was the prime misfortune of Cowper, and 
what contributed perhaps in the highest de- 
gree to the dark coloring of his subsequent 
life. The influence of a good mother on the 
first years of her children, whether nature 
has given them peculiar strength or peculiar 
delicacy of frame, is eqnally inestimable. It 
is the prerogative and the felicity of such a 
mother to temper the arrogance of the strong, 
and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. 
The infancy of Cowper was delicate in no 
common degree, and his constitution discov- 



ered at a very early season that morbid ten- 
dency to diffidence, to mel.ancholy and de- 
spair, which darkened as he advanced in 
years into periodical fits of the most deplor- 
able depression. 

The period having arrived for commencing 
his education, he was sent to a reputable 
school at Market-street, in Bedfordshire, un- 
der the cr.re of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable 
that he was removed from it in consequence 
of an ocular complaint. From a circumstance 
which he relates of himself at that period, in 
a letter written in 1792, he seems to have 
been in danger of resembling Jlilton in the 
misfortune of blindness, as he resembled 
him, moi'c happily, in the fervency of a de- 
vout and poetical spirit. 

"I have been all my life," says Cowper, 
" subject to inflamiuations of the eyes, and in 
my boyish days had specks on both, that 
threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed 
for the consequences, sent me to a female 
oculist of gi'cat renown at that time, in whose 
house I abode two years, but to no good 
purpose. From her I went to Westminster 
school, where, at the age of fourteen, the 
small-po.v seized me, and proved the better 
oculist of the two, for it delivered me from 
them all : not however from great liableness 
to inflammation, to which I am in a degree 
still subject, though much less than formerly, 
since I have been constant in the .use of a 
hot foot-hath every night, the last thing be- 
fore going to rest." 

It appears a strange process in education, 
to send a tender child, from a long residence 
in the house of a female oculist, immediately 
into all the hardships attendant on a public 
school. But the mother of Cowper was 
dead, and fathers, however excellent, are, in 
general, utterly incompetent to the manage- 
ment of their young and tender oft'spring. 
The little Cowper was sent to his first school 
in the year of his mother's death, and how ill- 
suited the scene was to his peculiar character 
is evident from the description of his sensa- 
tions in that season of life, which is often, 
very erroneou.sly, e.\tolled as the happiest 
period of human existence. He has been 
frequently heard to lament the persecution 
he sull'ered iu his childish years, from the 
cruelty of his school-fellow.s, in the two 
scenes of his education. His own forcible 
expressions represented him at Westminster 
as not daring to raise his eye above the shoe- 
buckle of the elder boys, who were too apt 
to tyrannize over his gentle spirit. The 
acuteness of his feelings in his cinldhood, 
rendered those important years (which might 
have produced, under tender cultivation, a 
series of lively enjoyments) mournful peri- 
ods of increasing timidity and depression. 
In the most cheerful hours of his advanced 
life, he could never advert to this season 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



25 



without shuddering at the recollection of its 

wrptohodiu'ss. Yi't to this perhnps the world 
is IikIc'IiIi'iI for till- iKilhi'tic iiiul moral olo- 
ciueiu'c of tliusi' torc'ililo adiiiuiiitioiis to pa- 
rents, whicli give interost and Ix'imty to his 
ailinirahle pooin on puhlic schools. Poets 
may he said to reahze, in some measure, the 
poetical idea of the nijfiitingale's singing with 
a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite 
songs have often originated in the aeuteness 
of their personal sutferings. Of this obvious 
trutli, the poem just mentioned is a very 
memoralile example: and, if any readers 
have thought the poet too severe in his stric- 
tures on that system of education, to which 
we owe some of tlie most accomplished char- 
acters that ever gave celebrity to a civilized 
nation, such readers will be candidly recon- 
ciled to that moral severity of reproof, in re- 
collecting that it flowed from severe personal 
experience, united to the purest spirit of phi- 
lanthropy and patriotism. 

The relative merits of public and private 
education is a (piestion that has long agitated 
:he world. Each has its partizans, its advan- 
tages, and defects ; and, like all general prin- 
ciples, its application must greatly depend on 
the circumstances of rank, future destination, 
aud the peculiarities of cliaracter and temper. 
For the full development of the powers and 
faculties of the mind — for the acquisition of 
the various qualifications that tit men to sus- 
tain with brilliancy and distinction the duties 
of active life, whether in the cabinet, the sen- 
ate, or the forum — for scenes of busy enter- 
prize, where knowledge of the world and the 
growth of manly spirit seem indispensable ; 
in all such cases, we are disposed to believe, 
that the palm must be assigned to public edu- 
cation. 

JJut, on the otiier hand, if we reflect that 
brilliancy is oftentimes a Hame which con- 
sumes its object, tliat knowledge of the world 
i.s, for the most part, but a knowledge of the 
evil that is in the world : and that early habits 
of extravagance and vice, which are ruinous 
in their results, arc not unfrequently con- 
tracted at public schools: if to these facts 
we add that man is a candidate for immortal- 
ity, and that " life" (as Sir William Temple 
observes) " is hut the parenthesis of eter- 
nity," it then becomes a ([uestion of solemn 
import, whether integrity and principle do not 
find ;i soil more congenial fur their growth in 
the shade and retirement of private education? 
The one is an advancement for time, the other 
for eternity. The former affords facilities for 
making men great, but often at the expense 
i)f happiness and conscience. The latter di- 
minishes the temptations to vice, and, while 
it affords a field for useful and honorable ex- 
ertion, augments the means of being wise and 
holy. 

We leave the reader to decide the great 



problem for himself. That he may be ena- 
bled to form a right estimate, we would urge 
him to suffer time and eiernity to pass iu 
solemn anil deliberate review before him. 

That the public school was a scene by no 
means adapted to the sensitive miiul of Cow- 
per is evident. Nor can we avoid cherishing 
the apprehension that his spirit, naturally 
morbid, experienced a fat;vl iin-oad from th.it 
period. lie nevertheless acquired the repu- 
tation of scholarship, with the advantage uf 
being known and esteemed by some of the 
aspiring cliaracters of his own age, who sub- 
sequently became distinguished in the great 
arena of public life. 

With these acquisitions, he left Westmin- 
ster at the age of eighteen, in 1749: and, as 
if destiny had determined that :di his early 
situations in life should be peculiarly irksome 
to his delicate feelings, and tend rather to 
promote than to counteract his constitutional 
tendency to melancholy, he was removed from 
a public school to the office of an attorney. 
He resided three years in the house of a Mr. 
Chapman, to whom he was engaged by arti- 
cles for that time. Here he was placed for 
the study of a profession which nature seemed 
resolved that he never .should practise. 

The Law is a kind of soldiership, and, like 
the profession of arms, it may be said to re- 
quire for the constitution of its heroes, 

" A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." 

The soul of Cowper had indeed its lire, but 
fire so refined and ethereal, that it could not 
be expected to shine in the gro.ss atmosphere 
of worldly contention. Perhaps there never 
existed a mortal, who, possessing, with a 
good person, intellectual powers naturally 
strong and highly cultivated, was so utterly 
unfit to encounter the bustle and perplexities 
of public life. But the extreme modesty and 
shyness of his nature, which disqualified him 
for scenes of business and ambition, endeared 
him inexpressibly to those who h.ad oppor- 
tunities to enjoy his society, and discernment 
to appreciate the ripening excellencies of Ids 
character. 

Reserved as he was, to an extraordinary 
and painful degree, his heart and mind were 
yet admirably fashioned by nature for all the 
refined intercourse and confidential enjoyment 
both of friendship and love ; but, though ap- 
parently formed to possess and to cominuui- 
cate an extraordinary portion of moral felic- 
ity, the incidents of his life were such, that, 
conspiring with the peculiarities of his nature, 
they rendered him, at different times, the vic- 
tim of sorrow. The variety and depth of his 
sufferings in early life, from extreme tender- 
ness of feeling, are very forcibly dis]ilaye(l in 
the following verses, which formed part of a 
letter to one of his female relatives, at the 
time they were comp^fcd. The letter lias 



26 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



perished, and the verses owe their presen'a- 
tion to the afi'ectionate memory of the lady 
to whom they were addressed. 

Doom'd as I am in solitude to waste 
The present moments, and re»fret the past ; 
Depnv'd of every joy I valued most, 
My friend torn from me. and my mistress lost ; 
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 
The dull elTect of huaior or of spleen ! 
Still, still, I mourn, with each returninsr day, 
Him* snatch'il by fate in early youth away ; 
And herf — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, 
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — Imt in vain ! 
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere. 
Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of iViemlship knows, 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 
See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
See me neglectetl on the world's rude coast, 
Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow. 
And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free. 
All that delights the happy — palls witli me ! 

Having concluded the term of his engage- 
ment with the solicitor, he settled himself in 
chambers in the Inner Temple, as a regular 
student of law ; but although he resided there 
till tlie age of thirty-three, he rambled (ac- 
cording to his own colloquial account of his 
early years) from the thorny road of his aus- 
tere patroness, Jurisprudence, into the prim- 
rose paths of literature and poetry. During 
this period, he contributed two of the Satires 
in Duncombe's Horace, which are worthy of 
his pen, and indications of his rising genius. 
He also cultivated the friendship of some lit- 
erary char;icters, who had been his school- 
fellows at Westminster, particularly Colman, 
Bonnell Thornton, and Lloyd. Of these early 
associates of Cowper, it may be interesting to 
learn a brief history. Few men could have 
entered upon life with brighter prospects than 
Colman. His father was Envoy at the Court 
of Florence, and his motlier was sister to the 
Countess of Bath. Possessed of talents that 
tptalified him for e.vertion, with a classical 
taste perceptible in his translation of Hor- 
ace's Art of Poetry, and of the works of 
Terence, he relincpiished the bar, to which 
he had been called, and became principally 
known for his devotedness to theatrical pur- 
suits. His private life was not consistent 
with the rules of morality ; and he closed his 
days, after a protracted malady, by dying in 
a Lunatic Asylum in Paddington, in the year 
1794. 

To Bonnell Thornton, jointly with Colman, 
we owe the Connoisseur, to which Cowper 
contributed a few numbers. Thornton also 
united with Colman and Warner in a transla- 

* Sir William Russel, tlie favorite friend of the yoimg 
poet. 

t Miss Tlicodtoa Cowper. 



tion of Plautus. But his talents, instead of be- 
ing protitably employed, were chiefly marked 
by a predilection for humor, in the exercise 
of which he was not very discreet ; for the 
venerated muse of Gray did not escape his 
ridicule, and the celebrated Ode to St. (!'eeilia 
was made the occasion of a public burlesque 
performance, the relation of which would not 
accord with the design of this undertaking. 
He who aims at, nothing lietter than to amuse 
and divert, and to excite a laugh at the ex- 
pense of both taste and judgment, proposes 
to himself no very exalted object. Thornton 
died in the year 1770, aged forty-seven. 

Ijloyd was formerly usher at Westminster 
School, but feeling the irksomeness of the 
situation, resigned it, and commenced author. 
His Poems have been repeatedly re])ublished. 
His life presented a scene of thoughtless ex- 
travagance and dissipation. Overwhelmed 
with debt, and pursued by his creditors, he 
was at length eoidined in the Fleet Prison, 
where he expired, the victim of his excesses, 
at the early age of thirty-one years. 

, We record these facts, — 1st, That we may 
adore th.at mercy which, by a timely interpo- 
sition, rescued the future author of the Task 
from such impending ruin: — 2ndly, To show 
that scenes of gaiety and dissipation, however 
enlivened by tiaslies of wit, and distinguished 
by literary superiority, are perilous to charac- 
ter, health, and fortune; and that the talents, 
which, if beneficially employed, might have 
led to happiness and honor, when perverted 
to unworthy ends, often lead prematurely to 
the gTave, or render the past painful in the 
retrospect, and the future the subject of fear- 
ful anticipation and alarm. 

Happily, Cowper escaped from this vortex 
of misery and ruin. His juvenile poems dis- 
cover a contemplative spirit, and a uiind early 
impressed with sentiments of piety. In proof 
of this assertion, we select a few stanzas from 
an ode written, wlicn he was very young, on 
reading Sir Charles Grandison. 

To rescue from the tyrant's sword 

The oppress'd ; — unseen, and unimplor'd. 

To cheer the face of woe ; 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 

And a forgiven Ibe : 

These, these, distinguish from the crowd, 
And these alone, the great and good, 

The guardians of mankind. 
Whose l)osoms with these virtues heave. 
Oh ! with what matchless speed, they leave 

The multitude behind I 

Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth 1 

Derived from Heaven alone. 
Full on that favor'd breast they shine, 
Where faith and resignation join 

To call the blcssmg down. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



27 



Such is that heart :— but while tlie Sluse 
Thv theme, O Rkiiardson, pursues, 

Her feebler spirits I'liint: 
She cannot reaeli, aiul would not wrong, 
That subject for an angel's song, 

The hero, and the saint. 

His early turn to moralize on the slightest 
occasion will api)ear tVom the following \erses, 
which he wrote at the age of eighteen : ami 
in which those who love to trace the rise and 
progress of genius will, I think, be pleased to 
renuirk the very promising seeds of those pe- 
culiar powers, which unfolded themselves in 
the richest maturity at a remoter period, and 
rendered that beautiful and sublime poem, 
The Task, the most instructive and interest- 
ing of modern compositions. Young as the 
poet was when he produced the following 
lines, we may observe that he had jjrobably 
been four years in the habit of writing Eng- 
lish verse, "as he has said in one of his letters, 
that he began his poetical career at the age 
of fourteen, by translating an elegy of Tibid- 
lus. I have reason to believe that he wrote 
many poems in his early life; and the singu- 
lar merit of this juvenile composition is suUi- 
cient to make the friends of genius regret 
that an e.\cess of ditHdence prevented him 
from preserving the poetry of his youth. 

VERSES, 

WRITTEN AT BATIl, ON FINDING THE REEL OF 
A SHOE, 1748. 

Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle noddess ! thanks ! 
Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny 
She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou 

cast 
A treasure in her way : for neither meed 
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes 
.^nd bowel-racking pains of emptiness, 
Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
Hopes she from this — presumptuous, tho', perhaps. 
The cobbler, leather-carving artist, might. 
Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon 
Whatever, not as erst the fabled cock. 
Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
Spurned the rich gem thou gav'st hira. \Vhcre- 

Ibre ah! 
Why not on me that favor (worthier sure) 
Conferr'dst thou, goddess 1 Thou art blind, thou 

say'st ; 
Enough — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 

Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale 
From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here, 
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are Ibund ; 
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song !' 
This pondrt)US heel of perforated hide 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Hapiv, — for such its massy form bespeaks, — 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore ; on this supported, oft he stretdi'd, 
\Vith uncouth strides along the furrow'il glebe, 
Flatl'ning the stubborn clod, 'till cruel time 
(\Vljut will not cruel time 1) or a wry step, 
Scvcr'd the strict cohesion ; VN'hen, alas ! 
He who could erst with even, equal pace, 



Pursue his destin'il way with symmetry 
And some proportion forni'd now. on one side, 
Curtail'd and mui.n'd. the sport of vagrant boys, 
Cm-sing his frail supportc:r trea-iicTous prop! 
With toiLsome steps, and dillicult. moves on. 
Thus liires it oft with other than the feet 
Of humble villager. The statesman thus 
Up the steep road where proud aaibition leads, 
.\spiring. first uninterrupted winds 
His prosperous wav ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
While policy prevails, and friends prove true : 
But that support soon t'ailing, by bun left 
On whom he most depemled, basedy lell, 
Betrav'd, deserted : from his airy height 
Headlong he falls, and, through the rest of life, 
Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 

Of a youth, who, in a scene like Bath, could 
produce such a meditation, it might fairly be 
e.vpected that he would 

" In riper life, exempt from pubhc haunt, 

Find tongues in trees, books in the running 

brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.'' 

Though extreme ditlidence, and a tendency 
to despond, seemed early to jireclude Cowper 
from the expectation of climbing to the splen- 
did summit of the profession he had chosen ; 
yet, by the interest of his family, he had pros- 
pects of emolument in a line of life tliat ap- 
peared better suited to the modesty of his 
nature and to his moderate ambition. 

In his thirty-first year he was nominated to 
the oflices of Reading Clerk and Clei'k of the 
private Committees in the House of Lords — 
a situation the more desirable, as sucli an es- 
tablishment might enable liim to m.-,rry early 
in life ; a measure to which he wa.s doubly 
disposed l>y judgment and inclination. But 
the peculiarities of his wonderful mind ren- 
dered him unable to support the ordinary du- 
ties of his new oflice ; for the idea of reading 
in public proved a source of tortm'e to liis 
tender and apprehensive spirit. An expedient 
was devised to promote his interest without 
wounding his feelings. Resigning his situa- 
tion of Reading Clerk, he was appointed 
Clerk of the Journals in the same House of 
Parliament. Of his occupation, in conse- 
quence of this new appointment, he speaks 
in the following letter to a lady, who will 
become known and endeared to the reader in 
proportion to the interest he takes in the 
writings of Cowper. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Temple, August 9, 1703. 
My dear Cousin, — Having promised to 
write to you, I make haste to be as good as 
my word. IJiave a pleasure in writing to you 
at any time, but especially at the present, 
when my days are spent in reading the Jour- 
nals, and my nights in dreaming of them ; an 
employment not very agreeable to a head 
that has long been habituated to tlie luxury 



28 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of choosing its subject, and has teen as little 
employed upon business as if it had grown 
upon the sliouldevs of a raucli wealthier gen- 
tleman. But tlie niunscull pays for it now, 
and will not presently forget the discipline it 
has undergone lately. If I succeed in tliis 
doubtful piece of promotion, I shall h.ave at 
least this satisfaction to reflect upon, that the 
volumes I write will be treasured up with the 
utmost care for ages, and will last as long as 
the English constitution — a duration which 
ouglit to satisfy the vanity of any author wlio 
has a spark of love for his country. Oh, my 
good Cousin ! if I was to open my heart to 
you, I could show you strange sights; no- 
thing I flatter myself tliat would shock you, 
but a great de.al that would make you won- 
der. I am of a very singular temper, and 
very unlike all the men that I have ever con- 
versed with. CertJiinly I am not an absolute 
fool : but I have more weaknesses than the 
greatest of all the fools I can recollect at pres- 
ent. In short, if I was as fit for the ne.xt 
world as I am unfit for this, and God forbid 
I should speak it in vanity, I would not change 
conditions with any saint in Christendom. 

My destination is settled at last, and I have 
obtained a furlough. Margate is the word, 
and what do you think will ensue. Cousin ? I 
know what you expect, but ever since I was 
born I luxve been good at disappointing the 
most natural expectations. JIany years ago. 
Cousin, tliere was a possibility that I might 
prove a very different thing from what I am 
at present. My diameter is now fixed, and 
riveted fast upon me, and, between friends, is 
not a very splendid one, or likely to be guilty 
of mucli fascination. 

Adieu, my dear Cousin ! so much as I love 
you, I wonder how it has happened I was 
never in love with you. Thank Heaven that 
I never was, for at tliis time I have had a 
pleasure in writing to you, which in that case 
I should liave forfeited. Let me hear from 
you, or I shall reap but half the reward that 
is due to my noble indiflerence. 

Yours ever, and evermore, 

W. C. 

It was hoped from the change of his sta- 
tion that his personal appearance in parlia- 
ment might not be required, but a parlia- 
mentary dispute made it necessary for him 
to appear at tlie bar of the House of Lords, 
to entitle himself publicly to the office. 

Speaking of this imp(jrtant incident in a 
sketch, wliicli he once formed liimself, of 
passages in his early life, lie expressed what 
he endured at tiie time in these remarkable 
words : " They wlnise spirits are formed like 
mine, to whom a public exhil)ition of them- 
selves is mortal poison, may have some idea 
of the liorrors of my situation — others can 
have none." 



His terrors on this occasion arose to such 

an astonishing height, that they utterly over- 
whelmed his reason ; for, although he had 
endeavored to prepare himself for his jiublic 
duty, by attending closely at the olHce for 
several months, to examine the parliamentary 
journals, his application was rendered useless 
by that excess of diffidence, whidi made liim 
conceive that, wliatever knowledge he might 
previously acquire, it would all forsake him 
at the bar of tlie House. Tliis distressing 
apjjrehension increased to such a degi'ee, as 
tlie time for his appearance approached, that, 
when the day so anxiously dreaded arrived, 
he was unable to make the experiment. The 
very friends who called on him for the pur- 
pose of attending him to the House of Lords, 
acquiesced in the cruel necessity of his re- 
limiuishing the prospect of a station so se- 
verely formidable to a frame of such singular 
sensibility. 

The conflict between the wishes of honor- 
able ambition and the terrors of diffidence so 
entirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, 
that, after two learned and benevolent divines 
(Mr. John Cowper, his brother, and the cele- 
brated Mr. Martin Jladan, his first cousin) 
had vainly endeavored to establish a lasting 
tranquillity in his mind by friendly and relig- 
ious conversation, it was found necessary to 
remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided 
a considerable time, under the care of that 
eminent physician. Dr. Cotton, a scholar and 
a poet, who added to many accomplishments 
a peculiar sweetness of manners, in very ad- 
vanced life, when I had the pleasure of a 
personal acquaintance with him. 

The misfortune of mental derangement is 
a topic of such awful delicacy, that I consider 
it to be the duty of a biographer rather to 
sink, in tender silence, than to proclaim, with 
circumstantial and ofl'ensive temerity, the 
minute particulars of a calamity to which all 
human beings are exposed, and perhaps in 
proportion as they have received fnnn nature 
those delightful but dangerous gifts, a heart 
of exquisite tenderness and a mind of crea- 
tive energy. 

This is a sight for pity to pursue, 

Till she resembles, faintly, what she views ; 

Til! sympathy contracts a kindred pain, 

Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain. 

This, of all maladies, that man infest. 

Claims m'fet compassion, and receives the least. 

But with a soul that ever felt the sting 
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 



'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 
Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes. 
Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight, 
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright; 
The screws reversal (a task, which, if He please, 
God, in a moment, executes with ease), 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



29 



Ten thousand, thousand strings at once go loose ; 
Lost, till He tune them, all their power and use. 

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; 
No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 
And thou, sail snlT.rcr. under nameless ill, 
That yields not to the touch ol" human skill, 
linprove the kind occasion, understand 
A Father's frown, and kiss the cliast'ning ha*d ! 

It is in this solemn and instructive liglit, 
tliat Cowpor himself teaclu'S us to considor 
till' calamity of which I am now spcakiiij^; 
and of which, like his illustrious brother of 
I'arnussiis, the yountjer Tasso, he was occa- 
sionally a most affecting example. Provi- 
dence appears to have given a striking lesson 
to mankind, to guard both virtue and genius 
against pride of heart and pride of intellect, 
by thus suspending the affections and the 
talents of two most tender and sublime poets, 
who resembled each other, not more in the 
attribute of poetic genius than in the similar- 
itv of the dispensation that quenclied its liglit 
and ardor. 

From December, 1763, to the following 
July, the sensitive mind of Cowper appears 
to have labored under tlie severest suffering 
of morbid depression ; but the medical skill 
of Dr. Cotton, and the cheerful, benignant 
manners of that accomplished physician, grad- 
ually succeeded, with the blessing of Heaven, 
in removing the indescribable load of relig- 
ious desjiondency, w'hich had clouded the i'n- 
culties of this interesting man. His ideas of 
religion were changed from the gloom of ter- 
ror and despair to the brightness of inw-ard 
joy and peace. 

This juster and happier view of cvangeli- 
c:i! truth is s-iid to have arisen in his miml, 
while he was reading the third chapter of 
Saint Paul's Epistle to the Komans. The 
words that rivetted his attention were the 
following: " Whom God halh sel forth to be 
a propitiation through faith in his blood, to de- 
clare his righteousness for the remission of 
sins that are past, through the forbearance of 
Godr Rom. iii. 25. 

It w;is to this passage, which contains so 
lucid an exposition of the Gospel method of 
s.alvation, that, under the divine blessing, the 
poet owed the recovery of a previously disor- 
dered intellect and the removal of a load from 
a deeply oppressed conscience — he saw, by a 
new and powerful perception, how sin could 
be pardoned, and the sinner be saved — that 
the way appointed of God was through the 
great ])ropitiation and sacrifice upon the cross 
— that faitU lays hold of the promise, and 
thus becomes the instrument of conveying 
pardon and peace to the soul. 

It is remarkable how- God, in every age, 
from the first pronuilg.ition of the Gospel to 
the present time, and under ,dl the various 
modifi.cations of society, barbarian, Scythian, 



bond or free, has put his seal to this funda- 
mental doctrine of the Gospel. 

Whether we contemplate man amid the 
polished scenes of civilized and enlightened 
Europe, or tlie rude ferocity of savage tribes 
— whether it be the refined Hindoo, or the 
unlettered Hottentot, who.se mind becomes 
accessible to the power and influences of re- 
ligion, the cause and the effect are the same. 
It is the doctrine of the cross that works the 
mighty change. The worldly wise may re- 
ject this doctrine, — the spiritually wise com- 
prehend and receive it. But, whether it be 
rejected, with all its tremendous responsibili- 
ties, or received with its inestimable blessings, 
the truth itself still remains unchanged and 
unchangeable, attested by the records of every 
church and the experience of evciy believing 
heart — " //((• cross is to them tliat perish fool- 
ishness, but nnto us xchich are saved il is the 
pou-cr of God." 1 Cor. i. 18. 

It is impossible not to admire the power, 
and adore the mercy, that thus wrought a 
double deliverance in the mind of Cowper by 
a process so remarkable. Devout contempla- 
tion became more and more dear to his re- 
viving spirit. Resolving to relinquish all 
thoughts of a. laborious profession, and all 
intercourse with the busy world, he acciui- 
esced in a plan of settling at Huntingdon, by 
the advice of his brother, who, as a mini.ster 
of the Go.spcl, and a fellow of Rene't Col- 
lege, Cambridge, resided in that University ; 
a situation so near to the place chosen for 
Cowper's retirement, that it afforded to these 
artectionate brothers opportunities of ea.sy 
and freijuent intercourse. I regret that all 
the letters which passed between them have 
perished, and the more so, as they sometimes 
corresponded in verse. John Cowper was 
also a poet. He had engaged to execute a 
translation of Voltaire's Henriade, and in the 
course of the work requested, and obtained, 
the assistance of William, who translated, as 
he informed me himself, two entire cantos of 
the poem. This fraternal production is said 
to have appeared in a magazine of the year 
1".')!). I have discovered a rival, and proba- 
bly an inferior translation, so published, but 
the joint work of the poetical brothers has 
hitherto eluded all my researches. 

Ill June, 17G.5, the reviving invalid removed 
to a jirivate lodging in the town (d' Himling- 
don, but I'rovidence soon introduced hiiu into 
a family, which afforded him one of the most 
singular and valuable friends that ever watched 
an afllicted mortal in seasons of overwlielm- 
ing adversity: that friend, to whom the poet 
exclaims in the commencement of the Task, 

And witness, dear comp.mion of my walks, 
Whose arm, this twentieth winter, 1 perceive 
Fart locked in mine with pleasure, such as love, 
Confirmed by long experience of thy worth. 
And well tried virtu.-:s, could alone inspire ; 



30 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Witness a joy, that thou hast doubled long ! 
Thou knowest my praise of Nature most sincere ; 
And that my raptures are not conjured up 
To serve occasions of poetic pomp, 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 

These vcr.ses would be alone sufficient to 
make every poetical reader take a lively in- 
terest in tile lady they describe ; but these 
are far from being the only tribute which tlie 
gratitude of Cowper has paid to the endear- 
ing virtues of ids female companion. More 
poetical memorials of her merit will be found 
in these volumes, and in verse so exquisite, 
that it may be questioned if the most pas- 
sionate lover ever gave rise to poetry more 
tender or more sublime. 

Yet, in this place, it appears proper to ap- 
prize the reader, that it was not love, in the 
common acceptation of tlie word, which in- 
spired these admirable eulogies. The attach- 
ment of Cowper to Sirs. Unwin, the Mary of 
the poet, was an attachment perhaps unpar- 
alleled. Their domestic union, though not 
sanctioned by the common forms of life, was 
supported with perfect innocence, and en- 
deared to tliem both by their having strug- 
gled together through a series of sorrow. A 
spectator of sensibility, who liad contemplated 
the uncommon tenderness of their attention 
to the wants and infirmities of each other in 
the decline of life, might have said of their 
singular attacliment, 

L'Amour n'a rien de si tendre, 
Ni I'Amitie de si doux. 

As a connection so extraordinary forms a 
striking feature iu the history of the poet, the 
reader will probably be an.\ious to investigate 
its origin and progress. — It arose from the 
following little.incident. 

The countenance and deportment of Cow- 
per, though they indicated liis native shyness, 
had yet very singular powers of attraction. 
On his first appearance in one of the churches 
of Huntingdon, lie engaged the notice and 
respect of an amiable young man, William 
Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cam- 
bridge, who, having observed, after divine 
service, that the interesting stranger was tak- 
ing a solitary turn under a row of trees, was 
irresistibly led to share his walk, and to so- 
licit his acquaintance. 

They were soon pleased with each other, 
and the intelligent youtli, charmed with the 
acquisition of such a friend, was eager to 
communicate the treasure to his parents, who 
had long resided in Huntingdon. 

Mr. Unwin, the t'ather, liad for some years 
been master of a free scliool iu the town : 
but, as he advanced in life lie quitted the la- 
borious situ.ition, and, settling in a large con- 
venient house in the High-street, contented 
himself with a few domestic pupils, whom he 
instructed in classical literature. 



This worthy divine, who was now far ad- 
vanced in years, had been lecturer to the two 
churches at Huntingdon, before he obtained 
from his college at Cambridge the living of 
Grimston. While he lived in expectation of 
this preferment, he had attached himself to a 
yo^ng lady of lively talents, and remarkably 
fona of reading. This lady, who, in the pro- 
cess of time, and by a series of singular 
events, became the friend and guardian of 
Cowper, was the daughter of Jlr. Cawthorne, 
a draper in Ely. She was married to j\lr. 
Unwin, on his succeeding to the prefern:ent 
that he expected from his college, and settled 
with him on his living of Grimston; but, not 
liking the situation and society of that seques- 
tered scene, she prevailed on her husband to 
establish himself in Huntingdon, where he 
was known and respected. 

They had resided there many years, and, 
with their two only children, a son and a 
daughter, they formed a cheerful and social 
family, when the younger Unwin, described 
by Cowper as 

" A friend, 
Whose worth deserves the warmest lay 
That ever friendship penn'd," 

presented to bis parents the solitary stranger, 
on whose retirement he had benevolently in- 
truded, and whose welfare he became more 
and more anxious to promote. An event 
highly pleasing and comfortable to Cowper 
soon followed this introduction ; he was af- 
fectionately solicited by all tlie Unwins to re- 
linquish his lonely lodging, and to become a 
part of their family. 

We are now arrived at that period in the 
personal history of Cowper, when we are for- 
tunately enabled to employ his own descrip- 
tive powers in recording tlie events and char- 
acters that particularly interested him, and in 
displaying the state of his mind at a remark- 
able season of his chequered life. The fol- 
lowing are among the earliest letters of this 
afi'ectionate writer, which the kindness of his 
friends and relatives has supplied towards the 
execution and embellishment of this work. 

Among his juvenile intimates and corre- 
spondents, he particnhirly regarded two gen- 
tlemen, who devoted themselves to difi'erent 
branches of the law, the first Lord TImrlow, 
and Joseph Hill, Esq., whose name ajipears 
i;i Cowper's Poems, ]>refixcd to a few verses 
of exquisite beauty, a brief epistle, that seems 
to have more of llic genuine ease, spirit, and 
moral gaiety of Horace, than any original 
epistle in tlie English language. Trom these 
two confidential associates of the poet, in Ills 
unclouded years, we might have expeeied 
materials for the display of his early genius; 
but, in tile torrent of busy and splendid life, 
which liorc the first of them to a mighty dis- 
tance from his less ambitious fellow-student 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



31 



of the Temple, tlic private letters and verses 
that arose from tlieir youthful intimacy have 
perished. 

Tlie let'ers to Mr. Hill are eopious, aud 
cxti'ud throut'li a lonif period of lime, and 
altliough many of them were of a nature riol 
suited to publieation, yet many otliers will 
illustrate and embellish this volume. The 
steadiness and intey:rity of Mr. Hill's reijard 
for a person so much sequestered from his 
sight gives him a particular title to he disliu- 
giiished among those whom Cowper has 
honored, by ;uldres-ing to them his highly 
interesting and alfeclionate letters. Many 
of these, which we shall occasionally intro- 
duce in the parts of the narrative to which 
they belong, may tend to conlirm a truth, not 
iinpleasing to the majority of readers, that 
the temperate zone of moderate fortune, 
eiiually removed from high and low life, is 
most favorable to the permanence of friend- 
ship. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

llimlin^don, June 24, 17f>,"i. 

Dear Joe, — The only recompense I can 
make you for yoiir kind attention to my af- 
fairs, during my illness, is to tell you that, 
by the mercy of tiod, I am restored to per- 
fect hcalih, both of mind and body. This, I 
belie\e, will give you pleasure, and I would 
gladly do anything from which you could re- 
ceive it. 

I left St. Alb.in's, on (he 17th, and arrived 
that day at Cambridge, spent some time there 
with my brother, and came hither on the 
•22m\. I have a lodging that puts me con- 
tinually in mind of our summer excursions; 
we have had many worse, and except the size 
of it (which however is sulhcient for a. single 
man) but few better. I am not cjuile alone, 
having brought a servant with me from St. 
Alljan's, who is the very mirror of fidelity 
and affection for his master. And, whereas 
the Turkish Spy says, he kept no servant 
because he would not have an enemy in his 
house, I hired mine because I would have a 
friend. Men do not usually bestow these 
encomiums on their lackeys, nor do they 
usually deserve them, but I have had experi- 
ence of mine, both in sickness and in health, 
and never saw his fellow. 

The river Ouse, I forget how they spell it, 
is the most agreeable circumstance in this 
]>art of the world; at this town it is, I be- 
lieve, as wide as the Tiuimes at Windsor : 

nor does the silver Thanu's better dr- ■ 

that epithet, nor has it more flowers upi> 
banks, these being attributes which, in .... 
truth, belong to neither. Fluellen would 
say, they are as like as my fingers to my 
lingers, and there is salmon in both. It is a 
noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make 



th.at use of it three times a week, having in- 
troduced myself to it for the first time this 
morning. 

I beg you will remember me to .mII my 
friends, which is a task will cost you no 
great pains to execute — particularly remem- 
ber me to those of your own house, and be- 
lieve me 

Your very nlTectionatc 

w. c. 



TO LAD\ HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, July 1, 1765. 

Jly dear Lady Hesketh, — Since the visit 
you were so kind to pay me in the Temple 
(the only time I ever saw you without jjleas- 
ure), what have I not suffered .' And, since 
it has pleased God to restore me to the use 
of my reason, what have I not enjoyed ^ You 
know, by experience, how pleasant it is to feel 
the first approaches of health after a fever; 
but, oh I the fever of the brain ! To feel the 
quenching of that fire is indeed a blessing 
which I think it impossible to receive with- 
out the most consummate gratitude. Terri- 
ble as this chastisement is, I acknowledge in 
it the hand of an infinite justice; nor is it at 
all more dillicult for me to perceive in it the 
liand of an infinite mercy likewise: when I 
consider the effect it has had upon me, I am 
exceedingly thankful for it, ;ind, without hy- 
pocrisy, esteem it the gi-eatest blessing, next 
to life itself, I ever received from the divine 
bounty. I pray God that I may ever retain 
this sense of it, and then I am sure I shall 
continue to be, as I am at present, really 
happy. 

I write thus to yon, that you may not think 
mo a forlorn and wretched creature; which 
you might be apt to do, considering my very 
distant removal from every friend I liave in 
the world — a circumstance whicli, before this 
event befell me, would und<uibtedly have 
made me so; but my affliction h.-is taught 
me a road to happiness, whfeh, without it, I 
should never have found; and I know, and 
have experience of it every day, that the 
mercy of God, to him who believes himself 
the object of it, is more than sufficient to 
compensate for the loss of every other bless- 
ing. 

You may now inform all those wliom you 
think really interested in my welfare, that 
they h.ave no need to be apprehensive on the 
score of my happiness at present. And you 
yourself will believe that my happiness is no 

' ' • I have told you the founda- 

is built. \Vhat I have writ- 
v.i ...„;.; .,,.,jcai;^ like enlhusia.sm to many, 
for we are apt to give that name to every 
warm affection of tlie mind in others which 
we have not eiqlei-ienced in om'selves ; but to 
) ou, who have so much to be thankful for, 



32 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and a temper inclined to gratitude, it will not 
appear so. 

I beg you will give my love to Sir Thomas, 
and believe tliat I am obliged to you both for 
inquiring after me at St. Alban's. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Huntingdon, July 3, 1765. 

Dear Joe, — ^Whatever you may tliink of the 
matter, it is no such easy thing to keep liouse 
for two people. A man cannot always live 
like the lions in the Tower; and a joint of 
meat, in so small a family, is an endless in- 
cumbrance. In short, I never knew how to 
pity poor housekeepers before ; but now I 
cease to wonder at tliat politic cast which 
their occupation usually gives to their coun- 
tenance, for it is really a matter full of per- 
plexity. 

I have received but one visit since here I 
came. I don't mean that I have refused any, 
but that only one has been offered. Tliis 
was from my woollen-di'aper ; a very heal- 
thy, wealtliy, sensible, sponsible man, and 
extremely civil. He has a cold bath, and 
has promised me a key of it, which I shall 
probiibly make use of in the winter. He has 
undertaken, too, to get me tlie St. James's 
Chronicle three times a-wcek, and to show 
me Hinchinbrook House, and to do every 
service for me in his power; so that I did 
not exceed tlie truth, you see, wlien I spoke 
of his civility. Here is a card-assembly, and 
a dancing-assembly, and a horse-race, and a 
club, and a bowling-green; so that I am well 
oft', you perceive, in point of diversions ; espe- 
cially as I shall go to 'em, just as mucli as I 
should if 1 lived a thousand miles off. But 
no matter for that; the spectator at a play is 
more entertained than the actor ; and in real 
life it is much the same. You will say, per- 
haps, tliat if I never frequent these places, I 
shall not come 'Within the description of a 
spectator ; and you will say right. I have 
made a blunder, which shall be corrected in 
the ne.xt edition. 

You are old dog at a bad tenant ; witness 
all my uncle's and your mother's geese and 
gridirons. There is something so extremely 
impertinent in entering upon a man's premi- 
ses, and using them without paying for 'em, 
that I could easily resent it if I would. But 
I rather choose to entertain myself witli 
thinking how you will scour the man about, 
and worry him to death, if once you begin 
with him. Poor wretch ! I leavehi|^itbely 
to your mercy. ^^^^^^^^^^ 

My dear Joe, you desire me to write long 
letters. I have neither matter enough nor 
perseverance enough for tlie 'purpose. How- 
* Private correspondence. 



ever, if you can but contrive to be tired of 
reading as soon as I am tired of writing, we 
shall find that short ones answer just as well ; 
and, in my opinion, this is a very practicable 
measure. 

My friend Colman has had good fortune ; 
I wish him better fortune still ; which is, that 
he may make a right use of it. The trage- 
dies of Lloyd and Bensley are both very deep. 
If they are not of use to the surviving part of 
the society, it is their own tault. 

I was debtor to Bensley seven pounds, or 

nine, I forget which. If you can find out his 

brother, you will do me a great favor if you 

will pay him for me ; but do it at your leisure. 

Yours and theirs,* 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, July 4, 17G5. 

Being just emerged from the Ouse, I sit 
down to thank you, my dear cousin, for your 
friendly and comfortable letter. What could 
you think of my unaccountable beliavior to 
you in that visit I mentioned in my last? I 
remember I neither spoke to you nor looked 
at you. The solution of the mystery indeed 
followed soon after, but at the same time it 
must have been inexplicable. The uproar 
within was even then begun, and my silence 
was only the sulkiness of a thunder-storm 
before it opens. I am glad, however, that 
the only instance in which I knew not how 
to value your company was when I was not 
in my senses. It was the first of the kind, 
and i trust in God it will be the last. 

How naturally does nfiiiction make us 
Cliristians ! and "how impossible it is, when 
all human help is vain, and the whole earth 
too poor and trifling to furnish us with one 
moment's peace — how impossible is it then 
to avoid looking .at the Gospel ! It gives me 
some concern, though at the same time it in- 
creases my gratitude, to reflect, that a convert 
made in Bedlam is more likely to be a stum- 
bling-block to others than to advance their 
faith. But, if it has that effect upon any, it 
is owing to their reasoning amiss, and draw- 
ing their conclusions from' false premises. 
He who can ascribe an amendment of life 
and manners .and a reformation of the heart 
itself to madness, is guilty of an absurdity 
tliat in any other case would fasten the im- 
putation of madness upon himself; for, by so 
doing, he ascribes a reasonable effect to an 
unreasonable cause, and a positive effect to a 
^gative. But, when Christianity only is to 
acrificed, he that stabs deepest is always 

* The author is supposed to mean Mrs. Hill and her 
two duiiKhters. Tlie word Ihmrs cannot so well refer to 
till I:lm iuilie.'ilent, the persons who stand in that rela- 
ih.ii « illi il Ij. -iii^' both dead at the time he wrote, as is 
evuleat from the context. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



33 



the wisest man. You, my dear cousin, your- 
self, will be apt to lliink 1 carry the matter 
too f.ir. anil that, in tlie present warmth of 
my heart, I make too ample a concession in 
sayiiiir, tliat I am (jntij now a convert. You 
think 1 always believed, and I thouylit so too, 
but you were deceived, and so was I. I called 
myself indeed a Christian, but He who knows 
my heart, knows that I never did a right thing, 
nor abstained from a wrong one, because 1 
was so. But, if I did either, it was under 
the inlluence of some other motive. And it 
is swell seeming Christians, such pretending 
believers, that do mo.st mischief to the cause, 
and furnish the strongest arguments to sup- 
port the inlldelity of its enemies: unless pro- 
fession and conduct go together, the man's 
life is a lie, and the validity of what he pro- 
fesses itself is called in question. The ditler- 
enee between a Christian and an unbeliever 
would be so striking, if the treacherous allies 
of the church would go over at once to the 
other side, that I am satisfied religion would 
be no lo.ser by the bargain. 

1 reckon it "one instance of the providence 
that has attended me throughout this whole 
event, that, instead of being delivered into the 
hands of one of the London physicians — who 
were so much nearer, that I wonder I was 
not^ — I was carried to Dr. Cotton. I was not 
only treated by him with the greatest tender- 
ness while I was ill, and attended with the 
utmost diligence, but when my reason was 
restored to me, and I had so much need of a 
religious friend to converse with, to whom I 
could open my mind upon the subject with- 
out reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter 
person for the purpose. Jly eagerness and 
anxiety to settle my opinions upon that long- 
neglected point made it necessary, that while 
my mind was yet weak, and my spirits uncer- 
tain. I shoukl have some assistance. The 
doctor was as ready to administer relief to 
me in this article likewise, and as well quali- 
fied to do it as in that which was more im- 
mediately his province. How many physi- 
cians would have thought this an irregular 
appetite and a symptom of remaining mad- 
ness ! But if it were so, my friend was as 
mad as myself, and it is well for me that he 
w.is so. 

My dear cousin, you know not half the 
deliverances I have received : my brother is 
the only one in the family who docs. My 
recovery is indeed a signal one, but a greater, 
if possible, went before it. My future life 
must express my thankfulness, tor by words 
I cannot do it. 

I pray God to bless you, and my friend 
Sir Thomas. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY nESKETH. 

lluntiii",'don, July .5, 1765. 

My dear Lady Hesketh, — My pen runs so 
fast you will begin to wish you had not put 
it in motion, but you must consider we have 
not met, even by letter, almost these two 
ye.irs, which will account, in some measure, 
for my pestering you in this manner; besides 
my last was no answer to yours, and there- 
fore I consider myself as still in your debt. 
To say truth, I have this long time promised 
myself a e<irrespondencc with you as one of 
my principal pleasures. 

I should have written to you from St. Al- 
ban's long since, but was willing to perform 
quarantine first, both for my own sake, and 
because I thought my letters would be more 
satisfactory to you from any other quarter. 
You will perceive I allowed myself a very 
sullieient time for the purpose, for I date my 
recovery from the 25th of last July, having 
beenill seven months,and well twelve months. 
It was on that day my brother came to see me ; 
I was far from wi'U when he came in ; yet, 
though he only stayed one day with me, his 
comjiany served to put to llight a thousand 
deliriums and delusions which 1 still labored 
under, and the next morning found myself a 
new creature. But to the present purpose. 

As far as I am acquainted with this place, 
I like it extremely. Mr. Hodgson, the min- 
ister of the parish, made me a visit the day 
before yesterday. He is very sensible, a 
good preacher, and conscientious in the dis- 
charge of bis duty. He is very well known 
to Dr. Newton, Bishop of Bristol, the author 
of the Treatise on the Prophecies, one of our 
best bishops, and who has written the most 
demonstrative [iroof of the truth of Christian- 
ily, in my mind, that ever w-as published. 

There' is a village, called Hertford, about a 
mile and a half from hence. Tlu^ church 
there is very prettily situated upon a rising 
ground, so close to the ri\'er that it washes 
the wall of the churchyard. I found an epi- 
taph there the other morning, the two first 
lines of which being better than anything 
else I saw there, I made shift to remember. 
It is by a widow, on her husband. 

" Thou wast too good to live on earth witli mc. 
.•\nd I not good enough to die with thee." 

The distance of this place from Cambridge 
is the worst circumstance belonging to it. 
My brother and I are fifteen miles asunder, 
which, considering that I came hither for the 
sake of lieing near him, is rather too much. 
I wish that young man was better known in 
the fainilv. He has as many good (pialities 
a.s his m^arest kindred could wish to find in 
him. 

As Mr. Quin very roundly expressed him- 
.self upon some such occasion, " here is very 
plentiful accommodation, and great happiness 

3 



••, 



34 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of provision." So that if I starve, it must bo 
through forgetfulness rather than scarcity. 
Fare thee well, my good and dear cousin. 
Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

July 12, 1763. 

My dear Cousin, — You are very good to 
rae, and if you will only continue to write at 
such intervals as you find convenient, I shall 
receive all that pleasure which I proposed to 
myself from our correspondence. I desire no 
more than that you would never drop nie for 
any length of time together, for I shall Ihcn 
think you only write because something hap- 
pened to put you in mind of me, or for some 
other reason equally mortifying. I am not, 
however, so unreasonable as to expect you 
should perform this act of friendship so fre- 
quently as myself, for you live in a world 
swarming with engagements, and my hours 
are almost all my own. You must every day 
be employed in doing what is expected from 
you by a thousand others, and I have nothing 
to do but what is most agreeable to myself 

Our mentioning Newton's Treatise on the 
Prophecies brings to my mind an anecdote 
of Dr. Young, who you know died lately at 
Welwyn. Dr. Cotton, who was intimate 
with him, paid him a visit about a fortnight 
before he was seized with his last illness. 
The old man was then in perfect health ; the 
antiquity of his person, the gravity of his ut- 
terance, and the earnestness with which he 
discoursed about religion, gave him, in the 
doctor's eye, the appearance of a prophet. 
They had been delivering their sentiments 
upon this book of Newton, when Young 
closed the conference thus: — "My friend, 
there are two considerations upon which my 
faith in Christ is built as upon a rock: the 
fall of man, the redemption of man, and the 
resurrection of man, the three cardinal arti- 
cles of our religion, are such .as human inge- 
nuity could never have invented, therefore 
they must be divine; the other argument is 
this. If the prophecies have been fulfilled 
(of which there is abundant demonstration), 
the Scripture must be the word of God, and 
if the Scripture is the word of God, Chris- 
tianity must be true." 

This treatise on the prophecies serves a 
double purpose; it not only proves the truth 
of religion, in a manner that never has been, 
nor ever can be controverted; but it proves 
likewise, that the Roman Catholic is the apos- 
t:ite, and the anti-Christian church, so fre- 
quently foretold both in the Old and New 
Testaments. Indeed so fatally connected is 
the refutation of Popery with the truth of 
Christianity, when the latter is evinced by 
the completion of the prophecies, that, in 
proportion as light is thrown upon the one, 



the deformities and errors of the other are 
more plainly exhibited. But I leave you to 
the book itself; there are p:irts of it which 
may possibly afford you less entertainment 
than the rest, because you have never been 
a school-boy, but in the main it is so interest- 
ing, and you are so fond of that which is so, 
that I am sure you will like it. 

My dear cousin, how happy am I in having 
a friend, to whom I can open my heart upon 
these subjects ! I have many intimates in the 
world, and have had many more than I shall 
have hereafter, to whom a long letter upon 
these most important articles would appear 
tiresome at least, if not impertinent. But I 
am not afraid of meeting with that reception 
from you, who have never yet made it your 
interest that there should be no truth in the 
word of God. Jlay this everlasting truth be 
your comfort while you live, and attend you 
with peace and joy in your last moments! I 
love you too well not to make this a part of 
my prayers ; and when I remember my friends 
on these occasions, there is no likelihood that 
you can be forgotten. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

P. S. — Cambridge. 1 add this postscript 
at my brother's rooms. He desires to be af- 
fectionately remembered to you, and if ycu 
are in town about a fortnight hence, when he 
proposes to be there himself, will take a 
breakfast with you. 



TO LADY HESKETII. 

Huntingdon, August 1st, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — If I was to measure your 
obligation to write by my own desire to hear 
from you, I should call you an idle corre- 
spondent if a post went by without bringing 
a letter, but I am not so unreasonable ; on 
the contrary, I think myself very happy in 
hearing from you upon your own terms, as 
you find most convenient. Your short his- 
tory of my family is a very acceptable part 
of your letter; if they really interest them- 
selves in rav welfare,* it is a m:u'k of their 
great charity for one who has been a disap- 
pointment and a vexation to them ever since 
he has been of consequence enough to be 
either. My friend the major's behavior to 
rae, after all he sufl'ered by my abandoning 
his interest and my own, in so miserable a 
manner, is a noble instance of generosity and 
true gre:itness of mind : and, indeed, I know 
no man in whom those qualities are more 
conspicuous; one need only furnish him with 

* Cowper's pecuniary resources had been seriously 
imp;iiri.-.l liy his loss of'lhc Clerkship ol' the Journals in 
tlK- Mouse br Lords, and by his subsequeut resiKiiation 
of tlie ollice of Commissioner of Baiikr\ints. At tho 
kind instigation of Major Cowper, his friends had been 
mduced to unite in rendering his income more adequata 
to his ueceasary annual expenditure. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



35 



an opportunity to display tlicm, and thoy are 
:ilw.iys re:idy to show themselves in his words 
;ind actions, and even in liis eountenance, at 
a morneiil's warning. I have i^reat reasOii to 
be thankl'iil — I have lost none of my aeiiuaint- 
ance, but thos(^ whom I delerniined not to 
keep. I am sorry this elass is so numerous. 
What would I not give that every friend I 
have in the world were not almost but alto- 
gutlicr Christians! My dear cousin, I am 
iialf afraid to talk in this style, lest I should 
seem to indulije a censorious humor, instead 
of hoping, as I ought, the best for all men. 
But what can be s;iid against ocular proof, 
and what is hope when it is built upon pre- 
sumption ? To use the most holy nr.me in 
tile univer.se for no purpose, or a bad one, 
eoiitr.iry to his own express commandment ; 
to pass the day, and the succeeding day.s, 
weeks, and months, and years, without one 
act of private devotion, one confession of our 
sins, or one thanksgiving for the numberless 
blessings we enjoy ; to hear the word of God 
in public, with a distrattled attention, or with 
none at all ; to absent ourselves voluntarily 
from the ble.ssed Communion, and to live in 
the tot.ll neglect of it, though our Saviour 
lias charged it upon us with an express in- 
junction — are the common and ordinary liber- 
ties which the generality of professors allow 
themselves ; and what is this but to live with- 
out God in the world ? Many causes may be 
iissigncd for this anti-Christian spirit, so prev- 
alent among ('hristians, but one of the prin- 
cipal I take to be their utter forgetfulness 
lliat they have the word of God in their pos- 
session. 

My friend, Sir William Rus.sel, was dis- 
tantly related to a very accomplished man, 
who, though he never believed the Gospel, 
admired the Scriptures as the sublimest com- 
positions in the world, and read them often. 
1 have been intimate myself with a man of 
fine taste, who lias confessed to me that, 
though he could not subscribe to the truth 
of Christianity itself, yet he never could read 
St. Luke's account of our Saviour's ajjpear- 
ance to the two disciples going to Enimaus 
without being wonderfully affected by it, and 
he thought that, if the .stamp of divinity was 
anywhere to be found in Scripture, it was 
strongly marked and visibly impressed upon 
that passage. If these n,'n, whose hearts 
were chilled with the darkness of infidelity, 
could find such charms in the mere style of 
the Scripture, what must they find there 
whose eye penelr.ates deeper than the letter, 
.and who firmly believe themselves interested 
in all the valuable privileges of the Gospel ! 
" He that believeth on me is passed from 
death unto life," though it be as plain a sen- 
tence as words can form, has more beauties 
ill it for such a person than all the labors 
antiquity can boast of. If my poor man 



of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had 
searched a little further, he might have found 
other parts of the sacred history as strongly 
marked with the characters of divinitv, as 
that he mentioned. Tlie (larable of the prod- 
igal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever 
was invented ; our Saviour's speech to his 
disciples, vvitli which he closes his earthly 
ministration, full of the sublimest dignity, 
and tenderest affection : surpass everything 
that I ever read, and, like the Spirit by which 
they were dictated, lly directly to the heart. 
If the Scripture did not disdain all affectation 
of ornament, one .should call these, and such 
as the.se, the ornamental parts of it, but the 
m.atter of it is that upon which it principally 
stakes its credit with us, and the style, how- 
ever excellent and peculiar to itself, is the 
only one of those many external evidences 
by which it recommends itself to our belief. 
I shall be very much obliged to you for the 
book yon mention; you could not have sent 
me anything that would have been more wel- 
come, unless you had sent me your own med- 
itations instead of them. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

August 14th, 1765. 

Dear Joe, — Both Lady Hesketh and my 
brother had apprized iiie of your intention to 
give me a call ; and herein I find they were 
both mistaken. But they both informed me, 
likewise, that you were already set out for 
Warwickshire ; in consequence of which lat- 
ter intelligence, I have lived in continual ex- 
pectation of seeing you, any time this fort- 
night. Now, how tliese two ingenious per- 
sonages (for such they are both) should mis- 
take an expedition to French Flanders for a 
journey to Warwickshire, is more than I, 
with all my ingenuity, can imagine. I am 
glad, however, that I have still a chance of 
seeing you. and shall treasure it up amongst 
my agreeable expectations. In the meantime, 
you are welcome to the British shore, as the 
s<mg has it, and I thank you for your epitome 
of your travels. You don't tell me how you 
escaped the vigilance of the custom-house 
oflicers, though I dare say you were kiiiickle- 
decp in contrabands, and had your boots 
stuffed with _ all and all manner of unlawful 
wares and nierchandizes. 

You kno\s', Joe, I am very deep in debt to 
ray little physician at St. Albans, and that the 
handsomest thing I can do will be to pay him 
l" pluldt im'il sent possible (that is vile Frencli, 
I believe, but you can, now, correct it). My 
brother informs me that you have such a 
quantity of cash in your hands on my ac- 
count, that I ni.ay venture to send him forty 
pounds immediftcly. This, therefore, I shall 
* Private correspondence. 



36 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



be obliged if you will manage for me ; and 

when you receive tlie Inindred pounds, which 
my Ill-other lilicwise hrngs you are shortly to 
receive, I shall be glad if you will discharge 
the remainder of tliat debt, without waiting 
for any further advice from your humble 
servant. 

I am become a professed horseman, and do 
hereby assume to myself the style and title 
of the Knight of the Bloody Spur. It has 
cost me much to bring this point to bear ; 
but I tliink I have at last accompiislied it. 
My love to all your family. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, Auj]fiist 17, 1765. 

You told me, my dear cousin, that I need 
not fear writing too often, and you perceive 
I take you at your word. At present, how- 
ever, I shall do little more than tluink you 
for your Meditations, which I admire exceed- 
ingly ; the autlior of them manifestly loved 
the truth witli an uiidissemblcd aft'cction, had 
made great progress in the knowledge of it, 
and experienced all the happiness that natu- 
rally results from that noblest of all attain- 
ments. There is one circumstance which he 
gives us frequent occasion to observe in him, 
which I believe will ever be found in the 
philosophy of every true Christian. I mean 
the eminent rank which he assigns to faith 
among the virtues, as the source and piirent 
of them all. There is nothing more infalli- 
bly true than this : and doubtless it is with 
a view to the purifying and sanctifying ii.a- 
ture of a true faitli, that our Saviour says 
"He that belicveth in me hath everlasting 
life," with many other expressions to tlie 
same purpose. Considered in tliis light, no 
wonder it has the power of salvation ascribed 
lo it. Considered in any other, we must 
suppose it to operate like an oriental talis- 
man, if it obtains for us the least advantage ; 
which is an aflront to Him, wlio insists upon 
our having- it, and will on no other terms ad- 
mit us to Ills lavor. I nu>ntion this distin- 
guishing article in his Reflections, the rather 
because it serves for a solid foundation to 
the distinction I made in my last, between 
the specious professor .ind llie true believer, 
between him whose faith is lifs Sunday suit 
and him who never puts it off at all — a dis- 
tinction I am a little fearful sometimes of 
making, because it is a heavy stroke upon 
the practice of more than half the Cliristians 
in the world. 

My dear cousin, I told yon I read the book 
with great ])leasure, wliich may be accounted 
for from its oivn merit, but perhaps it pleased 
me the more because youAad tra^■elled the 
same road before mc. You know (here is 
no such pleasure as this, whicli would want 



great explanation to some folks, being per- 
haps a mystery to those whose hearts are a 
mere muscle, and serve only for the purposes 
of an even circulation. 

W. C. 



TO LADV HESKETH. 

Sept. 4th, 1765. 

Though I have some very agreeable ac- 
quaintance at Huntingdon, ray dear cousin, 
none are so agreeable as the arrival of your 
letters. I thank you for that which I have 
just received from Droxford, and particularly 
for that part of it, where you give me an un- 
limited liberty upon the subject I have al- 
ready so often written upon. Whatever in- 
terests us deeply, as naturally flows into the 
pen as it does from the lips, when every re- 
straint is taken away, and we meet with a 
friend indulgent enough to attend to us. 
How many, in all that variety of characters 
with whom I am acquainted, coidd I find, 
after the strictest search, to wliom I could 
write a* I do to you? I hope the number 
will increase : I am sure it cannot easily be 

diminished. Poor ! I have heard the 

whole of his history, and can only lament 
what I am sure I can make no apology for. 
Two of my friends have been cut olf, during 
my illness, in the midst of such a life as it is 
frightful to reflect upon, and here am I, in 
better health and spirits than I can almost 
remember to Iiave enjoyed before, after hav- 
ing spent months in the apprehension of in- 
stant death. How mysterious are the ways 
of Providence ! Why did I receive grace 
and mercy 1 Why was I preserved, afllicted 
for my good, received, as I trust, into favor, 
and blessed with the greatest happiness I can 
ever know, or hope for, in this life, while 
these were overtaken by the great arrest, un- 
awakencd, unrcpenting, and every way un- 
prepared for it? His infinite wisdom, to 
whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve 
these questions, and none besides him. If a 
freethinker, as many a man miscalls himself, 
could be brought to give a serious answer 
to them, he would certainly say, "Without 
dmilit. Sir, you were in great danger; you 
had a narrow escape ; a most fortuitate one, 
indeed." How excessively foolisli, as well 
as shocking ! As if life depended upon luck, 
and all that we are or can be, all tluat we have 
or hope for, could possibly be rel'erred to ac- 
cident. Yet to this freedom of thought it is 
owing that He, who, as our Saviour tells u.s, 
is thoroughly apprized of the death of the 
meanest of his creatures, is supposed to leave 
tliose, whom he has made in his own image, 
to the mercy of clumce : and to this therefore 
it is likewise owing, that the correction which 
our Heavenly rather bestows upon us, that 
we may be fitted to receive his blessing, is so 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



37 



often (lis.ippoiiited of its benevolent intention, 
:iiid that iiH-n despise the ch.istening of the 
Ahniijhty. Fevers and all diseases are aeei- 
dents, and long life, recovery at least from 
sickness, is the gift of the physician. No 
man can be a greater friend to the use of 
means upon these occasions than myself, for 
it were ])resuinption and enthusiasm to neg- 
lect them, (icid has endued them with .salu- 
tary |)r()perties on purpose that we might 
avail ourselves of them, otherwise that part 
of his creation were in vain. Hut to impute 
our recovery to the medicine, and to carry 
our views no further, is to rob God of his 
honor, and is saying in effect that he has 
parted with the keys of life and death, and, 
by giving lo a drug the power to heal us, has 
placed our lives out of his own reach. He 
that thinks thus, may as well fall upon his 
knees at once, and return thanks to the nu'- 
dicine that cured him, for it was certainly 
more instrumental in his recovery than cither 
the apothecary or the doctor. Jly dear cous- 
in, a tirm persuasion of the superintendence 
of Providence over all our concerns is abso- 
lutely necessary to our happiness. Without 
it, we cannot be said to believe in the Scrip- 
ture, or practise anything like resignation to 
his will. If I am convinced lliat no affliction 
can befall nie without the permission of God, 
I am convinced likewise that he sees and 
knows that I am afflicted; believing this, I 
must, in the same degree, believe that if 1 
pray to him for deliverance he hears me ; I 
must needs know likewise, with equal assur- 
ance, that if he hears he will also deliver me, 
if that will upon the whole be most condu- 
cive to my liapi)iness; and, if he does not de- 
liver me, 1 may be well assured that he has 
none but the most benevolent intention in 
declini[ig it. He made us, not because we 
could add to his hapi)incss, which w.as always 
perfect, hut that we might be happy ourselves; 
and will he not, in all his disi)ensations to- 
wards us, even in the minutest, consult that 
end for which he made us .' To suppose the 
contrary, is (whieli we are not always aware 
of) aflronting every one of his attributes ; 
and, at the same time, the certtiin conse- 
quence of disbelieving his care for ns is that 
we rcn<)unc(! utterly our dependence upon 
him. In this view it will appear plainly that 
the line of duty is not stretched too tight, 
when we are told that we ought to accept 
everything at his hands as a blessing, and to 
be thankful even while we smart under the 
rod of iron, with which he sometimes rules 
us. Without this persuasion, every bless- 
ing, however we may think ourselves hajipy 
in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and 
every affliction is intolerable. Death itself 
musl be welcome to him who has this fiith, 
and he who has it not must aim at it, if he is 
not a madman. Vou cannot think how glad 



I am to hear you are going to commence 
lady, and mistress of Freemantle.* I know 
it well, and could go to it from Soulhamj)ton 
blindfold. You are kind to invite me to it, 
and 1 shall be so kind to myself as to accept 
the invitation, tlinngh I should not, for a 
slight consideration, he prevailed upon to 
quit my beloved retirement at Huntingdon. 
Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY IIESKETH. 

Huntingdon, St'pl. 14, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — The longer I live here, 
the better I like the place, and the peo])le who 
belong to it. I am u\mn very good terms 
with no less than five families, besides two 
or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. 
The last acquaintance I made here is with 
the race of the IJiiwins, consisting of father 
and mother, son and (hiughter, the most com- 
fortable, social folks you ever knew. The 
son is about twenty-one years of age, one of 
the most unreserved and amiable young men 
I ever conversed with. He is not yet arrived 
at that time of life when suspicion recom- 
mends itself to us in the form of wisdom, 
and sets everything hut our own dear selves 
at an immeasurable ilislance from our esteem 
and confidence. Consequently, he is known 
almost as soon as seen, and, having notliing 
in his heart that makes it necessary for him 
to keep it barred and bolted, opens it to the 
])erusal even of a stranger. The father is a 
clergyman, and the son is designed tor orders. 
The design however is {|uite his own, proceed- 
ing merely from his being, and having always 
been, sincere in his belief and love of the Gos- 
pel. Another acquaintance I have lately made 
is with a JMr. Nicholson, a north-country di- 
viiu", very poor, but very good, and very 
happy. He reads prayers here twice a-day, 
all the year rofnd, an<l travels on foot to 
serve two churches every Sunday through 
the year, his journey out and home again 
being si.\teen miles. I supped with him la.st 
night. He gave me bread and cheese, and a 
black jug of ale of his own brewing, and 
doubtless brewed by his own hands. An- 
other of my acquaintance is Mr. , a thin, 

tall, old man, and as good as he is thin. He 
drinks nothing but water, and cats no flesh, 
partly (I believe) from a religious scruple 
(for he is very religions), and partly in the 
spirit of a valetudinarian. He is to be met 
with every morning of his life, at about si.\ 
o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, 
about a mile from the town, which is reck- 
oned c.vtrcanely like the Bristol spring. Being 
both early ri.ser.s, and (he only early walkers 
in the place, we soon became acquainted. 
His great pietv can be equalled by nothing 

* FrceraauUc, a villa near Soulharaploo. 



38 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



but his gre:it regularity ; for he is the most 
IX'rfi'ot limepiei^e in the world. I have re- 
ceived a visit likewise from Mr. . He is 

very iiuieli a gentleiiKin, well-read, and sensi- 
ble! I am persuaded, in short, that if I had 
liad trie choice of all England where to fix 
my abode, I could not have chosen better for 
myself, and most likely I should not have 
chosen so well. 

Vou say, you hope it is not necessary for 
salvation to undergo the same afflictions that 
I have undergone. No ! my dear cousin, God 
deals with his children as a merciful father ; 
lie does not, as he himself tells us, afflict wil- 
lingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are 
many, who, having been placed by his good 
ju-ovidence out of the reach of any great evil 
and the iiiHuence of bad example, have, from 
their very infancy, been partakers of the grace 
of his Holy Spirit, in such a manner as never 
to have allowed themselves in any grievous 
offence against him. May you love him more 
and more, day by day, as every day, while 
you think upon him, you will hud him more 
"worthy of your love; and may you be finally 
accepted by him for his sake whose interces- 
sion for all his faithful servants cannot but, 
prevail! Yours ever, 

W. C. 



I commend you, with earnest wishes for your 
welfare, and remain your ever affectionate 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. 

My dear Cousin, — I should grumble at 
your long silence, if I did not know that one 
may love one's friends very well, thougli one 
is not always in a humor to write to them. 
Besides, I have the satisfaction of being per- 
fectly sure that you have at least twenty times 
recollected the debt you owe me, and as often 
resolved to pay it: and perhaps, while you 
remain indebted to me, you think of me twice 
as often as you would do if Wie account was 
clear. These are the reflections with which I 
comfort myself under the .iffliction of not 
hearing from you ; my temper does not in- 
cline me to jealousy, and, if it did, I should 
set all right by having recourse to what I 
have already received from you. 

I thank God for your friendship, and for 
every friend I have : for all the pleasing cir- 
cumstances here ; for my health of body, and 
])erfeet serenity of mind. To recollect the 
past, and compare it with the present, is all I 
have need of to fill me with gratitude ; and 
to be grateful is to be happy. Not that I 
think myself sufficiently thankful, or that I 
ever shall he so in this life. The warmest 
heart perhaps only feels by fits, and is often 
as insensible as the coldest. This at least is 
frequently the ease with mine, and oftener 
than it should be. But the mercy that can 
forgive iniquity will never be severe to mark 
our frailties; to that mercy, my dear cousin, 



TO LADY UESKETH. 

Huntingdon, Oct. ]8, I7C5. 
I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being 
safely arrived in port from the storms of 
Southampton. Tor my own part, who am 
but as a Thames wherry, in a world full of 
tempest and commotion, I know so well the 
value of the creek I have put into, and the 
snugness it affords me, that I have a sensible 
spmpathy with you in the pleasure you find 
in being once more blown to Droxford. I 
know enough of Miss Morley to send her my 
compliments, to which, if 1 had never seen 
her, her affection for you would sufficiently 
entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, 
it is only because I am naturally apt to neg- 
lect what I ought to do ; and if I was as 
genteel as I am negligent, I should be the 
most delightful creature in the univer.se. I 
am glad you think so favorably of my Hunt- 
ingdon acquaintance ; they are indeed a nice 
set of folks, and suit me exactly. I should 
have been more particular in hiy account of 
Miss Unwin, if I had had materials for a mi- 
nute description. She is about eighteen years 
of age, rather liandsome and genteel. In her 
mother's company she says little, not because 
her mother requires it of her, but because she 
seems glad of that excuse for not talking, be- 
ing somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There 
is the most remarkable cordiality between all 
the parts of the family, and the mother and 
daugliter seem to doat upon each otiier. The 
first time I went to the house, I was intro- 
duced to the daughter alone ; and sat with 
her near half an hour before her brother came 
in, who had appointed me to call upon him. 
Talking is necessary in a tele-a-leU; to distin- 
guish the persons of the drama from the 
chairs they sit on: accordingly, she talked a 
great deal, and extremely well ; and, like the 
rest of the family, behaved with as mucli case 
and address as if we had been old acquaint- 
ance. She resembles her mother in her gre:it 
piety, who is one of the most remarkable in- 
stances of it I have ever seen. They are alto- 
gether the checrfullest and most engaging 
family-piece it is possible to conceive. Since 
I wrote the above, I met Mrs. Unwin in the 
street, and went home with her. She and I 
walked together near two hours in the gar- 
den, and had a eonver.sation which did me 
more good than I should have received from 
an audience of the first prince in Europe. 
That woman is a blessing to me, and I never 
see her without being the better for her com- 
pany. I am treated in the family as if I was 
a near relation, and have been repeatedly in- 
vited to call upon them at all times. You 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



39 



know wluit a shy fellow I am ; I cannot pre- 
vail witli myself to make so much use of this 
privile^'e as I am sure they intend I should, 
but perhaps this awkwardness will wear off 
hereafter. It was my earnest request before 
I left St. Alban's, that wlierever it might 
please I'rovidenee to dispose of me, I miirht 
meet with such an aecjuaintance as I find in 
Mr.s. IJnwiii. IIiiw happy it is to believe, 
with a steadfast assurance, that our petitions 
are heard, even while we are making tlietn ! 
— and how deliijhtful to meet with a proof 
of it in the effectual and actual grant of 
them ! Surely it is a gracious finishing given 
to those means which the Almighty has been 
pleased to make use of for my conversion. 
After having been deservedly re[idered unfit 
for any society, to be again qualified for it, 
and admitted at once into the fellowship of 
those whom God regards as the excellent of 
the earth, and whom, in the empliatical lan- 
guage of SiM'ipture, he preserves as the apple 
of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with 
it the stamp and visible superscription of di- 
vine bounty — a grace unlimited as unde- 
served; and, like its glorious Author, free in 
its course, and blessed in its ojieration ! 

My dear cousin ! health and liappiness, 
and, above all, tlie favor of our great and 
gracious Lord attend you ! while we .seek it 
in spirit and in truth we are infinitely more 
secure of it than of the ne.vt breath we ex- 
pect to ilraw. Heaven and earth have their 
destined ])eriods ; ten thousand worlds will 
vanish at the consummation of all things ; 
but the word of God standelh fast, and they 
who trust in him shall never be confounded. 

My love to all who inquire after me. 

Yours affectionately, VV. C. 



TO MAJOR COWPER. 

HunlinKdon, Oct. 18, 1765. 
My dear Major, — I have neither lost the 
use of my fingers nor my memory, though 
my unaccountable silence might ijicline you 
to suspect that I had lost both. The history 
of those things which have, from time to 
time, prevented ray .scribbling would not only 
be insipid, but extremely voluminous, for 
which reasons they will not make their ap- 
pearance at present, nor probably at any 
time hereafter. If my neglecting to write to 
you were a proof that I had never thought of 
you, and that had been really the case, live 
shillings apiece would have been much too 
little to give for the sight of such a monster! 
but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive 
in myself the least tendency to such a transi- 
formation. Vou may recollect that I had 
but very uncomfortable oxpeet;itions of the 
accommodations I should meet with at Hun- 
tingdon. How much better is it to take our 



lot where it shall please Providence to cast it 
without anxiety ! had I chosen for myself, it 
is impossible I could have fixed upon a place 
so agreeable to me in all respects. I so 
much dreaded the thought of having a new 
acquaintance to make, with no other recom- 
mendation than that of being a perfect 
stranger, that I heartily wished no creature 
here might take the least notice of me. lii- 
stead of which, in about two months after 
my arrival, I bec.nne known to all the visita- 
ble people here, and do verily think it the 
most agreeable neighborhood I ever saw. 

Here are three families who have received 
me with the utmost civility, and two in par- 
ticular have treated me with as much cor- 
diality as if their pedigree and mine had 
grown upon the same sheep-skin. Besides 
these, there are three or four single men, 
who suit my temper to a hair. The town is 
one of the neatest in England; the country 
is fine for sever.d miles about it ; and thi; 
roads, which are all turnpike, and strike out 
four or five different ways, are perfectly 
good all the year round. I mention this 
latter circumstance chiefiy because my dis- 
tance from Cambridge has made a horseman 
of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. 
My brother and I meet every week, by an 
alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam 
Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get 
a lift in a neighbor's chaise, but generally 
ride. As fo my own [K^rsonal condition, I 
am much happier than the day is long, and 
sunshine and c mdle-light alike see me per- 
fectly contented. I get books in abundance, 
as much company as I choose, a deal o( cnm- 
fiirlable leisure, and enjoy better health, I 
think, than for many years past. What is 
there wanting to make me happy ? No- 
thing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought, 
and I trust that He, who has bestowed so 
many blessings upon me, will give me grati- 
tude to crown them all. I beg you will give 
my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to 
everybody at the I'ark. If Mrs. Maitland is 
with yon, as I suspect by a passage in Lady 
Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to 
her very affectionately. And believe me, my 
dear friend, ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

October 25, 17M. 

Dear Joe, — I am afraid the month of Oc- 
tober has proved rather unfavorable to the 
belle assembli'e at Southampton, high winds 
and continual rains being bitter enemies to 
that agreeable lounge which you and I arc 
erpially fond of I hav(^ very cordially be- 
taken myself to my books and my fireside; 
and seldom le;jve them unless for exercise. 
I have added another family to the number 



40 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of those I was acquainted with when you 
were here. Theirname isUnwin — the nio.st 
.agi'eeable people imaginable ; quite sociable, 
and as free from the ceremonious civility of 
country gentle-folks as any I ever met with. 
They treat me more like a near relation than 
a stranger, and their house is always open 
to me. The old gentleman carries me to 
Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of 
learning and good sense, and a.s simple as 
Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncom- 
mon understanding, has read much, to excel- 
lent purpose, and is more polite than a duch- 
ess. The son, who belongs to Cambridge, 
is a most amiable young man, and the daugh- 
ter quite of a piece wiih the rest of th(^ fam- 
ily. They see but little company, which 
suits me exactly ; go when I will, I find a 
hou.se full of peace and cordiality in all its 
parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but 
such di.scourse instead of it as we are all 
better for. Von remember Rousseau's de- 
scription of an English morning ;* such are 
the mornings I spend with these good peo- 
ple, and the evenings differ from them in no- 
thing, except that they are still more snug 
and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder 
that I liked Huntingdon so well before I 
knew them, and am apt to think I should 
find every place disagreeable that had not an 
Unwin belonging to it. 

This incident convinces me of the truth of 
an observation I have often made, that when 
we circumscribe our estimate of all that is 
clever within the limits of our own acquaint- 
ance (which I at least have been always apt 
to do) we are guilty of a very uncharitable 
censure upon the rest of the world, and of a 
narrowness of thinking disgraceful to our- 
selves. VVapping and Redriff' may contain 
some of the most amiable persons living, and 
such as one would go to Wapping and Red- 
rilf to make, acquaintance with. Vou re- 
member Gray's stanza, 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
The deep unfathomM caves oi' ocean bear: 
full many a rose is Ijorn to blush unseen, 
.\nd waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

Yours, dear Joe, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Nov. 5, 17G5. 

Dear Joe, — I wrote to you about ten days 
ago, 

Soliciting a ^ick return of gold. 

To purchase certain horse that Ukes me well. 

Either my letter or your answer to it, I fear, 
has miscarried. The former, I ho])e ; be- 
cause a miscarriage of the latter might be 
attended with bad consequences. 
* Seo hie Eniilius. t Private correspondence. 



I find it impossible to proceed any longer 

in my present course without danger of 
bankruptcy. I have therefore entered inlo 
an agreement with the Rev. Mr. Unwin to 
lodge and board with him. The family are 
the' most agreeable in the world. They live 
in a special good house, and in a very gen- 
teel way. They are all exactly wh.at I 
would wish them to be, and I know I sluxll 
be as happy with then; as I can be on this 
side of the sun. I did not dream of this 
matter till about five days ago : but now the 
whole is settled. I shall transfer myself 
thither as soon as I have satisfied all de- 
mands upon me here. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.^ 

Nov. 8, 1765. 

Dear 'Sephus, — Notwithstanding it is so 
agreeable a thing to read law lectures to the 
students of Lyons' Inn,t especially to the 
reader himself, I must beg leave to waive it. 
Danby Pickering must be the happy man ; 
and I heartily wish him joy of his deputy- 
ship. As to the treat, I think if it goes be- 
fore the lecture, it will bo apt to blunt the 
apprehension of the students ; and, if it 
comes after, it may erase from their memo- 
ries impressions so newly made. I could 
wish therefore, that, for their benefit and be- 
hoof, this circumstance were omitted. But, 
if it be absolutely necessary, I hope Mr. 
Salt, or whoever takes the conduct of it, will 
see that it be managed with the frugality and 
temperance becoming so learned a body. I 
shall be obliged to you if you will present 
my respects to Mr. Treasurer Salt, and ex- 
press my concern at the same time that he 
had the trouble of sending me two letters 
upon this occasion. The iirst of them never 
came to hand. 

I shall be obliged to you if you will tell 
me whether my exchequer is full or empty, 
and whether the revenue of last year is yet 
come in, that I may proportion my payments 
to the exigencies of my affair.s. 

My dear 'Sephus, give my love to your 
family, and believe me much obliged to you 
for your invitation. At present I am in such 
an unsettled condition, that I can think of 
nothing but laying the foundation of my fu- 
ture abode at Unwin's. My being admitted 
there is the effect of the great good nature 
and friendly turn of that family, who, I have 
great reason to believe, are as desirous to do 
me service as they could be after a much 
longer acquaintance. Let your next, if it 
comes a week hence, be directed to me there. 

The greatest part of the law-books are 

* Private correspondence. 

t Tlie office of readership to lliia society had been of 
fered to Cowper, but was declined by him. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



41 



those which Lord Cowper gave me. Those, 
and tlio very few which I bought myself, are 
all at the major's service. 

Strolie Puss's back the wrong w.ay, and it 
will put her in mind of her master. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKF.TH. 

Hnntingilon, March fi, nfifi. 

My dear Cousin, — I have for some time 
past imputed your silence to the cause which 
you yourself assii,'n for it, viz., to my change 
of situation ; and was even sagacious enough 
to .acconnt for the fre((uency of your letters 
to me while I lived alone, from your attention 
to me in a state of such solitude as schemed 
to make it an act of particular charily to write 
to me. I bless God for it, 1 was happy even 
then; solitude has nothing gloomy in it if 
the soul points upwards. St. Paul tells his 
Hebrew converts, " Ye are come (already 
come) to Jlount Sion — to an innumerable 
company of angels, to tlie general assembly 
of the first-born, which are written in heaven, 
aiul lo Jesus, the mediator of the new cove- 
nant." When this is the case, as surely it 
was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had 
never spoken it, tliere is an end of tlie melan- 
choly and dulness of life at once. You will 
not suspect me, my dear cousin, of a design 
to understand lliis passage literally. But 
tliis however it certainly means, that a lively 
faith is able to anticipate, in some measure, 
the joys of that heavenly society which the 
soul shall actually possess hereafter. 

Since I have changed my situation, I have 
found still greater cause of thanksgiving to 
the Father of all Mercies. The f.nuily with 
whom I live are Christians, and it has pleased 
the .\lmighty lo bring mo to the knowledge 
of tlieiu, that 1 may want no means of im- 
provement in that tetni)er and conduct which 
he is pleased to reipiire in all his servants. 

My dear cousin, one half of the Christian 
world would call this madness, fanaticism, 
and folly ; but are not these things warranted 
by the word of God, not only in the passages 
I have cited, but in many others ? If we have 
no communion with (iod here, surely we can 
expect none hereafter. A faith tiial does not 
place our conversation in heaven ; that does 
not warm the heart and purify it loo ; that 
does not, in short, govern our thought, word, 
and deed, is no faitli, nor will it obtain for us 
any spiritual blessing here or hereafter. Let 
us see therefore, my dear cou-in, that we do 
not deceive ourselves in a matter of such in- 
finite moment. The world will be ever tell- 
ing us that we are good eiuiugh, and the 
world will vilify us behind our backs. But 
it is not the world which tries the heart, that 
is the prerogative of God alone. My dear 



cousin, I have often prayed for you behind 
your back, and now I pray for you to your 
face. There are many who would not for- 
give me this wrong, but [ have known you 
so long and so well that I am not afraid of 
telling you how sincerely I wish for your 
growth in every Christian grace, in every- 
thing that nuiy jiromote and secure your 
everlasting welfare. 

I am obliged to iMrs. Cowper for the book, 
which, yon iierceive, arrived safe. I am will- 
ing to consider it as an intimation on her 
part, th.at she would wish me to write to 
her, and shall do it accordingly. Jly circum- 
stances are rather particidar, such as call upon 
my friends, tliosc, 1 mean, who are truly such, 
to take some little notice of me, and will natu- 
rally make tln)se who are not such in sincer- 
ity, rather sliy of doing it. To this 1 impute 
the silence of many with regard to me, who, 
before the affliction tluit befel me, were ready 
enough to converse with me. 

Yours ever, VV. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER.* 

Huntingdon, March 11, 17C6. 

My de.ar Cousin, — I am much obliged to 
you for Pearsall's Meditations, especially as 
it furnishes me with an occasion of w'riting 
to you, which is all 1 luive waited for. My 
friends must excuse me if I write to none 
but those who lay it fairly in my w-ay to do 
so. The inference I am .apt to draw from 
their silence is, tliat they wish mc to be si- 
lent too. 

I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be 
thankful to the gracious Providence tliat con- 
ducted me to this place. The lady, in whose 
house I live, is so excellent a person, and re- 
gards me with a friendship so truly Christian, 
that I could almost fancy my own nu)ther re- 
stored lo life again, to compensate lo me for 
all the friends I have lost, and all my con- 
nections broken. She has a son at Cam- 
bridge, in all riispects worthy of such a 
mother, the most amiable young man I ever 
knew. Ilis natural and acquirinl endowments 
are very considerable, and as to his virtues, I 
need only say th.at he is a Christian. It ought 
to be a. matter of daily thanksgiving to me 
that I am .admitted into the society of such 
persons, and I pray God to make me and 
keep me worthy of them. 

Your brother Martin has been very kind lo 
me, having written to ine twice in a style 
which, though it was once irksome to me, to 
say tlie least, 1 now know how to value. I 
pray God lo forgive me the many light things 
I have both saiii and thought of him and liis 
labors. Ilereafler I shall consider him as a 

» Thi- wife of Major Cmvpor, nnil sislcr of Iho Rev. 
Murtia .M.idun, minister of Luck Chapel. 



42 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



burning and a shining light, and as one of 
those wlio, having turned many to rigliteous- 
ness, shall shine hereafter as the stars forever 
and ever. 

So mneh for the state of my heart: as to 
my spirits, I am cheerful and happy, and, 
having peace with God, have peace with my- 
self. For the continuance ot tliis blessing I 
trust to Him who gives it, and they who trust 
in Him shall never be confounded. 
Yours affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPEK. 

Huntingdon, April 4, I7G6. 
My dear Cousin, — I agree with you that 
letters are not essential to friendship, but 
they seem to be a natural fruit of it, when 
they are the only intercourse that can be had. 
And a friendship producing no sensible effects 
is so like indifference, tliat the appearance 
may easily deceive even an acute disccrner. 
I retr.ict however all that I said in my last 
upon this subject, having reason to suspect 
that it proceeded from a principle which 1 
would discourage in myself upon all occa- 
sions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon 
a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much 
cause for humility, and so much need of it 
too, and every little sneaking resentment is 
such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never 
give quarter to anything that appears in the 
shape of sullenness or self-consequence here- 
after. Alas! if my best Friend, who laid 
down his life for me, were to remember all 
the instances in which I have neglected him, 
and to plead them against me in judgment, 
where should I hide my guilty head in the 
day of recompense 1 I will pray therefore 
for blessings upon my friends, though they 
cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though 
they continue such. The deceitfulness of 
the nat\iral heart is inconceivable ; I know 
well that I passed upon my friends for a per- 
son at least religiously inclined, if not actu- 
ally religious, and, what is more wonderful, 
I thought myself a Christian, when I had no 
faith in Christ, when I saw no beauty in him 
that I should desire him; in short, when I 
had neither faith, nor love, nor any Christian 
grace whatever, but a thousand seeds of re- 
bellion instead, evermore springing up in en- 
mity against him. But blessed be God, even 
the God who is become my salvation, the hail 
of affliction and rebuke for sin has swept 
away the refuge of lies. It pleased the Al- 
mighty, in great mercy, to set all my mis- 
deeds before me. At length, the storm being 
past, a quiet and peaceful serenity of soul 
succeeded, such as ever attends tlie gift of 
living faith in the all-sufficient atonement, and 
the sweet .sense of mercy and pardon pur- 
chased by the blood of Christ. Thus did he 



break me and bind me up, thus did he wound 
me and his hands made me whole. My dear 
Cousin, I make no apology for entertaining 
you with the history of niy conversion, be- 
cause I know you to be a Christian in the 
stcrliiig import of the appellation. This is 
liowcver but a very summary account of- the 
matter, neither would a letter contain the 
astonishing particulars of it. If we ever 
meet again in this world, I will relate them 
to you by word of mouth : if not, they will 
serve for the subject of a conference in the 
next, where I doubt not I shall remember and 
record them with a gratitude better suited to 
the subject. 

Yours, my dear Cousin, affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntiugdon, April 17, 1706. 

My dear Cousin, — As in matters unattain- 
able by reason and unrevealed in the Scrip- 
ture, it is impossible to argue at all ; so, in 
matters concerning which reason can only 
give a probable guess, and the Scripture has 
made no explicit discovery, it is, though nat 
impossible to argue at all, yet impossible to 
argue to any certain conclusion. This seems 
to me to be the very case with the point in 

question reason is able to form many 

plausible conjectures concerning the possi- 
bility of our knowing each other in a future 
state, and the Scripture has, here and there, 
favored us with an expression that looks at 
least like a slight intimation of it ; but be- 
cause a conjecture can never amount to a 
proof, and a sliglit intimation cannot be con- 
strued into a positive assertion, therefore, I 
think, we can never come to any absolute 
conclusion upon the subject. We may, in- 
deed, reason about the plausibility of our 
conjectures, and we m.ay discuss, with great 
industry and shrewdness of argument, those 
passages in the Scripture which seem to fa- 
vor the opinion ; but still, no certain means 
having been afforded us, no certain end can 
be attained; and, after all that can be said, it 
will still be doubtful whether we shall know 
each other or not. 

As to arguments founded upon human 
reason only, it would be easy to muster up 
a much greater number on the artirmati\'C 
side of the question than it would be worth 
my while to write or yours to read. Let us 
see, therefore, what the Scripture says, or 
seems to say, towards the proof of it; and 
of this kind of argument also I shall insert 
but a few of those, which seem to me lo be 
the fairest and clearest for the purpose. 
For, after all, a disputant on either side of 
this question, is in danger of that censure of 
our blessed Lord's, " Ye do err, not knowing 
the Scripture, nor the power of God." 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



43 



As to parables, I know it has been said in 
the dispute eoni'cniing the intermediate state 
th:it they are not argmiicitative ; but, this 
havini^ been con:roverled by very wise and 
goo.l men. an<l the par.ibh; of Dives and La- 
zarus havinj,' been u.-.ed by sueh to prove an 
intermediate slate, I see not why it may not 
he as fairly used for the proof of any other 
matter wliich it seems fairly to imply. In 
this p.irabK" we see that Dives is represented 
as kiiowin-; I/izarus, and Abraham as know- 
ing' them hoili. and the discourse between 
them is entirely coiicer:iing their respeetive 
eliiraeters and eireumstances upon earth. 
Here, therefore, our Saviour seems to eoun- 
tenauee the notion of a mutual knowledge 
and reeolleetion ; and, if a soul that has per- 
ished shall know the soul that is saved, surely 
the heirs of salvation shall know and reeol- 
lect caeh other. 

In the first epistle to the Thessalonians, 
the seeond chapter, and nineteenth verse. 
Saint Haul says, " What is our hope, or joy, 
or erown of rejoieing ! Are not even ye in 
the presence of our Ijord Jesus Christ at his 
coming? For ye are our glory and our joy." 

As to the hopewliieh the apo.stle had formed 
coneerning them, he him.self refers the accom- 
plishment of it to the coming of Christ, mean- 
ing that then he should receive the rccom- 
penee of his labors in their behalf; his joy 
and glory he refers likewise to tlie same pe- 
riod, both whicli Would result from the sight 
of such numbers redeemed by the blessing 
of God upon his ministr ilion, when he should 
present them before the great Judge, and say, 
in the words of a greater than himself, "Lo! 
I and the children whom thou hast given 
me." This seems to imply tliat the apostle 
should know the converts, and the converts 
the apostle, at least at the day of judgment, 
and, if then, why not afterwards ? 

See also the fourth chiipter of th.at epistle, 
verses 13, H, Ui, which 1 have not room to 
transcribe. Here the apostle comforts them 
under their affliction for their deceased breth- 
ren, exhorting them " not to sorrow as with- 
out hope ;" and what is the hope, by which 
he teaches them to support their spirits! 
Even this, '-That them which sleep in Jesus 
sluill God bring with hira." In other words, 
and by a f.iir paraphrase surely, telling them 
they are only taken from them for a season, 
and that they should receive them at their 
resurrection. 

If you can take off the force ofthe.se texts, 
my dear cousin, you will go a great way to- 
wards shaking my opinion: if not, I think 
they must go a great way towards .shaking 
your.". 

The reason why I did not .send you ray 
opinion of I'ear.sall wa.s, because I had not 
then read him ; I have read liim .since, and 
like him much, especially the latter part of 



him ; but you have whetted my curiosity to 
see the hi.st letter by tearing it out; unless 
you can give me a good reason why 1 should 
not see it, I sliall incpiire for the book the 
Hr.st time I go to Cambridge. Perhaps I 
may be partial to Hervey for the sake of his 
other writings, but I cannot give I'earsall the 
preference to him, for I think him one of the 
most scriptural writers in the world. 

Yours, VV. C. 



TO IVIRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, April 18, 17Cfi. 

My dear Cousin, — Having gone as f.ir as I 
thought needful to justify ihe opinion of our 
meeting and knowing each other hereaficr, 1 
find upon reflection that I have done but half 
ray business, and that one of the questions 
you proposed remains entirely unconsidered, 
viz.," VVhether the things of our present state 
will not be of too low and mean a Mature lo 
engage our thoughts or make a part of our 
comnuinications in heaven." 

The common and ordinary occurrence's of 
life, no doubt, and even the ties of kindred 
and of all temporal interests, will be entirely 
discarded from amongst that happy society, 
and, possibly, even the remembrance of them 
done away. But it does not therefore follow 
that our spiritual concerns, even in this life, 
will be forgotten, neither do I think, that they 
can ever appear trilling to us, in any the rao.st 
distant period of eternity. God, as you s'ly, 
in reference to the Scripture, will be all in 
all. But does not that expression mean that, 
being admitted to so near an approach to our 
heavenly Father and Redeemer, our whole 
nature, the soul, and all its faculties, will bo 
employed in prai.sing and adoring him? 
Doubtless, however, this will be the case, 
and if so, will it not furni.sh out a glorious 
theme of thanksgiving to recollect "the rock 
whence we were hewn, and the hole of the 
pit whence we were digged .'" — to recollect 
the time, when our faith, which, under the 
tuition and nurture of the Holy Spirit, has 
produced such a plentiful harvest of immor- 
tal bliss, was as a grain of mustard seed, 
small in itself, promising but little fruit, and 
producing less! — to recollect the various at- 
tempts that were made upon it, by the world, 
the flesh, and the devil, and its various tri- 
umphs over all, by the assistance of God, 
through our Lord Jesus Christ! At present, 
whatever our convictions may be of the sin- 
fulness and corruption of our nature, we can 
n)ake but a very imperfect estimate either of 
our wealiucss or our guilt. Then, no doubt, 
we shall understand the full value of the won- 
derful salvation wrought out for us: and it 
seems reasonable lo suppose that, in order to 
form a just idea of our redemption, we shall 



ho able to form a just one of the danger we 
have escaped ; when we know how weak and 
frail we are, surely we sliall he more aljle to 
render due praise and honor to Ids strengtii 
wlio fought for us; when we know com- 
plelely the hatefulness of sin in the sight of 
God, and huw deeply we were tainted by it, we 
shall know how to value the blood by which 
we were cleansed as we ought. The twenty- 
four elders, in the fifth of the Revelations, 
give glory to God for their redemption out 
of every kindred, and tongue, and peophi, and 
nation. This surely implies a retrospect to 
their respective conditions upon earth, and 
that each remembered out of what particular 
kindred and nation he had been redeemed, 
and, if so, then surely the minutest circum- 
stance of their redemption did not escape 
their memory. They who triumph over the 
Beast, in the fifteenth chapter, sing the song 
of Moses, the servant of God ; and what was 
that song? A sublime record of Israel's de- 
liveranee'and the destruction of her enemies 
in tlie Red Sea, typical, no doubt, of the song 
which the redeemed in Sion shall sing to 
celebrate their own salvation and the defeat 
of their spiritual enemies. This again im- 
plies a recollection of the dangers they had be- 
fore encountered, and the supplies of strength 
and ardor they had, in every emergency, re- 
ceived from the great Deliverer out of all. 
These quotations do not, indeed, prove that 
their warfare upon earth includes a part of 
their converse with each other; but they prove 
that it is a theme not unworthy to be heard, 
even before the throne of God, and therefore 
it cannot be unfit for reciprocal communica- 
tion. 

But you doubt whether there is any com- 
munication between the blessed at all, nei- 
ther do I recollect any Scripture that proves 
it, or that bears ,iny relation to the subject. 
But reason seems to require it so peremp- 
torily, that a society without social inter- 
course seems to be a solecism and a contra- 
diction in terms ; and the inhabitants of those 
regions are called, you know, in Scripture, 
an innumerable cnnipani/, and an assembly, 
which seems to convey the idea of society as 
clearly as the word itself Human testi- 
mony weighs but little in matters of tins 
sort, but let it have all the weight it can. I 
know no greater names in divinity than 
Watts and Doddridge : tliey were both of 
this opinion, and I send you the words of 
the latter. 

" Our companions in plory may probably 
assist us by their wise and good observations, 
when we come to make the providence of God 
here upon earth, under the guidance and di- 
rection of our Lord Jesus Christ, the subject 
of our mutual converse." 

Thus, my dear cousin, I have spread out 
my reasons before you for an opinion, wliidi. 



whether admitted or denied, affects not the 
state or interest of our soul. iMay our Crea- 
tor, Redeemer, and Sanctifier, conduct us 
into his own Jerusalem, where there shall be 
no night, neither any darkness at all, where 
we shall be free, even from innocent error, 
and perfect in the light of the knowledge of 
God in tlie face of Je.sus Christ. 

Yours ftuthfully, \V. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

riuntiiigdon. Sept. 3, I7C6. 
My dear Cousin, — It is reckoned, you know, 
a great achievement to silence an opponent in 
disputation, and your silence was of so long 
a continuance, tliat I might well begin to 
please myself with the apprehension of hav- 
ing accomplished so arduous a matter. To 
be serious, however, I am not sorry that what 
I have said concerning our knowledge of 
each other in a future state has a little in- 
clined you to the affirmative. For though 
the redeemed of the Lord shall he nun; of 
being as happy in that state as infinite power 
employed by infinite goodness can make 
tliem, and therefore it may seem imtnateriid 
whether we shall, or .shall not, recollect each 
other hereafter ; yet our present happiness at 
least is a little interested in the questioti. A 
parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, 
feel a little heart-ache at the thought of an 
eternal separation from the objects of her 
regard ; atid not to know them when she 
meets them in another life, or never to meet 
them at all, amounts, though not altogether, 
yet nearly to the satne thing. Remctnher 
them, I think she needs must. To hear that 
they are happy, will indeed be no stnall addi- 
tion to her own felicity ; but to see thetu so 
will surely be a greater. Thus, at least, it 
appears to our present human apprehension ; 
consequently, therefore, to think th.tt, when 
we leave them, we lose them forever; that 
we must remain eternally ignorant whether 
they that were flesh of our flesh, and boni^ of 
onr hone, partake with us of celestial glory, 
or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, 
must shed a dismal gloom over all our pres- 
ent connections. For my own part, this 
life is sitch a momentary thing, and all its in- 
terests have so shrunk in my estimation, sii;ce, 
by the gr;ice of our Lord Jestts Christ, I be- 
came attentive to the things of another ; that, 
like a worm in the bud of all my friend-hips 
and affections, this very thought would eat 
out the heart of them all had I a thousand ; 
and were their date to terminate with this 
life, I think I should have no inclitiation to 
cultivate atid improve such a fugitive busi- 
ness. Yet friendship is necessary to (uir 
happiness here, and, built upon Christian 
principles, upon which only it can stand, is a 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



45 



thinj even of religious sanction — for what is 
that lovo wliifli the Holy Spirit, spenlcing by 
St. John, HO niueh ineulcates, but friendslii|i .' 
— the only love which de.sorves the name — a 
love wliieh e:in toil, and waloli, and deny it- 
self, and go to death for its brother. Worldly 
friendship.-i are a poor weed conijiired willi 
this, and even this union of .-ipirit in tlie bond 
of peaee would .suffer, in my mind at least, 
could I think it were only coeval with our 
earlldy mansions. It may possibly arii'ue 
great weakness in me, in lliis instance, to 
stand so much in need of future hopes to 
support me in the discharge of present duty. 
But so it is : I am far, I know, very far, from 
being perfect in Christian love or any other 
Divine attainment, and am therefore unwill- 
ing to forego whatever may help me in my 
progress. 

You are so kind as to inquire after my 
health, for which reason I must tell you, 
what otherwise would not be worth mention- 
ing, that 1 have lately been just enough in- 
disposed to convince nie that not only hu- 
man life in general, but mine in particular, 
hangs by a slender thread. I am stout 
enough in appearance, yet a little illness de- 
molishes me. I have had a severe shake, 
and the building is not so firm as it w.is. 
But I bless God for it, with all my heart. 
If the inner man be but strengthened, day 
by day, as I hope, under the retu'wing iuHu- 
ences of the Holy Ghost, it will be, no mat- 
ter how soon the outward is dissolved. He 
who has, in a manner, raised me from the 
dead, in a literal sense, has given me the 
grace, I trust, to be ready at the shortest 
notice to surrender up to him that life which 
I have twice received from him. Whether I 
live or die, I desire it may be to his glory, 
and it must be to my happines.s. I thank 
God that I have those amongst my kindred 
to whom I can write, without reserve, my 
sentiments upon this subject, as I do to yon. 
A letter upon any other subject is more in- 
sipid to me than ever my task was when a 
school-boy, and I say not this in vain glory, 
God forbid ! but to show you what the Al- 
mighty, whose name I am unworthy to men- 
tion, has done for me, the chief of sinners. 
Once he was a terror to me. and his service, 

\Yhat a weariness it was ! Now I can say, 

1 love him and his holy name, and am never 
so hai)py as when I s])eak of his mercies to 
me. Yours, dear Cousin, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWI'EI'.. 

HuDlin^don, Ocl. il, 171)0. 
My dear Cousin, — I am very sorry for 
poor Charles's illness, and hope you will 
soon have cause to thank God for his com- 
plete recovery. We have an epidemical 



fever in this country likewise, which leaves 

behuid it a continual sighing, almo.st to suffo- 
cation : not that I have seen any in.stance of 
it, for, blessed be God ! our family have 
hitherto escaped it, but such was the account 
I Inward of it this morning. 

I am obliged to you for the interest yon 
take in my welfare, and for your inquiring .so 
particularly after the maimer in which my 
time passes here. As to amu.sements, i 
mean what the world calls such, we have 
none : the place indeed swarms with them ; 
and cards and dancing are the professed 
business of almost all the genile inhabitants 
of Huntingdon. We refu.se to take part in 
them, or to be accessories to this way of 
murdering our time, and by so doing have 
ac(|uired the name of Methodi-sts. Having 
told yon how we do nal spend our time, I 
will nc.\t say how we do. We breakfast 
commonly between eight and nine ; till 
eleven, we read either the Scripture, or the 
sermons of some faithful preacher of those 
holy niy.steries ; at eleven, we attend divine 
service, which is ])erfurmcd here twice every 
day ; and from twelve to three we sci)arate, 
and amuse ourselves as wi: please. During 
that interval I either read in my own apart- 
ment, or walk, or ride, or work in the gar- 
den. We .seldom sit an hour after dinner, 
but if the weather permits adjourn to the 
garden, where, with iMrs. Unwin and her 
son, I \\!\\c generally the pleasure of relig- 
ions conversation till tea time. If it rains, or 
is too windy for walking, we either converse 
within doors, or sing some hymns of Mar- 
tin's collection, and, by flic help of Mrs. Un- 
win's h.arpsichord, make ii|) a toler.-ible con- 
cert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best 
and most musical perlbrmers. After tea we 
sally fi>rth to walk in goo<l e.Trnest. Mrs. 
Unwin is a good walker, and we have gener- 
ally travelled .about four miles before we see 
home ag.iin. When the days are short, we 
make this excursion in the former part of 
the day, between church-time and diinicr. 
At night we read and converse, as before, 
till supper, and commonly finish the evening 
either with hymns or a sermon ; and, last of 
all, the family are called to prayers. I need 
not tell you that such a life as this is con- 
sistent with the utmost cheerfulness ; ac- 
cordingly, we are all happy, and dwell to- 
gether in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin 
has almost a m.aternal affection for me, and 1 
have something very like a filial one for her, 
and her son and I an^ brother.s. Blessed be 
the (iod of our salvation for such compan- 
ions, and for such a life, above all for a heart 
to like it! 

I have had many anxious thoughts^ about 
t.-iking orders, and I believe every new con- 
vert is apt to think himself called upon for 
that purpose ; but it has pleased God, by 



46 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



means which there is no need to particular- 
ize, to give me full satisfaction as to the 
propriety of declining it: indeed, they who 
have the least idea of what I have suffered 
from the dread of public exhibitions will 
readily excuse my never attempting them 
hereafter. In the meantime, if it please llie 
Ahnighty, I may be an instrument of turning 
many to the truth, in a private way, and liope 
that my endeavors in this way have not been 
entirely unsuccessfuh Had I the zeal of 
Jloses, I should want an Aaron to be my 
spokesman. 

Yours ever, my dear Cousin, 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Huntingdon, March 11, 1767. 

My dear Cousin, — To find those whom I 
love, clearly and strongly persuaded of evan- 
gelical truth, gives me a pleasure superior to 
any this world can aiford me. Judge, then, 
whether your letter, in wliieh the body and 
substance of a saving faith is so evidently set 
forth, could meet with a lukewarm recep- 
tion at my hand.s, or be entertained with in- 
ditl'erence ! Would you know the true rea- 
son of my long silence '? Conscious that my 
religious principles are generally excepted 
against, and that the conduct they produce, 
wherever they are heartily maintained, is still 
more the object of disapprobation than those 
principles themselves, and remembering that 
I had made both the one and the other known 
to you, without having any clear assurance 
that our faith in Jesus was of the same 
stamp and character, I could not help think- 
ing it possible that you might disapprove both 
my sentiments and practice; that you might 
think the one un.supported by Scripture, and 
the other whimsical, and unnecessarily strict 
and rigorous, and consequently would be 
rather pleased with the suspension of a cor- 
respondence, which a difi'erent way of think- 
ing upon so momentous a subject as that we 
wrote upon was likely to render tedious and 
irksome to you. 

I have told you the truth from my heart; 
forgive me these injurious suspicions, and 
never imagine tliat I sliall hear troin you 
upon tills delightful theme without a real 
joy, or without prayer to God to prosper you 
in the way of his truth, his sanctifying and 
saving truth. The book you mention lies 
now upon my table. Marshall* is an 
old acquaintance of mine ; I Iiave both read 
him and heard him rend, with pleasure and 

edification. The doctrines he maintains are, 

• 

* "Marshall on Sanc.tification." This boolc is distin- 
^'uisliod l>y profound and enlarged views of the subject 
on which it treats. It was stroni^dy recommended by the 
pious Ilervey. whose testimony to its merits is prefixed to 
llie worli. 



under the influence of the Spirit of Christ, the 
very life of my soul and the soul of all my 
happiness ; that Jesus is a frescnl Saviour 
from the guilt of sin, by his most precious 
blood, and from the power of it by his Spirit ; 
tliat, corrupt and wretched in ourselves, in 
Ilini,and in Him imly,v,'e are complete ; that 
being united to Jesus by a lively faith, we 
have It solid and eternal interest in his obe- 
dience and sufferings to justify us before the 
face of our heavenly Father, and that all this 
inestimable treasure, the earnest of which is 
in grace, and its consummation in glory, is 
given, freely give?!, to us of God ; in short, 
that he hath opened the kingdom of heaven 
to all believers : these are the truths which, 
by the grace of God, shall ever be dearer to 
me than life itself; shall ever be placed next 
my heart, as the throne whereon the Saviour 
himself shall sit, to sway all its motions, and 
reduce that world of iniquity and rebellion to 
a state of filial and affectionate obedience to 
the will of the most Holy. 

These, my dear cousin, are the truths to 
which by nature we are enemies : they de. 
base the sinner, and exalt the Saviour, to a 
degree which the pride of our hearts (till 
almighty grace subdues them) is determined 
never to allow. May the Almighty reveal 
his Son in our hearts, continually, more and 
more, and teach us to increase in love to- 
wards him continually, for having given us 
the unspeakable riches of Christ. 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



TO MKS. COWPER. 

March U, 17G7. 

My dear Cousin, — I just add a line, by way 
of postscript to my last, to apprize you of 
the arrival of a very dear friend of mine at 
tlie Park, on Friday ne.xt, the son of Mr. 
Unwin, whom I have desired to call on you 
in his way from London to Huntingdon. If 
you knew him as well as I do, you would love 
him as much. But I leave the young man to 
speak for himself, which he is very able to do. 
He is ready possessed of an answer to every 
question you can possibly ask concerning mc, 
and kuo\\-s my whole s/ory from first to last. 
I give you this previous notice, because I 
know you are not fond of strange faces, and 
because I thought it would, in some degree, 
save him the pain of announcing himself. 

I am become a great florist and shrub-doc- 
tor. If the major can make up a small pack- 
et of seeds, that w'iU make a figure in a gar- 
den, where we have little else besides jessa^ 
mine and honeysuckle ; such a packet I mean 
its may be put into one's fob, I will promise 
to take great care of them, as I ought to 
value natives of the Park. They must not 
be such, however, as require great skill in the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



47 



management, for at present I have no skill to 
spare. 

I think Marshall one of the best writers, 
and Ihe most spiritual expositor of Scripture 
I ever read. I admire the streni,'th of his ;\r- 
^'uuK'ut, and the clearness of his reasonings, 
upon those parts of our most holy religion 
which are generally least understood (even 
by real Christians), as masterpieces of the 
kind. His section upon the union of the -soul 
with Christ is an instance of wliat I mean, in 
which he has .spoken of a most mysterious 
truth, with admirable perspicuity and with 
great good sense, making it all the while 
subservient to his main ])urport, of proving 
holiness to be the fruit and cflect of faith. 

I subjoin thus much upon that author, be- 
cause, though you desired my opinion of liim, 
I remember that in my last I rather left you 
to find it out by inference than expressed it, 
as I ought to have done. I never met with a 
man who understood the plan of salvation 
belter, or was more happy in explaining it. 

w. c. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Hun(ing<Ion, April 3, 1767. 

My de:u- Cousin, — -You sent my friend Un- 
win home to us charmed with your kind re- 
cepion of him, and with everything he saw 
at the Park. Slmll I once more give you a 
peep into my vile and deceitful heart? What 
motive do you think lay at the bottom of my 
conduct, when I desired him to call u[)(in 
you? I did not suspect, at first, that pride 
and vain-glory had any share in it, but (piick- 
ly after I had recommended the visit to him, 
I discovered in that fruitful soil the very root 
of the matter. You know 1 am a stratig<'r 
here: all such are .suspected characters, un- 
less they bring their credentials with them. 
To this moment, I believe, it is matter of 
speculation in the place whence I came and 
to whom I belong. 

Though my friend, you may suppose, be- 
fore I was admitted an inmate here, was sat- 
isfied that I was not a mere vagabond, and 
lias, since that time, received more convinc- 
ing proofs of my sponsibllilij, yet I could not 
re.-iist the opportunity of furnishing him with 
ocular demonstration of it, by introducing 
him to one of my most splendid connections ; 
that when he hears me caUed, " T/ial fdlnw 
Cuwper" which has happened heretofore, he 
may be able, upon umiuestionable evidence, 
to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve me 
from the weight of that opprobrious appella- 
tion. O Pride! Pride! it deceives with the 
subtlety of a serpent, and seems to walk 
erect, though it crawls upon the earth. How 
will it twist and twine itself about, to get 
from under the cross, which it is the glory 
of our Christian calling to be able to bear 



with patience and good will ! They who can 
guess at the heart of a strangei-, anil you espe- 
cially, who arc of a compassionate tempiu', 
will be more ready, periiaps, to excuse me, 
in this in.stance, than I can be to excuse my- 
self, lint, in good truth, it was abominable 
pride of heart, indignation, and vanity, and 
deserves no better name. How should such 
a creature be admitted into those pure and 
sinless mansions, where nothing shall enter 
that dclileth, did not the blood of Christ, ap- 
plied by the hand of faith, take away the 
guilt of sin, and leave no spot or stain be- 
hind it? Oh what continual need have I of 
an Almighty, All-sufHcient Saviour? I am 
glad you are acquainted so pari icularlij with 
all the circumstances of my story, for I know 
that your secrecy and discretion may be trust- 
ed with anything. A thread of mercy ran 
through all the intricate maze of those afflic- 
tive providences, so mysterious to myself at 
the time, and which must ever remain so to 
all who will not see what was the great de- 
sign of them; at the judgment-seat of Christ 
the whole shall be laid open. How is the 
rod of iron changed into a sceptre of love ! 

I thank you for the seeds; 1 have commit- 
ted some of each sort to the ground, whence 
they will spring up like so many mementoes 
to remind me of my friends at tlie Park. 

w. c. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

June IG, 17G7. 
Dear Joe, — This part of the world is not 
productive of much news, unless the coldness 
of the weather be so, which is excessive for 
the sea.son. We expect, or rather experience 
a \\arm contest between the candidates for 
the county ; the preliminary movements of 
bribery, thre.-itening, and drunkeimess, being 
already taken. The Sandwich interest seems 
to shake, though both parties are very san- 
guine. Lord Carysfort is su])posed to be in 
great jeopardy, though as yet, 1 iin.agine, a 
clear jiidgmejit cannot be formed; for a man 
may have all the noise on his side and yet 
lose his election. You know me to be an 
uninterested person, and I am sure I am a 
very ignorant one in things of this kind. I 
only wish it was over, for it occasions the 
most detestable scene of profligacy and riot 
that can be imagined. 

Yours ever, VV. C. 



TO MRS. COWTER. 

Hunlinsdon, .Inly IS, 1767. 
My dear Cousin, — The newspaper has told 
you the truth. Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung 
irora his horse as he was going to his church 

* Private correspondence. 



48 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



on Sunday morning, received a dreadful frac- 
ture on tlie back part of the skull, under 
which he languished till Thursday evening, 
and then died. This awful dispensation has 
left an impression upon our spirits which will 
not be presently worn oft". He died in a poor 
cottage, to which he was carried immediately 
after his fall, about a mile from home, and his 
body could not be brought to his house till 
the spirit was gone to him w'ho gave it. May 
it be a lesson to us to watch, since we know- 
not the day, nor the hour, when our Lord 
Cometh ! 

The effect of it upon my circumstances will 
only be a cliange of the place of my abode. 
For I shall .still, by God's leave, continue 
with Mrs. Unwin, whose behavior (o me has 
always been that of a mother to a son. We 
know not where we shall settle, but we trust 
that the Lord, whom we seek, will go before 
us and prepare a rest for us. We have em- 
ployed our friend Havveis,* Dr. Conyers,t of 
Helmslcy, in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton, of 
Olney, to look out a place for us, but at pres- 
ent are entirely ignorant under which of the 
three we shall settle, or whether under either. 
I have written to my aunt IMadan, to desire 
Martin to assist us with his inquiries. It is 
probable we sliall stay here till Michaelmas. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

July IC, I7G7. 

Dear Joe, — Your wishes that the news- 
paper may have misinformed you are vain. 
Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner 
there mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sun- 
day morning he was in perfect health, and as 

* Dr. H.iwfis was a leadin:; character in the religious 
Wftrld nl tlii< linif. and sul.srqucntly the superintendent 
nt I.ady l)uiiini'.^diiiiV eliai.tds, and of the Seminary for 
t^ludellis luundi-d by thai lady. His principal works are 
a "Commentary on the Uible," and "History of the 
Church." 

t Dr. Conyers. The circumstances attending the death 
of lliis truly pious and eminent servant of God are too 
atli-rtinf,' nut In be deemed worthy of being recorded. 
He had ascendeil the pulpit of St. Paul's, Deptford, of 
which he was rector, and had just delivered his text, 
" Ye shall see my face no more," when he was seized 
with a sudden faiiiting, and fell back in his pulpit : he re- 
covered, however, suiiiciently to j)roceed with his ser- 
mon, and to give the concluding blessing, when he again 
fainted away, was carried home, and expired without a 
groan, in the sixty-second year of his age, 1786. The 
affecting manner of his death is thus happily adverted to 
in the following beautiful lines: — 

Sent by their Lord on purposes of grace. 

Thus angels do his will, and see his face ; 

With outspread wings they stand, prepar'd to soar. 

Declare Iheir message, and are seen no more. 

Underneath is a Latin inscription, of which the follow- 
ing is the translation. 

i have sinned. 

I repented. I believed. 

I have loved. I rest. 

I shall ripe again. 

And, by the grace of Christ, 

Ilowever unworthy, 

1 shall reign. 



likely to live twenty years as either of us, 
and before ten was stretched speechless and 
senseless upon a flock bed, in a poor cottage, 
where (it being impossible to remove him) 
he died on Thur.-day evening. I heard his 
dying groans, the effect of great agony, for 
lie was a strong man, and much convulsed in 
his last moments. The few short intervals 
of sense that were indulged him he spent in 
earnest prayer, and in expressions of a firm 
trust and confidence in the only Saviour. To 
that stronghold we must all resort at last, if 
we would have hope in our death ; when 
every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to 
the only shelter to which we can repair to 
any purpose ; and hajipy is it for us, wdien, 
the fttlse ground we have chosen for our- 
selves being broken under us, we find our- 
selves obliged to have recourse to the rock 
which can never be shaken ; when this is our 
lot, we receive great and undeserved mercy. 
Our society will not break up, but we shall 
settle in some other place, where, is at present 
uncerlain. 

Yours, W. C. 



These tender and confidential letters de- 
scribe, in the clearest light, the singularly 
peaceful and devout life of this amiable writ- 
er, during his residence at Huntingdon, and 
the melancholy accident which occasioned 
his removal to a distant county. Time and 
providential circumstances now introduced 
to the notice of Cowper, the zealous and 
venerable friend who became his intimate 
associate for many years, after having ad- 
vised and assisted him in the important con- 
cern of fi.xing his future residence. The 
Rev. John Newton, then curate of Olney, in 
Buckinghamshire, had been requested by the 
lale Dr. Conyers (who, in taking his degree 
in divinity at Cambridge, had formed a friend- 
ship with young Mr. Unwin, and learned from 
him the religious character of his mother) to 
seize an opportunity, as he was passing 
through Huntingdon, of making a visit to 
that exemplary lady. This visit (so impor- 
t.ant in its consequences to the future history 
of Cowper) happened to take place within ;i 
few days after the calamitous death of Mr. 
Unwin. As a change of scene appeared de- 
sirable both to Mrs. Unwin and to tlie in- 
teresting recluse whom she had generously 
requested to continue under her caie, Mr. 
Newton offered to assist them in removing 
to the pleasant and picturesque county in 
which he resided. They were willing to en- 
ter into the flock of a pious and dcvotwl 
pastor, whose ideas were so much in har- 
mony with their own. He engaged for them 
a house at Olney, where they arrived on the 
14th of October, 1767. He thus alludes io 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



49 



his new residence in the following extract of 
a letter to Mr. Hill. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olnc.v, October 20, 1767. 

I have no m.ip to consult at present, but, 
by what remembrance I have of the situation 
of this place in the last I saw, it lies at the 
northernmost point of the county. We are 
just live miles beyond Newport Pagnell. I 
am willing to suspect that you make this in- 
quiry with a riew to an iii/en-ieu\ when time 
shall serve. We may possibly be settled in 
our own house in about a month, where so 
good a friend of mine will be extremely wel- 
come to Mrs. Unwin. We shall have a bed 
and a warm fire-side at your service, if you 
can come before ne.\t summer: and if not, a 
parlor that looks the north wind full in the 
face, where you may be as cool as in the 
groves of Valambrosa. 

Yours, ray dear 'Sephus, 

Affectionately ever, W. C. 

It would have been difficult to select a sit- 
uation apparently more suited to the existing 
circunistances and eh:iracter of Cowper than 
the scene to which he was now transferred. 
In Mr. Ne\yton were happily united the (piali- 
fieations of piety, fervent, rational, and cheer- 
ful — the kind and atfectionate feelings th:it 
inspire friendship and regard — a solid judg- 
ment, and a refined taste — the power to edify 
and please, and the grace that knows how to 
improve it to the highest ends. He lived in the 
midst of a flock who loved and esteemed him, 
and who saw in his iriinistrations the creden- 
tials of heaven, and in his life the e.xemplifi. 
cation of the doctrines that he taught. 

The time of Covv])er, in his new situation, 
seems to have been chielly devoted to relig. 
ious contemplation, to social prayer, and To 
active charity. To this first of Ciirislian vir- 
tues, his heart was eminently inclined, and 
Providence very graciously enabled him to 
exercise and enjoy it to an extent far supe- 
rior to what his own scanty fortune allowed 
means. The death of his father, 1750, failed 
to pl.ace him in a stale of independence, and 
the singular east of his own mind was such, 
that nature seemed to have rendered it im- 
possible for him either to covet or to a«i|uire 
riches. His happy exemption from worldly 
p.assionsisforciblvdisplaved in the following 
letter. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olncy, Juno 16, nm. 
Dear Joe, — I thank you for so full an an- 
swer to so empty an e|)islle. If Olney fur- 
nished anything for your amusement, you 
should have it in return, but occurrences 

• Private correspondence. 



here arc as scarce as cucumbers at Christ- 
mas. 

I visited St. Alban's about a fortnight since 
in person, and 1 visit it every day in thought. 
The recollection of what passed there, and 
the consequences that followed it, till my 
mind continually, ajid make the circumsljnce's 
of a poor, transient, half-spent life, so insipid 
and unall'ccting, that I have no heart to think 
or write much about them. Whether the 
natiou is worshipping Mr. Wilkes, or any 
other idol, is of little moment to one who 
hopes and believes that he shall shortly stand 
in the presence of the great and blessed God. 
I thank him that he has given me such a deep, 
impressed, persuasion of this awinl truth as 
a thousand worlds would not purchase from 
me. It gives me a relisli to every blessing, 
and makes every trouble liglit. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

In entering on the correspondence of the 
ensuing year, we find the following impres- 
sive letter addressed to Mr. Hill. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olucy, Jan. 21, 1709. 
Dear Joe, — I rejoice with you in your re- 
covery, and that you have escaped from the 
hands of one from whose hands you will not 
always escape. Death is either the most for- 
midable, or file most eomlbrluble thing we 
h.-ive in ])rospeet, on this side of eternity. 
To be brought near to him, and to discern 
neither of these features in his face, would 
argue a degree of insensibilhy, of which I 
will not suspect my friend, wlioin I know to 
be a thinking man. Vou have been brouijlit 
down to tlie side of tlie grave, and you li.avc 
been raised again by Him who has the keys 
of the invisible world ; who ojiens and none 
can shut, who shuts and none can open. 1 
do not forget to return thanks to Him on 
your behalf, and to jiray that your life,whicl] 
he has spared, may be devoted to his service. 
" Bohold! I stand at the door and knock," is 
the word of Ilim, on whom both our mortal 
and immortal life depend, and, blessed be his 
name, it is the word of one who wotmds oidv 
that he may heal, and who -waits to be gra- 
cious. The language of every such dispensa- 
tion is, " Prejiare to meet thy God." It speaks 
with the voice of mercy and goodness, for. 
without such notices, whatever prepar.atiun 
we might make for other events, we shoidd 
make none for this. .My dear friend, I desire 
and pray that, when this last enemy shall 
come to execute an unlimiled commission 
upon us, we may be found ready, being 
established and rooted in a well-grounded 
faith ii^ His name, who eoncpiered and tri- 
umphed over him upon his cross. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

* Private corro«pondence. 
4 



50 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Jan. 29, 1769. 
My dear Joe, — I have a moment to spare, 
to tell you that your letter is just come to 
hand, and to thank you for it. I do assure 
you, the gentleness and candor of your man- 
ner engages my affection to you very much. 
Vou answer with mildness to an admonition, 
\\ hich woulil iiave provoked many to anger. 
I liave not time to add more, except just to 
hint that, if I am ever enabled to look for- 
ward to death with comfort, which, I thank 
God, is sometimes the ease with me, I do not 
t^ike my view of it from the top of my own 
works and deservings, though God is witness 
that the labor of my life is to keep a con- 
science void of offence towards Him. He is 
always formidable to me, but when I see him 
disarmed of his sting, by having sheathed it 
in the body of Christ Jesus. 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH Hn-L, ESQ. 

Olney, July 31, 1769. 

Dear Joe, — Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, 
and Sir Cowper, for that is his title at Olney, 
prefers his liome to any other spot of earth 
in the world. Horace, observing this differ- 
ence of temper in different persons, cried out 
a good many years ago, in the true spirit of 
poetry, "How much one man differs from an- 
other !" This does not seem a very sublime 
exclamation in English, but I remember we 
were taught to admire it in the original. 

My dear friend, I am obliged to you for 
your invitation : but being long accustomed 
to retirement, which I was always fond of, I 
am now more th.-in ever unwilling to revisit 
those noisy and crowded scenes, wliieh I 
never loved, and which I now aljhor. I re- 
member you with all the friendship I ever 
professed, which is as mucli as ever I enter- 
tained for any man. But the strange and un- 
common incidents of my life have given an 
entire new turn to my whole cliaracter and 
conduct, and rendered me incapable of re- 
ceiving pleasure from the same employments 
and amusements of which I could re.adily 
partake in former days. 

I love you and yours, I thank you for your 
ciiutinued remembrance of me, and shall not 
cease to be their and your 

-Affectionate friend and servant, 

W. C. 

Cowpcr's present retirement was distin- 
guished by many private acts of beneficence, 
and his exemplary virtue was such that the 
opulent sometimes delighted to make him 
their almoner. In his sequestered life at 

* Private correepondence. 



Olney, he ministered abundantly to the wants 
of the poor, from a fund with which he was 
supplied by that model of extensive and 
unostentatious philanthropy, the late John 
Thornton, Esq., whose name he has immor- 
talized in his Poem on Charity, still honoring 
his memory by an additional tribute to his 
virtues in the following descriptive eulogy, 
written immediately on his decease, in the 
year 1790. 

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
Praising the .4uthor of all good in man ; 
And next coairaemorating worthies lost, 
The dead in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee therefore of commercial fame, but more 
Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore — 
Tliee, Thornlon, worthy in some page to shine 
As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; 
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
It were to weep tliat goodness has its meed. 
That tliere is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
And glory for the virtuous when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard 
Or spendthrit't's prodigal excess afford, 
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe 
SutTer'd by virtue coml)ating below ! [means 

That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee 
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes. 
Till thy appearance eliaspd the gloom. Ibrlorn 
As midnij;ht, and despairing of a morn. 
Thou hadst an industry in doing good. 
Restless as his who toils and sweats tor tbod. 
Av'rice in thee was the desire of wealth ' 
By rust unperishable, or by stealth 
And, if the geniune worth of gold depend 
On application to its noblest end. 
Thine had a value in the scales of heaven, 
Surpassing all that mine or mint have given : 
And though God made thee of a nature prone 
To distribution, boundless, of thy own; 
And still, by motives of religious force, 
Lnpell'd thee more to that heroic course ; 
Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
Nice in its choice, and of a tcmp'rate heat ; 
.•Ind, though in act unwearied, secret still, 
As, in some solitude, the summer rill 
Relreshes, where it winds, the faded (jrcen. 
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un- 
seen. 

.Such was thv charity ; no sudden start, 
After long sleep of passion in the heart, 
But^tedtast prmciple, and in its kind 
Of close alliance with th' eternal mind ; 
Traced easily to its true source above. 
To Hira, whose works bespeak his nature, love. • 
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
This record of thee lor the Gospel's sake ; 
That the incredulous themselves may see 
Its use and power exemplified in thee. 

This simple and sublime eulogy was a just 
tribute of respect to the memory of this dis- 
tinguished philanthropist ; and, among the 
happiest actions of this truly liberal man, we 
may reckon his furnishing to a character so 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



51 



roserved and so retired as Cowper the means 

of eiijoyiiij; tlie gralification of active and 
co;lly licneticcnce ; a sjratilioafion in wliieli 
tlic si-qiiestcred poet lutd deliglited to in- 
dulge, before his acquaintiince with Jlr. 
Newton afTorded him an opportunity of be- 
ini^ eoiieerned in distribntinir the private, 
yet extensive, l)ounty of an opulent and ex- 
emplary merchant. 

Couper, before he quitted St. Alhan's, as- 
sumed the elnrgc of a necessitous child, to 
extricate him from the perils of beinsj edu- 
cated by very profligate jiarents ; he sent 
him to a sclioid at Huntini^don, transferred 
him, on his removal, to Olney, and htially 
settled him as an apprentice at Oundle, in 
Northamptonshire. 

The w.n-ni, benevolent, and cheerful piety 
of Mr. Newton, induced his friend Cowper to 
p:irticipate so abundantly in his parochial 
plans and eng-ajjements, that the poet's time 
and thoughts were more and more engrossed 
by devotional objects. lie became a valua- 
ble auxiliary to a. faithful parish priest, su- 
p?ri!itended the religious e.xerci.ses of the 
poor, and engaged in an important undertak- 
ing, to which we shall shortly have occasion 
to advert. 

But in the midst of these pious duties he 
forgot not his distant friends, and particular- 
ly his amiable relation and correspondent, of 
the Park-house, near Hertford. The follow- 
ing letter to th:it lady has no date, but it was 
prob.'ibly «-ritten soon after his establish- 
ment at Olney. The remarkable memento 
in the postscript was undoubtedly introduced 
to counteract an idle rumor, arising from the 
circum-stance of his having settled him.self 
under the roof of a female friend, whose age 
and whcse virtues he considered to be sulti- 
cient securities to ensure her reputation as 
well as his own. 

TO MBS. COWTER. 

My dear Cousin, — I h.avc not been behind- 
hand in reproaching myself with neglect, but 
desire to lake shame to myself for my un- 
prolit;iblencss in this, as well as in all other 
respects. I take the ne.vt immediate oppor- 
tunity, however, of thanking you for yours, 
and of assuring you that, instead of "being 
surprised at your silence, I rather wonder 
that you or any of my friends have any room 
left for so careless and negligent a eorre- 
.spondcnt in your memories. I am obliged to 
you for the intelligence you send me of my 
kindred, and rejoice to hear of their welfare. 
He who settles the bounds of our habitations 
has at length cast our lot at ii great distance 
from each other, but I do not therefore for- 
get their former kindness to me, or cea.se to 
be interested in their well being. You live 
in the centre of a world 1 know you do not 



delight in. Happy are you, my dear Ci-iend, 
in being able to di.scern the insutliciency of 
all it cm all'ord to (ill .and satisfy the desires 
of an innnortal soul. That God who created 
us for the enjoyment of hiniself, has deter- 
mined in mercy that it .shall fail us here, in 
order that the blessed result of our inquiries 
after happiness in the creature may be a 
warm pursuit and a close attachment to onr 
true interests, in fellowship and communion 
with Him, through the name and mediation 
of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness 
and grace that I have any reason to ho|)e I 
am a ))artaker with you in the desire after 
better things than are to be found in a world 
polluted with si?i, and therefore devoted to 
destruction. May He enable us both to 
consider our present life in its only true 
light, as an opportunity put into our hands 
to glorify him amongst men by a conduct 
suited to his word and will. I am miserably 
defective in this holy and blessed art, but I 
hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful 
inhrmities a sincere desire to live just so 
long as I may be enabled, in some poor 
measure, to answer the end of my existence 
in this respect, and then to obey the sum- 
mons and attend him in a world where they 
who are his servants here shall pay him ail 
unsinful obedienci' forever. Your dear mo- 
ther is too good to me, and puts a more 
charitable construction upon my silence than 
the fact will warrant. I am not better em- 
ployed than I should be in corresponding 
with her. I have that within whicli hinders 
me wretchedly in everything that I ought to 
do. and is prone to tritle, and let time and 
every good thing run to waste. I hope 
however to write to her soon. 

My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cow- 
per, and all that inquire after me. May God 
be with you, to bless you and to do you 
good by all his dispensations; do not forget 
me when you are speaking to our best 
Friend before his mercy seat. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

N. B. / am ivil married. 

In the year 1769, the lady to whom the 
preceding letters are addressed was involved 
in domestic afliiction : and the following, 
which the poet wrote to her on the occasion, 
is so full of genuine piety and true pathos, 
that it would be an injury to Ids memory to 
suppress it. 

TO MRS. COWPER. 

Olney, Aui;. 31, ITOX 

My dear Cousin, — A letter from your 
brother Frederick brought me yesterday the 
most afflicting intelligence that has reached 
me these many years. 1 pray to God to 
comfort you, and to enable you to sustain 



52 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



this heavy stroke with that resignation to his 
will which none but Himself can give, and 
which he gives to none but his own children. 
How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear 
friend, beyond the common lot of the greater 
|)art of mankind : that you know wliat it is 
to draw near to God in prayer, and arc ac- 
c|uaintecl with a throne of grace ! You have 
rcsoiu'ces in the infinite love of a dear Re- 
deemer which arc withheld from millions : 
and the promises of God, which are yea and 
amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all 
your necessities, and to sweeten the bitterest 
cup which your heavenly Father will ever 
put into your hand. May He now give you 
liberty to drink at tliese wells of salvation, 
till you are filled witli consolation and peace 
in the midst of trouble. He has said, 
'■ When thou passest through tiie waters I 
will be with thee, and through the rivers, 
they sh.all not overllow thee."* You have 
need of such a word as this, and lie knows 
your need of it, and the time of necessity is 
the time when he will be sure to appear in 
behalf of those who trust in him. I be.Tr 
you and yours upon my heart before him 
night and day, for I never expect to hear of 
distress which shall call upon me with a 
louder voice to pray for the sufi'erer. I 
know the Lord hears me for myself, vile and 
sinful an 1 am, and believe, and am sure, that 
he will hear me for you also. He is the 
tViend of the widow, and the father of the 
fatherless, even God in his holy habitation ; 
in all our affiictions he is afflicted, and chas- 
tens us in mercy. Surely he will sanctify 
this dispensation to you, do you great and 
everlasting good by it, make the world aji- 
pear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it 
truly is, and open to your view the glories of 
.1 better country, where there shall be no 
more death, neither sorrow, nor pain ; but 
Gnd sliall wipe away all tears from your 
eyes forever. Oh that comfortable Word ! 
■■ I have chosen thee in the furnace of afflic- 
tion;"! so that our very sorrows are evi- 
dences of our calling, and he chastens us be- 
cause we are his children. 

Jly dear cousin, I commit you to the word 
of his grace, and to the comforts of his Holy 
Spirit. Your life is needful for your family : 
may God, in mercy to them, prolong it, and 
i;ny he preserve you from the dangerous 
ell'ects which a stroke like this might have 
upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve 
v, ith you, I pray for you : could I do more I 
\i ould, but God must comfort you. 

Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, 

W. C. 

In the following year the tender feelings 
of Co\v^)er were called forth by family afflic- 
tion that ])ressed more immediately on him- 

* Isfliiih xliii. -2. t T?:nah xlviii. 10. 



self; he was hurried to Cambridge by the 
dangerous illness of his brother, then resid- 
ing as a fellow at Bene't College. An 
afleetion truly fraternal had ever subsisted 
between the brothers, and the reader will 
recollect what the poet has said, in one of 
his letters, concerning their social intercourse 
while he resided at Huntingdon. 

In the first two years of his residence at 
Olney, he had been repeatedly visited by Mr. 
John Cowper, and how cordially he returned 
that kindness and attention the following 
letter will testify, which was probably writ- 
ten in the chamber of the invalid. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

March 5, 177U. 

My brother continues much as he was. 
His case is a very d.angcrous one — an im- 
posthume of the liver, attended by an asthma 
and dropsy. The physician has little hope 
of his recovery, I believe I might say none 
at all, only, being a friend, he does not for- 
mally give him over by ceasing to visit him, 
lest it should sink his spirits. For my own 
part, I have no expectation of his recovery, 
except by a signal interposition of Provi- 
dence in answer to prayer. His ease is 
clearly beyond the reach of medicine : but 
I have seen many a sickness healed, where 
the danger has been equally threatening, by 
the only Physician of value. I doubt not 
he will have an interest in your pr,ayers, as 
he has in the prayers of many. May the 
Lord incline his car and give an answer of 
peace. I know it is good to be afflicted. I 
trust that you have found it so, and that 
under the teaching of God's own Spirit we 
shall both be purified. It is the desire of 
my soul to seek a better country, where God 
sliall wipe away all tears from the eyes of 
his people : and where, looking back upon 
the ways by which he has led us, we sliall 
be filled with everlasting wonder, love, and 
praise. 

I must add no more. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

The sickness and death of his learned, 
pious, and affectionate brother, m.ade a very 
strong impression on the tender heart and 
mind of Cowper — an impression so strong, 
that it induced him to write a narrative 
of the remarkable circumstances which oc- 
curred at the time. He sent a copy of this 
narrative to iMr. Newton. The paper is cu- 
rious in every point of view, and so likely to 
awaken sentiments of piety in minds where 
it may be most desirable to have them awak- 
ened, that Mr. Newton subsequently commu- 
nicated it to the public* 

Here it is necessary to introduce a brief 
*' For lliis inlercslinir document, ace p. 48!t. 



LIFE OF COWl'ER. 



53 



account of the interesting person whom the 
poet leijiirded so tenderly. John Cowper 
was horn in 1737. Being designed for the 
chnri'h, lie w as privately ediieated l)y a cler- 
gyman, and became eminent for the e.vtent 
and v;iriety of his erudition in the university 
of Cambridge. The remarkable change in 
his views and principles is copiously disphiyed 
l)y his bro'iher, in recording the pious close 
his life. Cene't College, of which he was a 
fellow, was his usual residence, and it he- 
came the scene of his death, on the :JOlh of 
llarch, 1770. Fraternal atVeclion has exe- 
cuted a perfectly just and graceful des<',rip- 
tion of his character, both in prose and verse. 
We transcribe both as highly honorable to 
these exemplary brethren, wlio may indeed 
be said to have dwelt together in unity. 

" He was a man" (.says the poet in speaking 
of his deceased brother) "of a most candid 
and ingenuous spirit: his temper remarkably 
sweet, and in his behavior to me he had al- 
ways manifested an uncommon affection. 
His outward conduct, so far as it fell under 
my notice, or I could learn it by the report 
of others, was perfectly decent and unblama- 
ble. There was nothing vicious in any part 
of his practice, but, being of a studious, 
thoughtful turn, he ])laccd his chief delight 
in the ac(|nisition of learning, and made such 
proHciency in it, that lie had but few rivals 
in that of a classical kind. He was critically 
skilled in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew lan- 
guages : was begiiming to make himself mas- 
ter of the Syri.ic, and perfectly understood 
the French and Italian, the latter of which 
he could speak fluently. Learned however 
as he was, he was easy and cheerful in his 
conversation, and entirely free from the stiti- 
ness which is generally contracted by men 
devoted to such pursuits." 

" I had a brother once : 
Peace to the nieaiory ot' a man of worth I 
A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
Of manners sweet, as virtue always wears, 
When gay good humor dresses her in smiles ! 
He grac'd a college, in which order yet 
Was sacred, and was honored, lov'd. and wept 
By more than one, themselves conspicuous there !" 

Another interesting tribute to his memory 
will be found in the following letter. 



TO JOSErll HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, May 8, 1770. 

Dear Joe, — Your letter did not reach me 
till the last post, when 1 had not time to an- 
swer it. I left Cambridge immediately after 
ray brother's death. 

I am obliged to you for the particular ac- 
count you have sent me * * * * 
He, to whom 1 have surrendered myself and 
all my concerns has otherwise appointed, and 
let his will be done. He gives me much 



which he withholds from others, and if ho 
was pleased to withhold all that makes an 
outward dill'erence between me and the poor 
mendicant in the street, it would still become 
me to .say, his will be done. 

It pleased (iod to cut short my brother's 
connexions and expectations here, yet not 
without giving hiui lively and glorious views 
of a better happiness than any he could pro- 
pose to himself in such a world as this. 
Notwithstanding his great learning, (for he 
was one of the chief nuui in the university 
in that respect,) he was candid and sincere in 
his inquiries after truth. Though he could 
not come into my sentiments when I first ac- 
quainted him with them, nor, in the many 
conversations which I afterward had with him 
upon the subject, could he be brought to ac- 
quiesce in llicm as scriptural and trne, yet I 
had no sooner left St. .Vlban's than he began 
to study, with the deepest attention, those 
points in which we ditl'ered, and to furnish 
himself with the best writers upon them. 
His mind was kept open to conviction for 
five years, during all which time he labored 
in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, 
as leisure and opjiortunity were iilforded. 
Amongst his dying words were these : " Bro- 
ther, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to be- 
lieve as yon did. I found myself not able 
to believe, yet always thought I should bi^ 
one day brought to do so." From the study 
of books he was brought, upon his death- 
bed, to the study of himself, and there learned 
to renounce his righteousness and his own 
most amiable character, and to submit himself 
to the righteousness which is of God by faith. 
With these views he was desirous of death. 
Satisfied of his interest in the bles.sing pur- 
chased by the blood of Christ, he prayed fur 
death with earnestness, felt the approach of 
it with joy, and died in peace. 

Yours, mv dear friend, 
W. C. 

It is this simple yet firm reliance on the 
merits of the Saviour, and on his atoning 
blood and righteou.sness, that can alone im- 
part true jieace to the soul. Such was the 
faith of patriarchs, pro[)hets and apostles; 
and such will be the faith of all who are 
taught of God. Works do not go before, 
but follow after; they are not the ciiuse, but 
the elfeet ; the fruits of faith, .and indispen- 
sable to glorify God, to attest the power and 
reality of divine grace, and to determine the 
measure of our everlasting reward. 

Cowper's feelings on this impressive occa- 
sion .are still further disclosed in the follow- 
ing letter. 

TO MRS. COWPER. 

Ollicy, June 7, 1770. 

My dear Cousin, — I am obliged to you for 



sometimes thinking of an unseen friend, and be- 
stowing a letter upon me. It gives me pleas- 
ure to hear from you, especially to tind that 
our gracious Lord enables you to weather 
out the storms you meet with, and to cast 
anchor within the veil. 

You judge riglitly of the manner in which 
! li:ive been affected by the Lord's late dis- 
]ieiisatiou towards my brother. I found in 
it cause of sorrow that I had lost so near a 
relation, and one so deserveely dear to me, 
and that he left me just when our sentiments 
upon the most interesting subject became the 
same, but much more cause of joy, that it 
jileased God to give me clear and evident 
jiroof that he had changed his heart, and 
adopted him into the number of his children. 
For this, I hold myself peculiarly bound to 
thank him, because he might have done all 
that he was pleased to do for him, and yet 
have afforded him neither strength nor op- 
portunity to declare it. 1 doubt not that he 
enlightens the understandings, and works a 
gracious change in the hearts of many, in 
their last moments, whose surrounding friends 
are not made acquainted with it. 

He told me that, from the time he was first 
ordained, he began to be dissatisfied with his 
religious opinions, and to suspect that there 
were greater things concealed in the Bible 
than were generally believed or allowed to 
be there. From the time when I first visited 
him after my release from St. Alban's, lie be- 
gan to read upon the subject. It «'as at that 
time I informed him of the views of divine 
trr.th which I had received in that school of 
affliction. He laid what I said to heart, and 
began to furnish himself with the best wait- 
ers upon the controverted points, whose 
works he read with great diligence and at- 
tention, comparing them all the wliile with 
the Scripture. None ever truly and ingenu- 
ously sought the truth, but they found it. 
A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, 
who never says to any, Seek ye my face in 
vain. Accordingly, about ten days before 
his death, it pleased the Lord to dispel all his 
doubts, to reveal in his heart the knowlecige 
of the Saviour, and to give him firm and un- 
shaken peace, in the belief of his ability and 
willingness to save. As to the affair of the 
fortune-teller, he never mentioned it to me, 
nor was tliere any such paper found as you 
mention. I looked over all his papers before 
1 left the place, and had there been such a 
one, must have discovered it. I have heard 
the report from other quarters, but no other 
particulars than that the woman foretold him 
when he should die. I suppose there may 
be some truth in the matter, but, whatever 
he miglit think of it before his knowledge 
of the truth, and however extraordinary her 
predictions might really be, I am satisfied 
that he had then received far other views of 



the wisdom and majesty of God, than to 
suppose that he would intrust his secret 
counsels to a vagrant, who did not mean, I 
suppose, to be understood to have received 
her intelligence from the fountain of light, 
but thought herself sufficiently honoR'd by 
any who would give her credit for a secret 
intercour.se of this kind with the prince of 
darkness. 

Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for 
your kind inquiry after her. She is well, I 
thank God, as usual, and sends her respects 
to you. Her son is in the ministrj', and has 
the living of Stock in Essex. We were last 
week alarmed with an account of his being 
dangerously ill ; Mrs. Unwin went to see him, 
and in a few days left him out of danger. 

W. C. 

The letters of the poet to this amiable rel- 
ative afford a pleasing insight into the re- 
cesses of his pious and sympathizing mind ; 
and, if they have awakened the interest which 
they are so calculated to e.xcite, the reader 
will feel concerned to find a chasm of ten 
years in this valuable correspondence ; the 
more so as it was chiefly occasioned by a 
cause which it will soon be our painful office to 
detail in the course of the ensuing passages. 
In the autumn of the year in which he sus- 
tained the loss of his excellent brother, he 
wrote the following letter to Mr. Hill. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Sept. 23, 1770. 
Dear Joe, — ^I have not done conversing 

* It is impossible to read this and the four followincf 
letters of Cowper to Mr. Hill, as well as a prt-eediug one 
in paffe 49, and not to remark their altered Itnie and di- 
minished cordiality ot feeling. Tlie forgetlulness of for- 
mer ties and pursuits is often, we Itnow, made a subject 
of reproach ayainst religious characters. How then is 
Cowper to bo vindicate'd? Does religion pervert Uie 
feelings? We believe, on the contrary, that it purities 
and e.xaits them ; but il changes their current, and fi.xes 
them on higher and nobler objects. Cowpcr's mind, il 
must be remembered, had experienced a great nwrnl 
revolution, which had imparted a new and powerful im- 
pression to bis views and principles. In this slate of 
things, Mr. Hill (lamenting possibly the change) solicits 
his return to London, and to his former habits and asso- 
ciations. Dut the relish for these enjoyments was gone; 
they had lost their jtower to charm and captivate. " 1 am 
now more than ever," says CJowper, " tmwilling to revisit 
those noisy and crowded scones, which I never loved, and 
which I now abhor; the incidents of my life have given 
an entire new turn to my whole character and conduct, 
and rendered me incapable of receiving pleasure from 
the same employments and amusements of which I couid 
readily partalte in former days." (See page 50.) Hill re- 
iterates the invitation, and Cowper his refusal. Thus one 
party wiis advancing in spirituality, while the other n;- 
mained stationary. The bond was therefore necessarily 
weaiiened, because identity of feeling must ever consti- 
tute the basis of all human friendships and intercourse ; 
and the mind that has received a heavenly impulse can- 
not return with its former :irdor to the pursuit of earthly 
objects. It cannot ascend and descend at the same mo- 
ment. Such, however, was the real worth and honesty 
of Mr. Hill, that their friendship still survived, and a rae- 
moi'ial of it is recorded in lines familiar to every reader 
of Cowper. 

*' An honest man, close button'd to the chin. 
Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within." 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



55 



with terrcstriiU objects, though I should be 
happy were I able to hold more eontiiuial 
I'Oiucrse with n frioiid above the skies. lie 
h;is my heart, b\it lie allows a corner in it for 
all who show me kindness, and therefore one 
fur you. Tlie storm of sixfy-three made a 
wreck of the friendships I had contracted 
in tlie course of many years, yours excepted, 
which luus survived the tempest. 

I thank you for your repeated invitation. 
Singular tlumks are due to you for so firi- 
gular an inst:mce of regard. I could not 
leave Olney, unless in a ca.sc of absolute ne- 
cessity, without much inconvenience to my- 
self and others. W. C. 

Tlic next year was distinguislied by the 
marriage of his friend Mr. Hill, to a lady of 
most estimable character, on which occasion 
Cowpcr thus addressed liim. 

TO JOSEPH KILL, ESQ. 

Olncj, August 2", IT71. 

Dear Joe, — I take a friend's share in all 
your concerns, .so far as they come to my 
knowledge, and consequently did not receive 
the news of your marriage with indiU'erence. 
1 wish you and your bride all the happiness 
that belongs to the slate : and the still greater 
felicity of that state which marriage is only 
a type of. All those connexions sliall be dis- 
solved ; but there is an indissoluble bond be- 
tween Christ and his church, the subject of 
derision to an unthinking world, but the glory 
and happiness of all his peo])le. 

1 join with your mother and sisters in their 
joy upon tlie present occasion, and beg my 
alVectionate respects to them and to 3Irs. Hill 
nnknowii. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

We do not di.scover any further traces of 
his correspondence in the succeeding year 
than the three following Ictter.s. The first 
proves his great sense of honor and delicate 
feeling in trans;ictions of a pecuniary n.ature. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Oliicy, June 27, 1772. 
My dear Friend, — I only write to return 
you thanks for your kind oiler — .'l^)io,<fco ve- 
ieris vesligia ftainmc. But I will endeavor to 
go on without troubling you. Excu.se an 
expression that dishonors your friendship ; 
I should rather .say, it would be a trouble to 
myself, and I know you will be generous 
enough to give me credit for the assertion. 
[ had rather want many things, anything, in- 
deed, that this world could atl'ord me, ihan 
abuse the afleetioii of a friend. I suppose 
you are sometimes troubled upon my account. 
Uut you need not. I have no doubt it will 
* Frivutu currcspondeoce. 



be seen, when my days are closed, that I 
served a master who would not sufter me to 
want anything that was good for me. He 
said to Jacob I will surely do thee good : and 
this he said, not for his sake only, but for 
ours also, if we trust in him. This thought 
relieves iiie from the greatest part of the di.s- 
tress I should else sutler in my present cir- 
cumstances, and enables me to sit down 
peacefully upon the wreck of my fortune 
Yours ever, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, July 2, 177-'. 
My dear friend, — My obligations to you 
sit easy upon me, because I am sure you con- 
fer them in the spirit of a friend. 'Tis pleas- 
ant to some minds to confer obligations, and 
it is not unpleasant to others to be properly 
sensible of them. I hope I have this pleas- 
ure — and can, with a true sense of your 
kindness, subscribe myself, 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH KILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 5, 1T72. 

Believe me, my dear friend, truly sensible 
of your invitation, though I do not accept it. 
My peace of mind is of so delicate a consti- 
tution, that the air of London will not agree 
with it. You have my prayers, the only re- 
turn I can make you lor your many acts of 
still continued friendship. 

If you should smile, or even laugh, at my 
conclusion, and I were near enough to see il, 
I should not be angry, though 1 should be 
grieved. It is not long since I should have 
laughed at such a recompense myself. But, 
glory be to the name of Jesus, those days 
are past, and, I trust, never to return ! 

I am yours and Jlrs. Hill's, 

With much sincerity, W. C. 

The kind and atTectionate intercour.se which 
.subsisted on the part of C'owper and his be- 
loved pastor has aleady been adverted to in 
the preceding hi.story. It was the commerce 
of two kindred minds, uniled by a participa- 
tion in the same blessed hojie, and seeking 
to improve their union by seizing every op- 
portunity of usefulness. Friendship, to be 
durable, inu.st be pure, virtuous, and liolv. 
All other associations are liable to the ca- 
price of passion, and to the changing tide of 
human evenl.s. It is not enough that there 
be a natural coincidence of character and 
temperament, a similarity of earthly pursuit 
and object ; there must be materials of a 
higher I'abric, streams flowing from a purer 
source. There must be the impress of divine 
* Private correspondence. 



56 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



grace stamping the same common image and 
superscription on both hearts. A friend-^ship 
founded on such a basis, strengthened by 
time and opportunity, and nourished by tiie 
frequent interchange of good ofHces, is per- 
haps the nearest approximation to happiness 
attainable in this chequered hfe. 

Sucli a friendship is beautifully portrayed 
by Covvper, in the following passage in his 
Poem on Conversation ; and it is highly prob- 
able that he alludes to his own feelings on 
this occasion, and to the connexion subsisting 
between himself and Newton. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd 
Of hearts in union mutually disclos'tl ; 
And, farewell else al! hope of pure delight ! 
Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- 
right ; 
Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, 
Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame: 

But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 

Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, 

.4nd, with a fearless confidence, make known 

Tlic sorrows sympathy esteems its own ; 

Daily derive increasing light and force 

From such communion in their pleasant course ; 

Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, 

Meet their opposers with united strength, 

And, one in heart, in interest, and design. 

Gird up each other to the race divine. 

It is to the friendship and intercourse 
formed between these two e.xcellent men, 
that we are indebted for the origin of the 
Olncy Hymns. These hymns are too cele- 
brated in the annals of sacred poetry not to 
demand special notice in a life of Cowpcr, 
who contributed to that colleelion some of 
the most beautiful and devotional effusions 
that ever enriched this species of composi- 
tion. They were the joint production of the 
divine and the poet, and intended, (as the 
former expressly says in his preface) " as a 
monument to perpetuate the remembrance 
of an intimate and endeared friendship " 
They were subsequently introduced into tiie 
parish church of Olney, with the view of 
raising the tone and character of chureli 
psalmody. The old version of Sternhold 
and Hopkins, previously used, and still re- 
tained in raanv of our churches, was con- 
sidered to be too antii|uated in its language, 
and not suHiciently iudiued with the char- 
acteristic features of the Gospel dispensa- 
tion, to be adapted to the advancing spirit 
of religion. It was to supply this defect 
that the above work was thus introduced, 
and the acceptance with w Inch it was received 
fully justihed the expectation. Viewed in 
this light, it is a kind of epoch in the history 
of the Establislied Church. Other commu- 
nities of Christians had long employed the 
instrumentality of hymns to embody the feel- 
ings of devotion; but our own church had 
not felt this necessity, or adopted the custom ; 



prejudice had even interposed, in some in- 
stances, to resist their introduction, till the 
right was fully established by tlie decision of 
law.* The prejudices of past times are, 
however, at lengtli, rapidly giving way to 
the wishes and demands of modern piety ; 
and we can now appeal to the versions of a 
Stewart, a Noel, a Pratt, a Bickersteth, and 
many others as a most suitable vehicle for 
this devotional exercise. The Olney Hymns 
are entitled to the praise of being the ])recur- 
sors of this improved mode of psalmody, 
jointly with the collection of the Rev. M. Ma- 
dan, at the Lock, and that of Mr. Berridge, 
at Everton. 

But, independently of tliis circumstance, 
they present far higher claims. They portray 
the varied emotions of the human lieart in 
its conflicts with sin, and aspirations after 
holiness. We there contemplate the depres- 
sion of sorrow and the triumph of hope ; the 
terrors inspired by the law and the confidence 
awakened by the Gospel ; and, what may be 
considered as the genuine transcript of the 
poet's own mind, especially in the celebrated 
hymn, (" God moves in a mysterious way," 
&c.,) we see depicted, in impressive language, 
the struggles of a fliith trying to penetrate 
into the dark and mysterious dispensations 
of God, and at length reposing on his un^ 
changeable faithfulness and love. These 
sentiments and feelings so descriptive of the 
exercises of the soul, find a respon.se in 
every awakened heart ; and the church of 
Christ will never cease to claim its property 
in effusions like these till the Christian war- 
fare is ended, and the perceptions of erring 
reason and sense are exchanged for the bright 
visions of eternity. 

The undertaking commenced about the 
year 1771, though the collection was not 
finally completed and published till 1779. 
The total number contributed by Cowper 
was sixty-eight hymns. They are distin- 
guished by the initial letter of his name. It 
was originally stipulated that each should 
bear their proportion in this joint labor, till 
the whole work was accomplished. With 
this under.standing, the pious design was 
gr.adimlly proceeding in its auspicious course, 
when, by one of those solemn and mysteri- 
ous dispensations from which neither rank, 
nor genius, nor moral excellence can claim 
exemption, it pleased Him whose " way is in 
the deep," and whose "footsteps are not 
known," and of whom it is emphatically said, 
'■ that clouds and darkness are round about 
him," though " righteousness and judgment 
are the h.abitation of his throne," to suspend 
the powers of this interesting suft'erer, and 
once more to shroud them in darkness. 

* Tlio Kcv. T. Cotterill, formerly of Sheffield, nnd in 
much esteem for his piety and usefulness, was the fir.'^t 
who established this right by ajudicial proceeding. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



57 



In contemplating this event, in the pecu- 
liarity of its lime, character, and consequen- 
ces, will may we exclaim, " Lord, what is 
man !'" and, while the consciousness of the 
inliniJe wisdom and mercy of God precludes 
us from sayini;, '■ What doest Thou !" we 
feel that it mu>t be reserved for itlernity to 
develop the mysterious design of these dis- 
pensations. 

It was in the year 1773 that this afflicting 
malady returned. Cowper sank into such 
severe paro.vysms of religious despondency, 
that he reiiuired an attendant of the mo.st 
gentle, vigilant, and inrte.\ihle spirit. Such 
an attendant he found in that faithful guar- 
dian, whom he had professed to love as a 
motlnT, and who watched over him during 
this long lit of a most depressing malady, ex- 
tended through several years, with that per- 
fect mixture of tenderness and fortitude 
which constitutes the characteristic feature 
of female services. I wish to pass rapidly 
over this calamitous periofl, and shall only 
observe that nothing could surpass the suf- 
ferings of the patient or e.xcel the care of the 
nur-e. Her unremitting attentions received 
the nmst delightful of rewards in seeing the 
pure and |)owerfnl mind, to whose restoration 
she had so greatly contributed, not only grad- 
ually restored to the eonunon enjoyments of 
life, but successively endowed with new and 
marvellous funds of diversilied talents, and a 
vigorous application of them. 

The spirit of Cowper emerged by slow de- 
grees from its deep dejection ; and, before 
his mind was sutliciently recovered to em- 
ploy itself on literary composition, it sought 
and found much relief and amusement in do- 
mesticating a little group of hares. On his 
expressing a wish to divert himself by rear- 
ing a .single leveret, the good-nature of his 
neighbors supplied him w ith three. The va- 
riety of their dispositions became a source 
of great entert-iiiunent to his compassionate 
and contemplative spirit. One of the trio he 
has celebrated in the Task, and a very ani- 
mated and minute account of this singular 
family, humanized, and described most admi- 
rably by himself in prose, appeared first in 
the Gentleman's Magazine, and was subse- 
quently inserted in the second volume of his 
poems. These interesting animals had not 
only the honor of being cherished and cele- 
brated by a poet, but the pencil has also con- 
tributed to their renown. 

His three tame hares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. 
Newton, were, for a considerable tinu>, the 
only companions of Cowper; but, as Mr. 
Newton was removed to a distance from his 
afiiictcd friend by preferment in London,* 
(to which he was presented by that liberal 
encourager of active piety, Mr. Thornton,) 

♦ Ho waa prt^entcd to llie tiviug uf St. Mary Woolnoth, 
in ttio city.— Ed, 



before he left Olney, in 1780, he humanely 
triumphed over the strong reluctance of 
Cowper to see a stranger, and kindly intro- 
duced him to the regard and good ollices of 
the Kev. .Mr. Bull of Newport-l'agnell. 'I'his 
excellent man, so distinguished by his piety 
and wit, and honored by the friendship of 
John Thornton, from that tin)e considered it 
to be his duty to visit the invalid once a fort- 
night, and acquired, by degrees, his cordial 
and confidential esteem. 

The art'ectionate temper of Cowper inclined 
him particularly to exert his talents at the 
request of his friends, even in seasons when 
such exertion could hardly have been made 
without a painful degree of self-command. 

At the suggestion of Mr. Newton, we have 
seen him writing a series of hymns: at the 
request of Mr. Bull, he translated several 
spiritual songs, from the ])oetry of Jladame 
de la ilothe Guyon, the tender and mystical 
French writer, whose talents and misfortunes 
drew upon hera longseries of persecution from 
many acrimonious bigots, and secured to her 
the friend.ship of the mild and pious Fenelon 1 

We shall perceive, as we advance, that the 
more distinguished works of Cowper were 
also written at the express desire of persons 
whom lie particularly regarded ; and it may 
be remarked, to the honor of friendship, that 
he considered its intlnence as the happiest iii- 
.spiration; or, to use his own expressive words. 

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 
Should be the poet's heart : 

Art'cction lights a brighter flame 
Than ever blazed by art. 

The poetry of Cowper is it.self an admir.i- 
ble illustration of this maxim; and perhaps 
the ma.xim m.ny point to the principal source 
of tb.at uncommon force and felicity with 
which this most feeling poet commands the 
aflection of bis reader. 

In delineating the life of an author, it seems 
the duty of biography to indicate the degree 
of intlnence which the warmth of his heart 
produced on the fertility of his mind. But 
those mingled flames of friendship and poe- 
try, which were to hurst forth with the most 
powerful elTeet in the compositions of Cow- 
per, were not yet kindled. Ilis depressing 
malady had suspended the exercise of his 
gi'iiius for several years, and pi-ecluded him 
from renewing his correspondence with the 
relation whom he so cordially regarded in 
Ilertfordsliire, except by brief letters on pe- 
cuniary concerns. 

We insert the following as discovering 
symptoms of approaching convalescence. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov. 12, 1776. 

Dear Friend, — One to whom lish is so wel- 

• Private correspondence. 



■\ 



58 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



come as it is to me, can have no great occa^ 
sion to distinguish the sorts. In general, 
therefore, whatever fish are likely to think 
a jaunt into ihe country agreeable will be 
sure to find me ready to receive them. 

Having suli'cred so much by nervous fevers 
myself, I know how to congratulate Ashley 
u])on his recovery. Other distempers only 
batter the walls ; but Ihey creep silently into 
t!ie citadel and put the garrison to the sword. 

You perceive I have not made a squeamish 
use of your obliging offer. The remem- 
brance of past years, and of the sentiments 
formerly exchanged in our evening walks, 
convinces me still that an unreserved accept- 
ance of wliat is graciously ofl'ered is tiie 
handsomest way of dealing with one of your 
character. 

Believe me yours, W. C. 

As to the frequency, which you leave to 
my choice too, you have no need to e.\ceed 
the number of your former remittances. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olncy, April— I fancy the 20tli, 1777. 
My dear Friend, — Thanks for a turbot, a 
lobster, and Captain Brydone ;t a gentleman, 
who relates his travels so agreeably, that lie 
deserves always to travel with an agreeable 
companion. I have been reading Gray's 
Works, and think him the only poet since 
Khakspeare entitled to the character of sub- 
lime. Perhaps you will remember that I 
onc-e had a different opinion of him. I was 
j)rcjudiccd. He did not belong to our Tliurs- 
d.iy society, and was an Eton man, which 
lowered him prodigiously in our esteem. I 
once thought Swift's Letters the best that 
could be written ; but I like Gray's better. 
His humor, or his wit, or whatever it is to 
be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, 
and yet, I think, equally poignant with the 
Dean's. 

I am yours affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, May 25, 1777. 
My dear Friend, — We differ not much in 
our opinion of Gray. When I wrote last, I 
was in the middle of the book. His later 
E))istlcs, I think, are worth little, as such, but 
might be turned to excellent account by a 
young student of taste and judgment. As to 
West's Letters, I think I could easily bring 
your opinion of them to square with mine. 

* Private correspondence. 

t *^ Brydone," author of Travels in Sicily and Malta. 
They are written with much interest, but lie indulirf^s in 
remarks on the subject of Mount Etna which rather mili- 
tate against the Mosaic account of the creation. 



They are elegant and sensible, but have no- 
thing in them that is characteristic, or that 
discriminates them from the letters of any 
other young man of taste .and learning. As 
to the book you mention, I am in doubt 
whether to read it or not. I should like the 
philosophical part of it, but the political, 
which, I suppose, is a detail of intrigues car- 
ried on by the Company and their servants,* 
a history of rising and falling nabobs, I should 
have no appetite to at all. I will not, there- 
fore, give you the trouble of sending it at 
present. 

Yours alfectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, July 13, 1777. 

My dear Friend, — You need not give your- 
self any further trouble to procure me the 
South Sea Voyages. Lord Dartmouth, who 
was here about tt month since, and was so 
kind as to pay me two visits, has furnished 
me with both Cook's and Forster's. 'Tis 
well for the poor natives of those distant 
countries that our n-ational expenses cannot 
be supplied by cargoes of yams and bananas. 
Curiosity, therefore, being once satisfied, they 
may possibly be permitted for tlie future to 
enjoy their riches of that kind in peace. 

If, when you are most at leisure, you can 
find out Baker upon the Microscope, or Vin- 
cent Bourne's Latin Poems, the last edition, 
and send them, I shall be obliged to you, — 
either, or both, if they can be easily found. 
I am yours affectionatelv, 

W. C. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, EStJ.f 

Olney, Jan. I, 1773. 
My dear Friend, — Your last packet wtis 
doubly welcome, and Mrs. Hill's kindness 
gives me peculiar pleasure, not as coming 
from a stranger to me, for I do not account 
her so, though I never saw her, but .as com- 
ing from one so nearly connected with your- 
self. I shall take care to acknowledge the 
receipt of her obliging letter, when I return 
the books. Assure yourself, in the mean 
time, that I read as if the librarian was at 
my elbow, continually jogging it, and growl- 
ing out. Make haste. But, as I read aloud. 
I shall not have finished before the end of 
the week, and will return them by the dili- 
gence ne.xt Monday. 

* Cowper here alludes to the celebrated work of tlio 
Abb6 Raynal, entitled "Philosophical and Political His- 
tory of the Establishments and Commerce of Etn'opeans 
in the two Indies." This book created a very powerful 
sensation, bein^ written with i^reat freedom of sentinjent 
and boldness of remark, conveyed in aneloiiueul thoutih 
rather declamatory style. Such was the alarm exeilcd in 
France by this publication, that a decree passid tin- Par- 
liament of Paris, by which the work was ordered to be 
burnt. 

t Private correspondence. 



I shall be jjlad if you will let me know whe- 
ther I iini ti) urulerstiiiid by th« sorrow you 
cxprt'ss that any part of my former suppMe.s 
is actually cut off, or whether they are only 
more lardy in cominj; iu thin usual. It is 
useful, even lo the rich, lo know, as nearly 
as may be. the exact amount of their income : 
but how much more ;-olo a man of my small 
dimension-*! If the former should be the 
case, I shall have less reason to be surprised 
than I have to wonder at the continuance of 
them so loni,'. Favors are favors indeed, 
ulien laid iiul upon so barren a soil, wliere 
the exi)eusc of sowinjf is never accompanied 
by tlie smallest hope of return. What pain 
tliere is iu jfratitude, I have often felt ; but 
the pleasure of requitin;^ an obligation has 
always been out of my reach. 

All'ectionately yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEFU HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, April 11, 1778. 

Jly dear Friend, — Poor Sir Thomas !f I 
knew that I had a place in his affections, and, 
from his own information many years anfo, a 
place in his will ; but little thoufjht that after 
a lapse of so many years I should still retain 
it. His remembrance of me after so long a 
season of separation, has done me much 
honor, and leaves me the more reason to re- 
gret his decease. 

I am reading the Abbe with great satisfac- 
tion,} and think him the most intelligent 
writer upon so extensive a subject I ever met 
with : in every respect superior to the Abbe 
in yeotland. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Oliicy, Stay 7, 1778. 

My dear Friend, — I have been in continual 
fear lest every post should bring a summons 
for the Abbi- Raynal, and am glad that I have 
hnished him before my fears were realized. 
I liave kept him long, but not through neg- 
lect or idleness. I read the five volumes to 
Jlrs. Unwin ; and my voice will seldom serve 
me with more than an hour's reading at a 
time. I am indebted to him for much infor- 
mation upon subjects which, however inter- 
esting, are so remote from those with which 
country folks in general are conversant, that, 
had not his works reached me at Olney, I 
should liave been forever ignorant of them. 

I admire him as a philo.^opher, as a writer, 
as a man of extraordinary intelligence, and 
no less extraordinary abilities to digest it. 

• Privalo coiTf!*nouUoncfi. 

t !>ir Thomas llcakclb, Baronet, of Kuffurd Hull, iu 
Lnni-.;L*hire. 
1 liayual. 



He is a true p-itriot. But then the world is 
his country. The frauds and tricks of the. 
cabinet and the counter seem to be ecpi.-illy 
objects of his aversion. And, if he had not 
found that religion too had undergone a mix- 
ture of artifice, in its turn, perhap? he would 
have been a Christian. 

Yours aflcctionaielv, \V. C. 



TO JOSEril HILL, ESQ.* 

Oliicy, June 18, 1778. 
My dear Friend, — I truly rejoice that the 
Chancellor has made you such a present, that 
he has given such an .additional lustre to it 
by his manricr of conferring it, and that all 
this luipponed before you went to W'argrave, 
because it made your retirement there the 
more agreeable. This is just according to 
the character of the man. lie will give grudg- 
ingly in answer to solicitaton, but delights 
in surprising those he esteems with his boun- 
ty. May you live to receive still further 
proofs that I am not mistaken in my opinion 
of him ! 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIX. 

Olney, June 18, 1778. 

Dear Unwin, — I feel myself much obliged 
to you for your intimation, and have given 
the subject of it all my best attention, both 
before I received your letter and sinca. The 
result is, that I am persu.aded it will be bet- 
ter not to write. I know the man and his 
disposition well ; he is very liberal in his way 
of thinking, generous, and discerning. He 
is well aware of tlie tricks that are played 
upon such occasions, atid, after tlfteen years' 
interruption of all intercourse between us, 
would translate my letter into this language 
— pray remember the poor.f This would 
diagust him, because he would think our for- 
mer intimacy disgraced by such an oblique 
application. He has not forgotten me, and, 
if he had, there are those about hira who 
cannot come into his presence without re- 
minding him of nie, and he is .ilso perfectly 
acquainted with my circumstances. It would 
perhaps give him pleasure to surprise me 
with a benefit, and if he means me such a 
favor, I should dis.ip|)oint him by asking it. 

I repeat my thanks for your suggestion ; 
you see a part of my reasons for thus con- 
ducting myself; if we were together I could 
give you more. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 

♦ Priviite corrcsnondence. 

t Mr. I'nwin hild sii'.;i:<'st('(l to Cnwper thf proprii-ty of 
an :ip|iIif;ition to liord Ttturlow for soint' murk of favor; 
wliifh Ihi- lalter iievrr conferred, and wliicliCowpcr Wtts 
resolved never to solicit. 



60 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 20, 1770. 

I .am obliged to you for the Poets, and, 
though 1 little thought that I was translating 
so much mpney out of your pocket into the 
l)ook.seller"s, when I turjied Prior's poem into 
Latin, yet I must needs s.iy that, if you think 
it worth while to purchase the English Clas- 
sics at all, you cannot possess yourself of 
tlieni upon better terms. I have looked into 
s(ime of the volumes, but, not having yet 
finished the Register, have merely looked 
into them. A few things I have met with, 
wliicli, if they had been burned the moment 
they were written, it would have been better 
for the author, and at least as well for his 
readers. There is not much of thi.s, but a 
little is too much. I think it a pity the editor 
admitted any ; the English muse would have 
lost no credit by the omission of such trash. 
Some of them, again, seem to me to have 
but a very disputable right to a place among 
the Classics, and I am quite at a loss, when 
I see them in such company, to conjecture 
what is Dr. Johnson's idea or definition of 
classical merit. But, if lie inserts the Poems 
of some who can hardly be said to deserve 
such an honor, the purchaser may comfort 
himself with the hope that he will exclude 
none that do. W. C. 



TO THE REV. \V^LLIAM UNWIN.* 

Olney, July, —79. 
My dear Friend,— When I was at Margate, 
it was an excursion of pleasure to go to see 
Ramsgate. The pier, I remember, was ac- 
counted a most excellent piece of stone- 
work, and such I found it. By this time, I 
suppose, it is finished, and surely it is no 
small advantage that you have an opportu- 
nity of observing how nicely those great 
stones are put together, as often as you 
please, without either trouble or expense. 

There was not at that time, much to be 
seen in the Isle of Thanet, besides the beauty 
of the co\nilry and the fine prospects of the 
sea, which are nowhere surpassed, except in 
the Isle of Wight, or upon some parts of the 
coast of Hampshire. One sight, however, I 
remember, engaged my curiosity, and I went 
to see it — a fine piece of ruins, built by the 
late Lord Holland at a great expense, which, 
the day after I saw it, tumbled down for no- 
thing. Perhaps, therefore, it is still a ruin : 
and, if it is, I w'ould advise you by all means 
to visit it, as it must have been much im- 
proved by this fortunate incident. It is hardly 
possible to put stones together with that air 
of wild and magnificent disorder which they 
* Priviite correspondence. 



are sure to acquire by falling of their own 
accord. 

1 remember (the last thing I mean to re- 
member upon this occasion) that Sam Cox, 
the counsel, walking by the sea-side, as if 
absorbed in deep contemplation, was ques- 
tioned about what he was musing on. He 
replied, " 1 was wondering that such an al- 
most infinite and unwieldly element should 
produce a aprat." 

Our love attends your whole party. 

Yours aft'ectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

Olney, July 17, 1779. 
My dear Friend, — we envy you your sea- 
breezes. In the garden we feel notliing but 
the reflection of the heat from the walls, and 
in the parlor, from the opposite houses. I 
fancy Virgil was so situated when he wrote 
those two beautiful lines : 

.... Oh quis me gclidis in vallibus Hami 
Sistat, et ingcnti ramorum protegat umbra ! 

The worst of it is that, though the sun- 
beams strike as forcibly upon my harp-strings 
as they did upon iiis, they elicit no such 
sounds, but ratlier produce such groans as 
they are said to have drawn from tliose of 
the statue of Jlemnon. 

As you have ventured to make the experi- 
ment, your own experience will be your best 
guide in the article of bathing. An infe- 
rence will hardly follow, though one should 
pull at it with all one's might, from Smol- 
lett's case to yours. He was corpulent, 
muscuhar, and strong; wOiereas, if you were 
either stolen or strayed, such a description 
of you in an advertisement would hardly 
direct an inquirer with sufiicient acciu-acy 
and exactness. But, if bathing does not 
make your head ache, or prevent you sleep- 
ing at night, I should imagine it could nol 
liurt you. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 21, 1779. 
Amicn mio, be pleased to buy me a gla- 
zier's diamond pencil. I have glazed the 
two frames, designed to receive my |)ine 
plants. But I cannot mend the kitchen v.in- 
dows, till, by the help of that implement, 1 
can reduce the glass to its proper dimen- 
sions. If I were a plumber, I should be a 
complete glazier, and possibly the happy 
time may come, when I shall be seen triulg- 
ing away to the neighboring towns witli a 
shelf of glass hanging at my back. If gov- 
ernment should impose another tax upon 
* Private correspondence. 



that commodity, I hardly know a business 
in wliifh a ijentlciiian lui^ht more success- 
fully employ liiniself. A Chinese, of ten 
limes my I'orlniie, would avail himself of 
such an opportunily without scruple; and 
why should not I, wlii> want money as much 
as any mandarin in China ? Rousseau would 
have been charnu'd to have seen me so occu- 
pied, and would have exclaimed with rapture 
"that he had found the Emilius who, he sup- 
posed, had sid)sisted only in his own idea."' 
I would reeomntcnd it to you to follow my 
example. You will presently cpudify your- 
self for the task, and may not oidy amuse 
yourself at home, but may even exercise 
your skill in mcndiu;^ the church windows; 
which, as it would save money to the parish, 
would conduce, together with your other 
ministerial accomplishments, to make you 
extremely popular in the place. 

I have eight pair of tame pigeons. Whert 
I first enter the gardeu in the morning, I 
Hiul theiu perched upon the wall, waiting for 
their breakfast, for J feed them always upon 
the gravel walk. If your wish should be 
accomplished, and you should find yourself 
furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall 
undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only 
he so good, if that should be the case, to an- 
nounce your.sclf by some means or other. 
For I imagine your crop will require some- 
thing better than .tares to fill it. 

Vour mother and I, last week, made a trip 
In a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Jlr. 
Wright, about four miles oil'. He under- 
.stood that I did not much affect strange 
faces, and sent over his servant, on purpose 
to inform me that he was going into Leices- 
tershire, and that if I cho.sc to see the gar- 
dens I nught gratify myself without danger 
of seeing the proprietor. 1 accepted the in- 
vitation, and was delighted with all I found 
there. The situation is happy, the gardens 
elegantly dispo.sed, the hot-house in the most 
nourishing state, and the orange-trees the 
most captivating creatures of the kind I ever 
saw. A man, in short, had need have the 
talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, 
to do the whole scene justice. 

Our love attends you all. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

OIncy, Oct. 2, I77!l. 

My dear Friend, — You begin to count the 
remaining days of the vacation, not with im- 
patience, but through unwillingness to see 
the end of if. For the mind of man, at least 
of most men, is equally busy in anticipating 
the evil and the good. That word anticipa- 
tion puts rac in remembrance of the pamphlet 
• Private coiTP5"pondence. 



of that name, which, if you purchased, J 
should be glad to borrow. 1 have .seen only 
an extract from it in the Review, whic.'i 
made me laugh heartily and wish to peruse 
tlie whole. 

The newspaper informs me of the arrival 
of the Jamaica fieet. I hope it im[)orts sonu- 
pine-apple plants for me. 1 have a good 
frame, and a good bed prepared to receive 
them. I send you annexed a fable, in which 
the pine-apple makes a figure, and shall be 
glad if you like the taste of it. Two pair of 
soles, with shrimps, which arrived last night, 
demand my acknowledgments. You have 
heard that when Arion perfornu'd upon the 
harp the fish followed him. I rJally have no 
desiLHi to fiddle you out of more iish ; but, 
if you should esteem my verses worthy of 
such a price, though I shall never be so re- 
nowned as he was, I shall think myself 
equally indebted to the Muse that helps me. 

THi: piNi:-.\ppr.E and tuf bke. 
"The pitif-apples,'' &c* 

Jly affectionate respects attend Mrs. Hill. 
She has put Mr. Wright to the expense of 
building a new hot-house ; the plants pro- 
duced by the seeds she gave me having 
grown so large as to require an apartment 
bv themselves. 

Yours. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLliM UNWI.N. 

Olncj-, Oct. 31, 1770. 

-My dear Friend, — I wrote my last letter 
merely to inform you that I had nothing to 
say, in answer to which you have said no- 
thing. 1 admire the propriety of your con- 
duct, though I am a loser by it. I will en- 
deavor to say something now, and shall hope 
for something in return. 

I have been well entertained with John- 
son's biography, for which I thank you : with 
one exception, and that a swingeing one, I 
think he has not acquitted himself with his 
usual good sense and sufhcieucy. His treat- 
ment of Milton is unmerciful to the last de- 
gree. He has belabored that great poet's 
character with the most industrious cruelty. 
As a man, he has hardly left him the .shadow 
of one good quality. Churlishness in his 
private life, and a rancorous hatred of every- 
thing royal in his public, are the two colors 
with which he has smeared all the canvas. 
If he had any virtues, they are not to Ik' 
found in the Doctor's picture of him: and it 
is well for Milton that some sourness in his 
temper is the oidy vice with which his mcm- 
orv has been charged ; it is evident enough 
that, if his biographer could have discovereil 
more, he would not have spared him. An a 
• \"i(W CowporN Pocm«. 



62 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



poet, he has treated Iiim with severity 
enough, and has phieked one or two of the 
most beautiful fcatliers out of his Muse's 
wing, and trampled them under his great 
foot. He has passed sentence of condem- 
nation upon Lycidas, and has taken occasion, 
from that charming poem, to expose to ridi- 
cule (what is indeed ridiculous enough) the 
childish prattlement of pastoral compositions, 
:is if Lycidas was the prototype and pattern 
of them all. The liveliness of the descrip- 
tion, the sweetness of the numbers, the clas- 
sical spirit of antiquity that prevails in it, go 
for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, 
that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or 
ihat it wa^sto])ped, by prejudice, against the 
harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any- 
thing so delightful as the music of the Para- 
dise Lost ! It is like that of a fine organ ; 
has the fullest and deepest tones of majesty, 
ivith all the softness and elegance of the 
Dorian flute, variety without end, and never 
equalled, unless, perhaps, by Virgil. Yet 
the Doctor has little or nothing to siiy upon 
this copious theme, but talks something 
about the unfitness of the English language 
for blank verse, and how apt it is, in the 
nouth of some readers, to degenerate into 
.leclamation. 

I could talk a good while longer, but I 
have no room. Our loves attends you. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

OIncy, Nov. 14, 17T0. 
My dear Friend, — Your approbation of my 
last Heliconian present encourages me to 
send you another. I wrote it, indeed, on 
purpose for you ; for my subjects are not 
always such as I could liope would prove 
agreeable to you. My mind has always a 
melancholy cast, .and is like some pools I 
h.ave seen, which, though filled with a black 
and putrid water, will nevertheless, in a 
bright day, reflect the sunbeams from their 
surface. 

OS THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURr.OW, &i;.-f 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olnej, Dec. 2, 1T79. 
Jly dear Friend, — How quick is the suc- 
cession of human events ! The cares of to- 
day are seldom the cares of to-morrow ; and 
when we lie down at night, we m.ay safely 
say to most of our troubles — " Ye h.ave done 
_\our worst, and we shall meet no more." 

This observation was suggested to me by 

reading your hist letter, which, though I 

* rrivate correspondence. t Vide Cowper's Poems. 



have written since I received it, I have never 
answered. When that epistle passed under 
your pen, you were miserable about your 
tithes, and your imagination was hung round 
with pictures, that terrified you to such a 
degree as made even the receipt of money 
burthensome. But it is all over now. You 
sent away your farmers in good humor, (for 
you can make people merry whenever you 
please,) .and now you have nothing to do but 
to chink your purse and laugh at what is 
past. Your delicacy makes you groan under 
that which other men ne\er feel, or feel but 
lightly. A fly that settles upon the lip of 
the nose is troublesome ; and this is a com- 
parison adequate to the most that mankind 
in general are sensible of upon such tiny 
occasions. But the flies th«t pester you al- 
ways get between your eye-lids;, where the 
annoyance is almost insupportable. 

I would follow your advice, and endeavor 
to furnish Lord North with a scheme of sup- 
plies for the ensuing year, if the difficulty I 
find in answering the call of my own emer- 
gencies did not make me despair of satisfy- 
ing those of the nation. I can say but this : 
if I had ten acres of land in the world, 
whereas I have not one, and in those ten 
.acres should discover a gold mine, richer 
than all Mexico and Peru, when I had re- 
served a few ounces for my own annual 
supply I would willingly give the rest to 
government. My ambition would be more 
gr.atified by annihilating the national incum- 
brances than by going daily do\\n to the 
bottom of a mine, to wallow in my own 
emolument. This is patriotism — you will 
allow; but, alas! this virtue is for the most 
part in the hands of those who can do no 
good with it! He that has but a single 
handful of it catches so greedily at the first 
opportunity of growing rich, that his patriot- 
ism drops to the ground, and he grasps the 
gold instead of it. He (hat never meets 
with such an ojiportunity holds it fast in his 
clenched fists, and says — " Oh, how mucli 
good I would do if I could !" 

Your mother says — ^" Pray send my dear 
love." There is hardly room to add mine, 
but you will suppose it. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Fob. 27, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — As you are pleased to 
desire my letters, I am the more pleased with 
writing them ; though at the same time, I 
must needs testify my surprise that you 
should think them worth receiving, as I sel- 
dom send one that 1 think favorably of my- 
self. This is not to be understood as an 
imputation upon your taste or judgment, but 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



63 



as an encomium upon my own modesty and 
hiunility, which I di'sire you to remark well. 
It is a just ol)servaliou of Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolils, that, though men of" ordinary talents 
may be higldy satisfied witli their own pro- 
ductions, men of true genius never are. 
W'hitever be their subject, they always seem 
to themselves to fall short of it, even when 
they seem to others most to excel ; and for 
this reason — because they have a certain 
sublime sense of perfection, wliieh other 
men arc strangers to, and which they them- 
selves in their performances are not able to 
exemplify. Your servant. Sir Joshua! I lit- 
tle thought of seeing you when I began, but 
as yon have popped in you are welcollU^ 

When I wrote last, I was a little inclined 
to send you a eo])y of verses, entitled the 
.Modern Patriot, but was not quite pleas<'d 
with a line or two, which I found it dithcult 
to mend, therefore did not. At night I read 
Mr. Burke's speech in the newspaper, and 
was so well pleased with his proposals for a 
reformation, and the temper in which he made 
them, that 1 began to think better of his 
cause, and burnt my verse.s. Such is the lot 
of the man who writes upon the subject of 
the day : the aspect of affairs changes in an 
hour or two, and his opinion with it; what 
was just and well-deserved satire in the morn- 
ing, in the evening becomes a libel ; the au- 
thor commences his own judge, and, while 
he condemns with unrelenting severity what 
he so lately approved, is sorry to tind that he 
has laid his leaf gold upon touchwood, which 
crumbled away under his fingers. Alas! 
what can I do with my wit? I have not 
enough to do great things with, and these 
little things are so fugitive, that, while a man 
catches .at the subject, he is otdy filling liis 
hand with smoke. 1 must do with it as I do 
with my linnet : I keep him for the most 
part in a cage, but now and then set open 
the door, that lie may whisk about the room 
a little, and then sliut him up again. My 
whisking wit has )u'oduced the following, the 
subject of which is more important than the 
manner in which I have treated it seems to 
imply, but a fable may speak truth, and all 
truth is sterling; I only premise that, in the 
philosophical tract in the Register, I found it 
asserted that the glow-worm is the nightin- 
gale's food.* 

An officer of a regiment, part of which is 
rjuartered here, g.ave one of llie soldiers leavi! 
to be drunk six weeks in hopes of curing him 
by satiety; lie «■«.< drunk six weeks, and is 
.so still, as often as he can find an opportunity. 
One vice may swallow up another, Imt no 
coroner, in the state of Ethics, ever brought 
in his verdict, when a vice died, that it wa.s — 
felo de se. 

* This tetter contJii nod llio Deuutirid fablo of tho Nlghl- 
Itt^ale imd the G4ow-wurni. 



Thanks for all you have done, and all you 
intend ; tho biography will be particularly 
welcome. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. NEWTON.* 

Olney, March 4, 17K). 

Dear Madam, — To communicate surprise 
is almost, perhaps (|uite, as agreeable^ as to 
receive it. This is my present motive for 
writing to you rather than to Mr. Newton. 
He would be pleased with hearing from me, 
but he would not be surprised at it; you see, 
therefore, I am selfisli upon the present occa- 
sion, and principally ccuisult my own gratifi- 
cation. Indeed, if I consulted yours, I should 
be silent, for I have no such budget as the 
minister's, furnished and stuffed with ways 
and means for every emergency, and shall 
find it dillicnlt, perhaps, to raise supplies even 
for a short epi.stle. 

^'ou have observed, in common convers.a- 
tion, that the man who coughs the oftenest 
(I mean if he has not a cold), does it be- 
cause he has nothing to s.ay. Even so it is 
in letter-writing: a long preface, such as 
mine, is an ugly symptom, and always fore- 
bodes gre.at sterility in the following pages. 

The vicarage-house became a melancholy 
object as soon as .Mr. Newton had left it ; 
when you left it, it became more melancholy : 
now it is actually occupied by another fam- 
ily, even I cannot look at it without being 
shocked. As I walked in the garden this 
evening, I saw the smoke issue from the 
-study chimney, and said to myself. That used 
to be a sign that Jlr. Newton \\-as there ; but 
it is so no longer. The walls of the house 
know nothing of the change that has taken 
place; the bolt of the chamber-door sounds 

just as it u^ed to do ; and wlien Mr. P 

goes up stairs, for aught I know, or ever 
shall know, the fall of his foot could hardly, 
perhaps, be distinguished from that of Mr. 
Newton. But Mr. Newton's foot will never 
be heard upon that staircase ag.iin. These 
reflections, and such as these, occurred to me 
upon the occasion. ... If I were in a con- 
dition to leave Gluey too, I certainly would 
not st.ay in it. It is no attachment to the 
place that binds me here, but an unfitness for 
every other. I lived in it once, but now lam 
buried in it, and have no business with the 
world on the outside of my sepulchre; my 
appearance would startle them, .and theirs 
v.onld be shocking to me. 

Such are my thoughts about the matter. 
Others are more deeply .alTected, and by more 
weighty considerations, having been many 
yeurs the objects of a mini.stry which they 
had reason to account themselves happy in 
the possession of . . . 

• Private correspondence. 



64 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We were concerned at your account of 
Robert, and have little doubt but he will 
shutfle himself out of his place. Whore he 
will find another is a question not to be re- 
solved by those who recommended him to 
this. I wrote him a long letter a day or two 
rifier the receipt of yours, but I am afraid it 
was only clapping a blister upon the crown 
of a wig-block. 

My respects attend Blr. Newton and your- 
self, accompanied with much ati'cction for 
you both. 

Yours, dear Madam, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Marcli 16, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — If I had had the horns 
of a snail, I should have drawn them in the 
moment I saw the reason of your epistolary 
brevity, because I felt it too. May your seven 
reams be multiplied into fourteen, till your 
letters become truly Lacedemonian, and are 
reduced to a single syllable. Though I shall 
be a sufferer by the effect, I shall i-cjoicc in 
the cause. You are naturally formed for 
bu.siness, and such a head as yours can never 
have too much of it. Though my predictions 
have been fulfilled in two instances, I do not 
plume myself much upon my sagacity ; be- 
cause it required but little to foresee that 
Thurlow would be Chancellor, and that you 
would luave a crowded office. As to the rest 
of my connexions, there too I h.ave given 
proof of equal foresight, with not a jot more 
reason for vanity. 

To use the phrase of all who ever wrote 
upon the state of Europe, the political hori- 
zon is dark indeed. The cloud has been 
thickening, and the thunder advancing many 
years. The storm now seems to be vertical, 
and thrc^atens to burst upon the land, as if 
with tlie next clap it would shake all to 
pieces. — As for me, I am no Quaker, except 
where military matters are in question, and 
there I am much of the same mind with an 
honest man, who, when he was forced into 
the service, declared he would not fight, and 
gave this reason — because he saw nothing 
worth fighting for. You will say, perhaps, 
is not liberty worth a struggle? True: but 
will success ensure it to me? Might I not, 
like the Americans, emancipate myself from 
.one master only to serve a score, and with 
'laurels upon my brow sigh for my former 
chanis again'.' 

Many thanks for your kind invitation. 
Ditto to Mrs. Hill, for the seeds — ^unexpected, 
and therefore the more welcome. 

* Privixte correspondencp. 



You gave me great pleasure by what you 
s.aid of my uncle.* His motto shall be 

Hie ver perpetuum atque alicnis mensibus aestaa. 

I remember the time when I have been 
kept waking by the fear that he would die 
before me ; but now I think I shall grow 
old first. 

Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 18, 1780. 

I am obliged to you for the communica- 
tion of your correspondence with . It 

was impossible for any man, of any temper 
whatever, and however wedded to his oun 
purpose, to resent so gentle and friendly an 
exhortation as you sent him. Men of lively 
imaginations are not often remarkable for 
solidity of judgment. They have generally 
.strong passions to bias it, and are led far 
away from their proper road, in pursuit of 
petty ph.'\ntoms of their own creating. No 
law ever did or can eflect what he has as- 
cribed to that of Moses: it is reserved for 
mercy to subdue the corrupt inclinations of 
mankind, which threatenings and penalties, 
through the depravity of the heart, have al- 
ways had a tendency rather to inllame. 

The love of power seems as natural to 
kings as the desire of liberty is to their sub- 
jects; the excess of either is vicious and 
fends to the ruin of both. There are many, 
I believe, who wish the present corrupt state 
of things disolved, in hope th:it the pure 
primitive constitution will spring up from the 
ruins. But it is not for man, by himself man, 
to bring order out of confusion : the prog- 
ress from one to the other is not natural, 
much less necessary, and, without the inter- 
vention of divine aid, impossible ; and they 
who are for making the hazardous experi- 
ment would certainly find themselves disap- 
pointed. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM U.NWIN. 

Olney, March 2S, 1780. 
Sly dear Friend, — I have heard nothing 
more from Mr. Newtor, upon the subject you 
mention; but I dare say, that, having been 
given to expect the benefit of your nomina- 
tion in behalf of his nephew, he still depends 

upon it. His obligations to Mr. have 

been so numerous and so weighty, that, 
though he has in a few instances prevailed 
upon himself to I'ecommend an object now 
and then to his patronage, he has very spar- 

• Ashley Cowpcr, Esq. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



65 



ingly. if at all, cxercisi-d his interest with Iiiiii 
ill behalf of his oun relations. 

With respoet to the adviee you are required 
to give a young lady, that she may be properly 
instructed in the manner of keeping the -sab- 
bath, 1 just subjoin a few hints that have oe- 
eured to me upon tlie occasion, not because 
I think you want them, but because it would 
seem unkind to withhold tliem. The sabbath 
then, I think, may be considered, first, as a 
commandment no less binding upon modern 
Christians, than upon ancient Jews, because 
the spiritual people amongst them did not 
think it enough to abstain from m.anual occu- 
pations upon that day, but, entering more 
deeply into the meaning of the precept, al- 
lotted those hours they took from tjie world 
to the cultivation of holiness in their own 
souls, which ever was, and ever will be, a duty 
incumbent ujum all who ever heard of a sab- 
bath, and is of perpetual obligation both upon 
Jews and Christians : (the eoinmandmeut, 
therefore, enjoins it : the prophets have also 
enforced it ; and in many instances, both 
scriptural and modern, the breach of it has 
been punished with a providential and judicial 
severity, that may make by-standers trem- 
ble :) secondly, as a privilege, which you 
well know how to dilate upon, better than I 
can tell you : thirdly, as a sign of that cove- 
nant, by which believers are entitled to a rest 
that yet remaineth ; fourthly, as a sine qua 
mm of the Christian character ; and, upon this 
head, I slionid guard against being misunder- 
stood to mean no more than two attendances 
upon public worship, which is a form complied 
with by thousands who never kept a sabbath 
in their- lives. Consistence is necessary to 
give substance and solidity to the whole. To 
sanctify the day at church, and to trifle it 
away out of church, is profanation, and 
vitiates all. After all could I ask my cate- 
chumen one short question — '■ Do you love 
the day, or do you not '. If you love it, you 
will never inquire how far you may safely 
deprive yourself of the enjoyment of it. If 
you do not love it, and you find yourself 
obliged in conscience to acknowledge it, that 
is an alarming symptom, and ought to make 
you tremble. If you do not love'it, then it is 
a weariness to you, and you wish it was over. 
The ideas of labor and rest are not more 
opposite to each other than the idea of a 
sabbath and that dislike and disgust with 
which it fills the souls of thous.ands to be 
obliged to keep it. It is worse than bodilv 
labor.' 

W. C. 



TO Tlli: REV. WILLIAM UXWIN. 

OInc), April 6, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — I never was, any more 
than yourself, a friend to pluralities; they 



are generally found in the hands of the nva- 
riciou.s, whose insatiable hunger after prefer- 
ment proves them unworthy of any at all. 
They attend much to the regular payment of 
their dues, but not at all to the s|)iritual in- 
terests of their parishioners. Having forgot 
their duty, or never known it, they ditfer 
in nothing from the laity, except their oui- 
ward garb and their exclusive right to the 
desk and pulpit. But when pluralities seek 
the man instead of being sought by him, 
and when the man is hone.st, conscientious, 
and pious, careful to emjdoy a substitute, i,i 
those respects, like him.self; and, not con- 
tented with this, will see with his own eyes 
that the concerns of his parishes .are decently 
and diligently administered: in that case, con- 
sidering the present dearth of such characters 
in the ministry, I think it an event advanUi- 
geous to the people, and much to be desired 
by all who regret the great and apparent 
want of sobriety and earnestness among the 
clergy.* A man who does not .seek a living 
merely .^s a pecuniary emolument has no 
need, in my judgment, to refuse one because 
it is so. He means to do his duty, and bv 
doing it he earns his wages. The two recto- 
ries being contiguous to each other, and fol- 
lowing easily under the care of one pastor, 
and both so near to Stock that you can visit 
them without dilllculty as often as you please. 
I see no reasonable olijection, nor'does your 
mother. As to the wry-mouthed sneer.-i' and 
illiberal misconstructions of the censorious,! 
know no better shield to guard you against 
them than what you arc already furnished 
with — a clear and uuoffended conscience. 

I am obliged to you for what you said upon 
the subject of book-buying, and am very fond 
of availing myself of another man's pocket, 
when I can do it creditably to myself and 
without injury to him. Amusements are 
necessary in a retirement like mine, espe- 
cially in such a sable st.ate of mind as I labor 
under. The necessity of amu.-tement makes 
me sometimes write verses — it made me a 
carpenter, a bird-cage maker, a gardener — 
and has lately taught me to di-aw, and to 
draw too with such surprising proficiency in 
the art, considering my total ignorance of it 
two months ago, that, when I show your 
mother my productions, she is all admiration 
and applause. 

Villi need never fear the communication of 
what you entrust to us in confidence. Von 
know your mother's delicacy on this point 
sullicieiilly, and as for me, I once wrote a 
Connoisseurf upon the .subject of secret- 
keeping, and from that day to this I believe 
1 have never divulged one. 

♦ A Iiapny chanire lias occurred since thia period, and 
tlic revival of piely in Ihe Church of England must bo 
perceptible lo every observer. — En. 

t llisineiuiint; iii, he contributed lothe "Connoisseur" 
an essay or leUer on this subjecl. 





G6 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We were much pleased with Mr. Newton's 
■Tpplieation to you for a charity sermon, and 
what he said upon that subject in his hist 
letter, " that he was glad of an opportunity to 
give you that proof of his regard." 

Believe me yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, .\pril 16, 17S0. 
Since I wrote last, we have had a visit from 
. I did not feel myself vehemently dis- 
posed to receive him with that complaisance 
from which a stranger generally infers that 
lie is welcome. By his manner, which was 
rather bold than easy, I judged that there was 
no occasion for it, and that it was a trifle 
which, if he did not meet with, neither would 
he feel the want of. He has the air of a 
travelled man, but not of a travelled gentle- 
man ; is quite delivered from that reserve 
which is so common an ingredient in the Eng- 
lish character, yet does not open himself 
gently and gradually, as men of polite behav- 
ior do, but bursts upon you all at once. He 
talks very loud, and when our poor little 
robins hear a great noise, they are immedi- 
ately seized with an ambition to surpass it — 
llie increase of their vociferation occasioned 
an increase of his, and his in return acted as 
a stimulus upon their.s — neither side enter- 
tained a thought of giving up the contest, 
which became continually more interesting 
to our ears during the whole visit. The birds 
however survived it, and so did we. They 
perhaps flatter themselves they gained a 

complete victory, but 1 believe Mr. could 

have killed them both in another hour. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Oluey, May 3, 1780. 

Dear Sir, — You indulge me in such a vari- 
ety of subjects, and allow me such a latitude 
of excursion in this scribbling employment, 
that I have no e.xcusc for silence. I am 
mucli obliged to you for swallowing such 
boluses as I send you, for the sake of my 
gilding, and verily believe I am the only man 
alive, fi-om whom tliey would be welcome to 
a palate like yours. I wish I could make 
them more splendid than they are, more 
alluring to the eye, at least, if not more 
pl<'asing to the taste ; but my leat-gold is 
tarnislied, and has received such a tinge from 
the vapors th.at are ever brooding over my 
mind, that I think it no small proof of your 
jKirtiality to me that you will read my letters. 
I am not fond of long-winded metajihors ; I 
have always observed that they halt at the 
latter end of their progress, and so docs 
mine. I deal much in ink, indeed, but not 



such ink as is employed by poets and writers 
of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and 
guilty of no deceptions but such as may pre- 
vail, without the least injury, to the per.son 
imposed on. I draw mountains, valleys, 
woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab- 
chicks. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Un- 
win admires them, and her praise and my 
praise put together are fame enough for me. 
Oh ! I could spend whole days and moon- 
light nights in feeding upon a lovely pros- 
pect ! My eyes drink the rivers as they flow, 
if every human being upon earth could think 
for one quarter of an hour as I have done for 
many years, there might, perhaps, be many 
miserable men among them, but not an un- 
awakcned one would be found fi-om the arc- 
tic to the antarctic circle. At present, the 
difference between them and me is greatly to 
their advantage. I delight in baubles, and 
know them to be so ; for, viewed without a 
reference to their author, what is the earth, 
wliat are the planets, what is the sun itself, 
but a bauble .' Better for a man never to 
have seen them, or to see them with tlie eyes 
of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what 
tie beholds, than not to be able to say, "The 
Maker of all these wonders is ray friend !" 
Their eyes have never been opened to see 
that they are trifles ; mine have been, and 
will be till they are closed forever. They 
think a fine estate, a large conservatory, a 
hothou.se, rich as a West Indian garden, 
things of consequence, visit them with pleas- 
ure, and muse upon them with ten times 
more. I am pleased with a frame of four 
lights, doubtful whetlier the few pines it 
contains will ever be worth a farthing; 
amuse myself with a green-house, which 
Lord Bute's gardener could take upon his 
back, and walk away with ; and when I have 
paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, 
and given it air, 1 say to myself — "This is 
not mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the 
present, I must leave it soon." W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESC}. 

Olney, May fi, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
you "for your speedy answer to my queries. 
I know less of the law than a country attor- 
ney, yet souietimes I think 1 h.ave almost as 
much business. My former connexion «'ith 
the profession has got wind, and though I 
earnestly profess, and protest, and prochiim 
it .abroad, th.at I know nothing of the matter, 
they cannot be persuaded to believe, lliat a 
head once endowed with a legal periwig can 
ever be deficient in those natural endowments 
it is supposed to cover. I have had the good 
fortune to be once or twice in the right, 
which, added to the cheapness of a gratui- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



G7 



tons counsel, has advanced my credit to a de- 
gree I never expected to attain in tlie capacity 
ot' a lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest 
in the science of jurisprudence may give op- 
posite opinions on the same point, which 
does not nntVoquently happen, it seems to 
be a matter of indili'eVcnce, whether a man 
answers by ndc or at a venture. He that 
slumhles upon the riifht side of Ilie question, 
is just as useful to his client as he that ar- 
rives at the same end by regular approaches, 
and is conducted to the mark he aims at by 
the greatest authorities. 

These violent attacks of a distemper so of- 
ten fatal arc very .alarming to all who esteem 
and respect the Chancellor as he deserves. 
A life of conrniement and of anxious atten- 
tion to iniportani objects, where the habit is 
bilious to such a terrible degree, threatens to 
be but a short one ; and I wish he may not 
be made a tc.\t for men of reflection to mor- 
alize upon ; affording a conspicuous instance 
of the transient and fading nature of all 
human accomplishments and attainments. 
Yours affectionately, VV. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

OIncy, M.iy 8, 1780. 
Jly dear Friend, — My scribbling humor has 
of late been entirely absorbed in the passion 
for landscape-drawing. It is a most amusing 
art, and, like every other art, reijuires much 
practice and attention. 

Nil sine multo 
Vi^ labore dedit uiortalilms. 

Excellence is providentially placed beyon^l 
the reach of indolence, that success may be 
tlu' reward of industry, and that idleness may 
be punished wilh obscurily and disgrace. So 
long as I am pleased with an employment I 
am cnpiblc of unwearied application, because 
my feelings are all of the intense kind: I 
never received a litfl'.' pleasure from anything 
in my life ; if I am delighted, it is in the ex- 
treme. The unhappy consequence of this 
teiuper.nuent i.s, tliat my attaclunent to any 
occupation seldom outlives the iu>velty of it. 
That nerve of my imagination, that feels the 
touch of any particular amusement, twangs 
under the energy of the pressure with so 
much vehemence, that it soon becomes sen- 
sible of weariness aiul fatigue. Hence I draw 
an unfavorable prognostic, and expect that I 
shall shortly be constrained to look out for 
something else. Then perhaps I may siring 
the harp again, and be able to comply with 
your demand. 

Now for the visit you propose to pay us, 
and propose not to p.iy us, the hope of which 



pl.iys upon your paper, like a jack-o-lantern 
upon the ceiling. This is no mean simile, 
for Virgil (you remember) uses it. 'Tis here, 
'tis there, itVanishes, it returns, it dazzles you, 
a cloud interposes, aiul it is gone. However 
just the com|iarison, I hoi)e you will contrive 
to s|)oil it, and that your linal determination 
will be to come. As to the masons you ex- 
pect, bring them witli you — bring brick, bring 
mortar, bring everything, that would opjiose 
itself to your journey — all shall be welcome. 
I have a green-house that is too small, come 
and enlarge it ; build me a pinery ; repair the 
garden-wall, that has great need of your as- 
sistance; do anything, you cannot do too 
much; so far from thinking you and your 
train troublesome, we shall rejoice to see 
you, upon these or upon any other terms 
you can propose. But, to be serious — you 
will do well to consider that a long summer 
is before you — that the party will not have 
such another opportunity to meet this great 
wliile — that you nuiy liiiish your masonry 
long enough before winter, though you 
should not begin this nnjuth, but that yon 
caiwiot always find your brother and sister 
Powley at Olney. These and some other 
considerations, such .as the desire we have to 
see you, and the pleasure we expect from 
seeing you all together, may, .and I think 
ought, to overcome your scruples. 

From a general recollection of Lord Claren- 
don's History of the Rebellio]i, I thought, (and 
I remember I told ymi so,) that there was a 
striking resemblance between that period and 
the present. But I am now reading, and have 
read three volumes oi', Hume's History, one 
of which is engrossed entirely by that sub- 
ject. There I see reason to alter my opinion, 
and the seeming resenililauce has dis.ippeared 
upon a more particular information. Charles 
succeeded to a long train of arbitrary princes, 
whose subjects had tamely acquiesced in the 
despotism of their masters till their privileges 
were all forgot. He did but tread in their 
steps, .and exemplify the principles in which 
he had been brought up, when he oppressed 
his people. But, just at that time, unhappily 
for the monarch, the subject began to see, 
and to see that he had a right to pro|)erty 
and freedom. This marks a sullicient differ- 
ence between the disputes of that day and 
the present. But there was another main 
cause of that rebellion, which at this time 
does not operate at all. The king was de- 
voted to the hierarchy ; his subjects were 
puritans and would not bear it. Every cir- 
cumstance of ecclesia.slical order and disci- 
pline was an abomination to them, and, in his 
esteem, an indi.^pensable duty; and, though 
at last he was obliged to give up many things, 
he would not abolish episcopacy, and till th.at 
were done his concessions cmild have no con- 
1 ciliating effect. These two concurring causes 



f)8 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



were, indeed, sufficient to set tiiree kingdoms 
in a flame. But tliey subsist not now, nor 
iiiiy other. I liope, nolwittistanding tlie tiuslle 
made liy tlie patriots, equal to the production 
of such terrible events.* 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 

The correspondence of the poet with his 
cousin Jlrs. Cowper was at this time resumed, 
after an interval of ten years. She was 
(lee])ly atHicted by the loss of her brother, 
Frederick Madan, an officer wlio died in 
America, after having distinguished himself 
by poetical talents as well as by military 
virtues. 



TO MKS. COWI'ER. 

Olncy, May 10, 1780. 

My dear Cousin, — I do not write to com- 
fort you ; that office is not likely to be well 
performed by one who has no comfort for 
himself; nor to comply witJi an impertinent 
ceremony, which in general might well be 
spared upon such occasions ; but because I 
would not seem indifferent to the concerns 
of those I have so much reason to esteem 
and love. If I did not sorrow for your 
brother's death, I should expect that nobody 
would for mine; wlien I knew him, he was 
much beloved, and I doubt not continued to 
be so. To live and die together is the lot 
of a i'tw happy families, who hardly know 
^vh.•lt ii separation means, and one sepulchre 
serves them all : but the ashes of our kin- 
dred are dispersed indeed. Whether the 
American Gulf has swallowed up any other 
nf my rclatiofls, I know not; it has made 
numy mourners. 

Believe me, my dear cousin, though after 
a long silence, which, perhaps, nothing less 
than the present concern could have prevailed 
with me to interrupt, as much as ever, 
Vour ati'ection.ite kinsman, 

\V. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEW'TON. 

Oliioy, Mny 10, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — If authors could have 
lived to adjust and authenticate their own 
te.\t, a commentator would have been a use- 
less creature. For instance — if Dr. Bentley 
had found, or opined tluit he had found, the 
word tubs, where it seemed to present itself 
to you, and had judged the subject worthy 
of his critical acumen, he would either have 
justified the corrupt reading, or have substi- 

* To Ihoai-' wlio contemplate the courap of modern 
oveiits, and the signs of tlie times, there may Ik; a doul)t 
wiieUicr the senliment here e.xpressed is equally applica- 
l)le in the present age. May the union of good and wise 
men lie llie means, under the Providence of God, ot^ 
avcrling everj' threatening danger. 



tuted some invention of his own, in defence 
of which he would h.ive exerted all his po- 
lemical abilities, and have quairelled with 
half the literati in Europe. Then suppose 
the writer himself, as in the present case, to 
interpose, with a gentle whisper, thus — " If 
you look again, doctor, yon will perceive, 
that what appears to you to be hibp is neither 
more nor less than the moiiosyllalile hiA. but 
I wrote it in great haste, and the want of suf- 
ficient precision in the character has occa^ 
sioned your mistake; yoii will be satisfied, 
especially when you see the sense elucidated 
by the c.xpl.anation." — But I question whether 
the doctor would quit his ground, or allow 
any author to be a competent judge in his 
own case. The world, liowever, would ac- 
quiesce immediately, and vote the critic use- 
less. 

James Andrews, who is my Michael An- 
gelo, pays me many compliments on my suc- 
cess in the art of drawing, but I have not yet 
the vanity to think myself qualified to fur- 
nish your apartment. If I should ever attain 
to the degree of self-opinion requisite to such 
an undertaking, I shall labor at it with pleas- 
ure. I can only say, though I hope not with 
the affected modesty of the above-mentioned 
Dr. Bentley, who said the same filing. 

Me quoque dicunt 
Vatem pastores; scd non ego credulus illis. 

A crow, rook, or raven, has built a nest in 
one of the young elm-trees at the side of 
Mrs. Aspray's orchard. In the violent storm 
that blew yesterday morning, I saw it agi- 
tated to a degree that seemed to threaten its 
immediate destruction, and versified the fol- 
lowing thoughts upon the occasion.* 

w. c. 



TO MRS. NE^VTON.f 

Olney, June 2, 1780. 

Dear Bladam, — Wlien I write to I\Ir. New- 
ton, he answers me by letter ; when I write 
to you, you answer me in fish. I return you 
many thanks for the mackeivl and lobster. 
They assured me, in terms as intelligible as 
pen and ink could have spoken, that you still 
i-emeraber Orchnrd-shk ; and, though they 
never .spoke in their lives, and it was still l(jss 
to be e.vpected from them that they should 
speak being dead, they gave us an assur.ance 
of your affection fhat corresponds exactly 
with that which Mr. Newton expresses tow- 
ards us in all his letters. — For my own part, 
I never in my life began a letter more at a 
venture than the present. It is possible that 
I may finish it, but perhaps more than proba- 
ble that I shall not. I have had several in- 
dilferent nights, and the wind is easterly; 

* Cowper's fable of the Raven concluded this letter. 
t Private con-cspondencc. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



69 



two circumstances so unfavorable to me in 
all my ow'iip:itions, but especially that of 
uritiiit;, that it was with the greatest ditli- 
culty 1 could even briiinf myself to attempt it. 
Vmi Irive never yet pei-h:ipsbcen made ac- 
quainted with the unfortunate Tom F — "s 
uiisadveiitiire. He and his wife, retnrninij 
from llanslope tair, were comint; down VVes- 
ton-lane ; to wit, themselves, their horse, and 
their frreat wooden panniers, at ten o'clock 
at night. The liorse havinjr a lively imagi- 
nation and very weak nerves, fancied he either 
saw or heard somethinir, but has never been 
able to say what. A sudden fris^dit will im- 
part activity and a momentary vigor even to 
huneness itself. Accordingly he started and 
sprang from the middle of tlic road to the? 
side of it, with such surprising alacrity, that 
he dismounted the gingerbread baker and his 
gingerbread wife in a nioment. Not con- 
tented with this etfort, nor thinking himself 
yet out of danger, he proceeded as fast as he 
could to a full gallop, rushed against (he gate 
at the bottom of the lane, and opened it for 
himself, without perceiving that there was 
any gate there. Still lie gallojied, and w'ith 
a velocity and momentum continually increas- 
ing, till he arrived in OIney. I had been in 
bed about ten minutes, when I heard the 
most uncommon and unaccountable noise th:it 
can be imagined. It was, in fact, occasioned 
by the clattering of tin pattypans and a Dutch 
oven against the sides of the panniers. Much 
gingerbread was picked up iu the street, and 
Mr. Lucy's windows were broken all to 
pieces. Had this been all, it would have been 
a comedy, but we leanu'd the next morning 
that the jjoor woman'scoUar-bone was broken, 
and she h.as hardly been able to resume her 
occupation since. 

What is added on the other side, if I could 
have persuaded myself to write sooner, would 
have reached vou sooner; 'tis about ten days 
old. ... 

THE DOVES.* 

The male dove was smoking a pipe, and 
the female dove was sewing, while she de- 
livered herself as above. This little circum- 
-sUiiice may lead you perhaps to guess what 
pair I had in my eye. 

Yours, dear madam, VV. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olnfj-, JuncH, I7H0. 

l[y dear Friend, — It is possible I might 
have indulged myself in the pleasure of writ- 
ing to you, without waiting for a letter from 
you, but for a reason which you will not 
easily guess. Your inoth(!r communicated 
to me the satisfaction you expressed in my 
correspondence, that you thought me enter- 
• Vide Cowper'a Poems. 



taining, and clever, and so forth. Now you 
must know I love praise dearly, especially 
from th(> judicious, and those who have so 
much delicacy themselves as not to otl'cml 
mine in giving it. But then, I found this 
conseipu'iice attending, or likely to attend, 
the eulogium you bestowed — if luy friend 
thought me witty before, he sluiU think me 
ten times more witty hereafter — whore I joked 
once, I will joke live times, and, for one sen- 
sible remark, I will send him a dozen. Now 
this foolish vanity would have spoiled me 
ipiite, and would have made me as disgusting 
a letier-writer as Pope, who seems to have 
thought that unless a sentence was well 
turned, and every period pointed with some 
conceit, it was not worth the carriage. Accord- 
ingly he is to me, except in a very few in- 
stances, the most disagreeable maker of epis- 
tles that ever I met with. 1 was willing 
therefore to wait till the iini)ressi()n your 
commendation had made upon the foolish 
part of me was worn off, that I might scrib- 
ble away as usual, and write my uppermost 
thoughts, and those only. 

You are better skilled in ecclesiastical law 
than I am. — llr.s. P. desires me to inform 
lier, whether a p.arson can he obliged to take 
an .•ipprentice. For some of her husband's 

opposers, at D , threaten to clap one upon 

Inm. Now I think it would he ratlier hard 
if clergymen, who are not allowed to exer- 
cise any handicrafi whatever, shoulil be sub- 
ject to such an imposition. If Jlr. P. was a 
cordwainer or a breeches-maker all the week 
and a preacher only on Sundays, it wouhl 
seem reasonable enough in that case that he 
shuuld take an apprentice if he chose it. But 
even then, in my poor judgment, he ought to 
be left to his option. If they mean by an 
apprentice a pupil whom they will oblige him 
to hew into a par.-on, and, after chipping 
away the block that hides the minister within, 
to riualjfy him to stand erect in a pulpit — 
that, indeed, is another consideration. But 
still we live iu a free country, and 1 cannot 
bring myself even to suspect that an English 
divine can possibly be liahle to such compul- 
sion. Ask your uncle, however: for he is 
wi.ser in these things than either of us. 

I thank you for your two in.scriptions, and 
like the last the best ; the thought is just and 
fine — but the two last lines are sadlv dam- 
aged by the monkish jingle of ■pepcril and 
rc/ifrit. I have not yet translated them, nor 
do I promise to do it, though at some idle 
hour perhaps I may. In return, I send you 
a translation of a simile iu the Paradise liOsl, 
Not having that poem at hand, I cannot refer 
you to the book and page, but you may hunt 
for it, if you think it worth your while. It 
begins — 

" So when from mountain tops the dusky clouds 
Ascending," &c. 



70 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Ciuales aerii montis de vertice nubes, 

Cum surgunt, et jam Borcse tumida ora quicrunt, 

Cailum hilares abdit. spissa caligine, vultus : 

Turn si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, 

Et croceo montes et pascua lurnine tinjrat, 

Gaudent omnia, avesmulcent concentibus arrros, 

Balatuque oviuoi coiles, valesque resultant. 

If you spy any fault in my Latin, tell me, 
for I am sometimes in doubt; but, as I told 
you when you was here, I have not a Latin 
book in the world to consult, or eorreet a 
mistake by, and some years have passed since 
I was a school-boy. 

AN F-NGLJSH VERSIFICATION OF A THOUGHT THAT 
POPPED INTO MY HEAD ABOUT TWO MONTHS 
SINCE. 

Sweet stream ! that winds through yonder glade — 

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid ! — 

Silent, and chaste, she steals along, 

Far from the world's gay, busy throng, 
With gentle yet prevailing force, 
Intent upon her dcstin'd course : 
Graceful and useful all she does. 
Blessing and blest where'er she goes; 
Pure bosom'd, as that watery glass, 
And heav'n reflected in her face. 

Now this is not so exclusively applicable 
to a maiden as to be the sole property of 
your sister Shuttleworth. If you look at 
Mrs. Unwin, you will see that she has not 
lost her right to this just praise by marrying 
you. 

Your mother sends her love to all, and mine 
comes jogging along by the side of it. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KF.V. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, June 12, 1780. 

Dear Sir, — We accept it as an effort of 
your friendship, that you could prevail with 
yourself, in a time of such terror and dis- 
tress, to send us repeated accounts of yotirs 
and Jlrs. Newton's welfjtre. You supposed, 
with reason enough, that we should be ap- 
prehensive for your safety, situated as you 
were, apparently within the reach of so much 
danger. We rejoice that you have escaped 
it all, and that, except the anxiety which you 
must have felt both for yourselves and 
others, you have sutTered nothing upon this 
dreadful occasion. A metropolis in flames, 
and a nation in ruins, are subjects of con- 
templation for such a mind as yours, that 
will leave a la.sting impression behind them.* 
It is well that the design died in the execu- 

* Tlie event here alluded to was a crisis of great na- 
tional danger. It originated in the concessions granted 
by Parliament to the Roman Catholics, in consequence 
of which a licentious mob a.ssembled in great multitudes 
in .St. George's Fields, and excited the greatest alarm by 
their unbridled fury. They proceeded to destroy all the 
Romish chapels in London and its vicinity. The prisons 
of Newgate, the Fleet, and King's Bench, were attacked, 



tion, and will be buried, I hope, never to rise 
again, in tlie ashes of its own combustion. 
There is a melancholy pleasure in looking 
back upon such a scene, arising from a com- 
parison of pos-ibilities with facts ; the enor- 
mous bulk of the intended mischief, with the 
abortive and partial accomplishment of it: 
much was done, more indeed than could have 
been suppo.sed practicable in a well-regulated 
city, not unfurnished with a military force for 
its protection. But surprise and astonish- 
ment seem, at first, to have struck every nerve 
of the police with a palsy, and to have dis- 
armed government of all its powers.* 

I congratulate you upon the wi.sdom that 
withheld you from entering yourself a member 
of the Protestant Association. Your friends 
who did so have reason enough to regret their 
doing it, even though they should never be 
called upon. Innocent as they are, and they 
who know them cannot doubt of their being 
perfectly so, it is likely to bring an odium on 
the profession they m:ike that will not soon 
be forgotten. Neither is it possible for a 
quiet, inofl'en.sive man to discover on a sud- 
den that his zeal has carried him into such 
company, without being to the last degree 
shocked at his imprudence. Their religion 
was an honorable mantle, like that of Elijah, 
but the majority wore cloaks of Guy Fawkes's 
time, and meant nothing so little as what 
they pretended. W. C. . 



TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UN^VW. 

OIney, June 18, 17S0. 
Reverend and dear William, — The affairs 
of kingdoms and the concerns of individuals 
are variegated alike with the cliequer-work of 
joy and sorrow. The news of a great ao- 
(juisition in Americaf has succeeded to terri- 

and exposed to the devoiu-ing flarae. The Bank itself 
was threatened with an assault, when a well-discil)lined 
hand, called the London Association, aided by the regu- 
lar troop.-^. disperj^ed the multitude, hut not without the 
slaughter of about two hundred and twenty of the most 
active rin:,dra(hrs. Tlie whole cilj presented a melan- 
ebiily «rcue of riot and devastation: and the houses of 
Muuiy private unlividuals were involved in tlie ruin. The 
liuiise ul* Lord rhief .Justice Manslield was the particular 
object of |ioj>uI:ir fury. Lord (Jeorgc Gordon, who acted 
a prMiiiiuent part on ll.isneea^ioii, was afterwards brought 
to trial, and bis iletVnrr- uiidertakeu tiy Mr. Kenyon. af- 
terwiu'ls well kanwii by lln' lille of Lord Kenyon. Vari- 
ous facts and eirniuistaiiees having lieen adduced in fa- 
vor of Lord toorge (Jordnn. bis lordship was acquitted. 
It is instructive to contemplate the tide of human pas- 
sions and events, and to contrast this spirit of religious 
persecution with the final removal of Catholic disabilities 
at a later period. 

* Cowper alludes to this atllicting page in our domes- 
tic history, in his Table Talk :— 

When tumult lately burst his prison door. 

And set plebeian thousands in a roar; 

When he usurp'd authority's just place, 

.\nd dared to look his master in the face. 

When the rude rabble's watchword was— Destroy, 

And blazing London seem'd a second Troy. 

* The surrender of Charles-Town, in South Carolina, to 
Admiral Arbulbnot and General Sir Henry Clinton. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



71 



ble tumults in London, and the beams of 
prosperity are now playinff upon the smol<c 
of that coiit1:i;,'ratic)ii wliieh so hitcly terrified 
tile wliole land. Tliese .sudden chanires, 
which are matter of every man's ohservation, 
and may therefore always he reasonably ex- 
pected, serve to liold up the chin of despond- 
ency above water, and jireserve mankind in 
general from the sin and misery of account- 
inff existence a burden not to be endured — 
un evil we should be snrc to encounter, if 
we were not warranted to look for a bright 
rever.se of our nio.st afflictive experiences. 
The Spaniards were sick of the \\ar at the 
very commencement of it ; and I hope that 
by this time the French tliemsclves begin to 
find themselves a little indisposed, if not de- 
sirous of peace, whicli that restless and med- 
dling temper of theirs is incapable of desiring 
for its own sake. But is it true that this 
detestable plot was an egir laid in France, 
and hatched in London, under the influence 
of French corruption ( — \am te scire, dens 
quimiam iirnpius cimtingis, npurtet. The ofl- 
spring has the features of such a parent, and 
yet, without tlie clearest proof of the fact, I 
would not willingly charge upon a civilized 
nation what jierhaps the most barbarous 
would abhor the thought of I no sooner 
.saw the surmise, however, in the paper, than 
1 inimedialely began to write Latin ver.ses 
upoti tile occasion. "An odd eft'ect," you. 
will s.ay, " of such a circumstance ;"' — but an 
elfect, nevertheless, that whatever has at any 
time moved my passions, whether pleasantly 
or^ otherwise, has always had upon me 
Were I to express what I feel on such oc- 
casions in prose, it would be verbose, inflated, 
and disgusting. I therefore have recourse 
to verse, as a suitable vehicle for the most 
vehement expressions my thoughts suggest 
to me. Wh.-it I have written, I did not write 
so nuich for the comfort of the English as 
for the mortilication of the French. Yon 
will imme<liately perceive therefore that I 
have been lahoring in vain, and that this 
bouncing explosion is likely to .spend itself 
in the air. For I have no means of circu- 
lating what follows through all the French 
territories; and unless that, or something 
like it, can be done, my indignation will be 
entirely fruitless. Tell' me how I can convey 
it into Sartine's pocket, or who will lay it 
upon his desk for me. But read it fir.st, and, 
unless you think it pointed enough to sting 
the (iaul to the quick, burn it. 



IN .SEDITIONK.M IIOKRKMDAM, CORRUPTELIS OALLI- 
CIS, IT FKRTeil, I.O.S-DINl NLTER EXORT.\M. 

Pcrfida. oruilclis, victn et lymphata furore, 
Non urinis, laururn Gallin frauJc pelit. 

Vrnalcfn prctio pl'-licm cnnducit ct urit 
Undique privatas palricia.squc domos. 



Noquicquain conata sua, foedissiraa spcrat 
Posse tumcn nostra nos superare manu. 

Gallia, vanastruis! i'recibus nunc utcre! Vinces, 
Nara mites tiinidis, supplicibusquc sunius. 

I have lately exercised my ingenuity in 
contriving an exerci.se for yours, and have 
composed a riddle which, if it does not make 
you laugh before you have solved it, will 
I probably do it afierwards. I would tran- 
scribe it now, but am really so fatigued with 
writing, that, unless I knew you had a quinsy, 
and that a fit of laughter might possibiv 
save your life, I could not prevail witli my- 
self to do it. 

What could you possibly mean, slender as 
you are, by sallying out upon your two 
walking .sticks at tw'o in the morning, in the 
midst of such a tumult? We admire your 
prowess, but cannot commend your pru- 
dence. 

Our love attends you all, collectively and 
individually. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, June 33, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — A word or two in an- 
swer to two or three questions of yours, 
which I have hitherto taken no notice of 
I am not in a scribbling mood, and shall 
therefore make no excursions to amuse 
either myself or you. The needful will be 
as much as I can manage at present — the 
playful must wait another opportunity. 

I thank you for your oHer of Robertson, 
but I have more reading upon my hands at 
this present writing than I shall get rid of in 
a twelvemonth, and this moment recollect 
that I have seen it already. He is an author 
th.at I admire much, with one exception, that 
I think his style is too labored. Hume, as an 
historian, jileases me more. 

I have just read enough of the Biographia 
Britaninea to say that I have tasted it, and 
have no doubt hut I shall like it. I am 
pretty uinch in the garden at this season of 
the year, so read but little. In summer-time 
I am as giddy-headed as a boy, and can set- 
tle to nothing. Winter condenses me, and 
makes me lumpish and sober ; and tlnui I 
can read all day long. 

For the same reasons, I have no need of 
the landscapes at present: when I want 
them I will renew my application, and repeat 
the description, but it will hardly bo before 
October. 

Beftn-e I rose this morning. I composed the 
three following stanzas ; I send thi'm because 
I like them pretty well myself; and, if you 
should not, you must accept this handsome 
compliment as an amends for their deficicn- 



72 



COWPBR'S WORKS. 



cies. You may print flic lines, if you judge 
them worth it.* 

I have only time to add love, &c., and my 
two initials. VV. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTO.V. 

OIncy, June 33, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — -Your reflections upon 
the state of London, the .sins and enormities 
of that great city, while you had a distant 
view of it from Greenwich, seem to have 
been prophetic of the heavy stroke that fell 
upon it just after. Man often prophesies 
without knowing it — a .spirit speaks by him, 
which is not his own, thougli he does not at 
that time Buspect that he is under the influ- 
ence of any other. Did he foresee what is 
always foreseen by Him who dictates, what 
he supposes to be his own, he would suffer 
by anticipation as well as by consequence, 
and wish perliaps as ardently for the li:i]ipy 
ignorance to wliich he is at present so much 
indebted, as some have foolishly and incon- 
siderately done for a knowledge that would 
be but another name for misery. 

And wliy have I said all this, especially to 
you who have hitherto said it to me? not be- 
cause I had the least desire of informing a 
wiser man than myself, but because the ob- 
serviition was naturally suggested by the 
recollection of your letter, and that letter, 
though not tile last, happened to be upper- 
most in my mind. I can compare this mind 
of mine to nothing that resembles it more 
than to a board that is under the carpenter's 
plane, (I mean while 1 am writing to you,) 
the sluivings are my uppermost thoughts ; 
after a few strokes of the tool it acquires a 
new surface ; this again upon a repetition of 
his task he takes off, and a new- surface still 
succeeds : whether the shiiviiigs of the pre- 
sent day will be worth your acceptance, I 
know not; I am unfortunately made neither 
of cedar nor mahogany, but Truncus Jiciil- 
nus, inutile, lignum — consequently, though I 
should be planed till I am as thin as a wafer, 
it will be but rubbish to the last. 

It is not strange that you should be the 
subject of a false report, for the sword of 
slander, like that of war, devours one as well 
as another : and a blameless character is par- 
ticularly delicicuis to its unsparing appetite. 
But that you should be the object of such a 
report, you who meddle less with the designs 
of government than almost any man that 
lives under it, this is strange indeed. It is 
well, however, when they who account it 
good sport to traduce the reputation of an- 
other invent a story that refutes itself. I 
wonder they do imt always endeavor to ac- 
commodate their fiction to the real character 

* Verses on the burnin;;; nf Lord Cllief Justice Mans- 
field's tiouse, during the riots in Londuu. 



of the person ; their tale would then, at least, 
have an air of probability, and it might cost 
a peaceable good man muclvmore trouble to 
disprove it. But perhaps it would not be 
easy to discern what part of your conduct 
lies more open to such an attempt than an- 
other, or what it is that you either ^ay or do, 
at any time, tliat presents a fair opportunity 
to the most ingenious slanderer to slip in a 
falsehood between your words or actions, 
that shall seem to be of a piece with either. 
You hate compliment, I know, but, by your 
leave, this is not one — it is a truth — worse 
and worse — now I have praised you indeed 
— well you must thank yourself for it, it was 
absolutely done without the least intention 
on my part, and jiroceeded from a pen, that, 
as far as I can remember, was never guilty 
of flattery, since 1 knew how to hold it. He 
that slanders me, paints me blacker than I 
am, and he that flatters me, whiter — they 
both daub me, and when I look in the glass 
of conscience, I see myself disguised by both 
— I had as lief my tailor should sew ginger- 
bread-nuts on my coat instead of buttons as 
that any man should call my Bristol stone a 
diamond. The tailor's trick would not at all 
embellish my suit, nor the flatterer's make 
me at all the richer. I never make a present 
to my friend of what I dislike myself. Ergo, 
(I have reached the conclusion at last,) I did 
not mean to Hatter you. 

We have sent a petition to Lord Dart- 
mouth, by this post, praying him to interfere 
in parliament in behalf of the poor l.ace- 
makers. I say we, because I liave signed it. 

— Mr. G. drew it up. Mr. did not think 

it grammatical, therefore would not sign it. 
Yet I think, Priscian himself would have 
pardoned the manner for the sake of the 
matter. I dare say if his lordship docs not 
comply with the prayer of it, it will not be 
because he thinks it of more consequence to 
write grammatically than that the poor should 
eat, but for some better reason. 

My love to all under your roof. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 2, 1780. 

Carissime, I am glad of your confidence, 
and have reason to hope I shall never abuse 
if. If you trust me with a secret, I am her- 
metically sealed ; and if you call for the ex- 
ercise of my judgment, such as it is, I am 
never freakish or wanton in the use of it, 
much less mischievous and malignant. Crit- 
ics, I believe, do not often stand so clear of 
those vices as I do. I like your epitaph, ex- 
cept that I doubt the propriety of the word 
immalunts ; which, I think, is rather applica- 
ble to fruits than flowers ; and except the last 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



73 



pentameter, the assertion it contains being 
rather too obvious a thought to finish witli ; 
not tiiat 1 thinl< an epitaph should be pointed 
like an epigram. Hnt still there is a elose- 
ness of thought and expression necessary in 
the conclusion of all these little things, that 
lliey niay leave an agreeable flavor upon the 
palate. Whatever is short should be nerv- 
ous, masculine, and conii)act. Little men are 
so; and little poems should be so; because, 
where the work is short, the author lias no 
right to the plea of weariness, and laziness 
is never I'.dniitted as an available excuse in 
anytliing. Now you know my opinion, you 
will very likely improve upon my improve- 
ment, and alter my alterations for the better. 
To touch and retonch is, though some writ- 
ers boast of negligence, anil others would be 
ashamed to show their foul copies, the secret 
of almost all good writing, especially in verse. 
I am never we:iry of it myself, and, if you 
would take as much pains as I do, you would 
have no need to ask for my corrections. 

HIC SEPULTUS EST 
INTER SUORL'M LACRYMAS 

GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, 

GuLiEi.Mi ET Miria; fu.ius 

UNICUS, U.MCE DILECTUS, 

QUI I'LORIS RITU SUGCrsUS EST SEMUIIAMTIS, 

AI'RII.IS DIE SKPTIMO, 

1780, /ET. 1(). 

Oare, vale ! Sed non actcrnum, care, valeto ! 

IVnai qun itcrura tf^curii. sim modo dignus. eio. 
Turn nihil auiplcxus potcrit divcUorc nostros, 

Ncc tu marccsces, nee lacrymabor ego.* 

Having an English translation of it by me, 
I send it though it may be of no use. 

Farewell ! " But not forever," Hope replies. 
Trace l)ul his steps, and meet him in the skies ! 
There notliing shall renew our parting pain, 
Thou shall not wither, nor I weep again. 

The stanzas that I sent you are maiden 
ones, having never been seen by any eye but 
your mother's and your own. 

If you send me franks, I shall write longer 
letters. — Vakte, siciit ct nos lalemus ! Amatf, 
sicul et nos amamus ! W. C. 



TO JOSEril HILL, ESQ.f 

Olnoy, June 3, 1780. 
Mon Ami, — By this time, I suppose, you 
have ventured to take your fingers out of 

• TIicso lines of Mr. ITnwin, and here relouched by 
Oiwper'a pen, bear u stroni; resemblance to the beautiful 
Kpilapli, coiniiiirtc'il by llisliop Lowlh, on tiie death of 
his beloved (la-jtlhter, wtiich seem to have 8us:i,'ested 
some hinlH, in the composition of the above epitaph to 
Nortlicote. 

Car.!, vale, In^enio pra^stxui.^^ pielate, pudorc, 

Kt plus ((uam naUe nomine e^ra, vale. 
Cam Maiifi^ vale: at veniet fr-Iicins ipvum, 

Quando iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. 
Cara nnli, la!t;\ tuui dicaiD v^ice, paternos 
Kja atte in amplexus, cara Maria, redi. 
t Private correspondence. 



your ear.s, being delivered from the deafening 
shouts of the most zealous mob that ever 
strained their lungs in the cause of religion. 
1 congratulate you upon a gentle relap.se into 
the customary sounds of a great city, which, 
though we rustics abhor them, as noisy and 
dissonant, are a musical and sweet murmur, 
compared with what you have lately heard. 
The tinkling of a kennel may be distinguished 
now, where the roaring of a cascade would 
have been sunk and lost. I never suspected, 
till the newspapers informed me of it, a few, 
days since, that the barbarous uproar had 
I'eached Great Queen Street. I hope Jlrs. 
Hill was in the country, and shall rejoice to 
hear that, as I am sure you did not take up 
the protestiint cudgels* upoii this hair-brained 
occasion, so you have not been pulled in 
pieces as a papist. VV. U. 

The next letter to j\Ir. Hill affords a strik- 
ing proof of Cowper's compassionate feelings 
towards the poor around him, 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ, 

OIney, .luly 8, 1780. 
Mon Ami, — If you ever take the tip of 
the chancellor's ear between your finger and 
thumb, you can hardly improve the oppor- 
tunity to better purpose, than if you should 
whisper into it the voice of compassion and 
lenity to the lace-makers, I am an eye-wit- 
ness to their poverty, and do know that hun- 
dreds in this little town are upon the point 
of starving; and that the most unremitting 
industry is but barely suflicient to keep them 
from it. I know that the bill by which they 
would have been so fatally aft'ected is thrown 
out, but Lord Storinont threatens them with 
another; and if another like it should pas.s 
they are undone. We lately sent a petition 
to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, and am sure 
the contents are true. The purport of it was 
to inform him, that there are very near one 
thousand two hundred l.iee-makers in this 
beggarly town, the most of whom had reason 
enough, while the bill was in agitation, to 
look upon every loaf they bought as the last 
they should ever be able to earn. I can never 
think it good policy to incur the certain in- 
convenience of ruining thirty thousand, in 
order to prevent a remote and possible dam- 
age, though to a much greater number. The 
measure is like a scythe, and the poor lace- 
makers are the sickly crop, that trembles 
before the edge of it. The proi'pect of a 
peace with .Vmerica is like the stre.ak of dawn 
in their horizon ; but this bill is like a black 
cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of 
a comfortable day with utter extinction, 

* The alarm tjiken at the concessions maiie in favor of 
the I'atholies w;is such, that many persons formed them- 
selves into an a.-'sociation, for the defence of Protestant 
principles, — Ed, 



74 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



I did not perceive, till this moment, that I 
had taeked two similes together, a practice 
which, though warranted by tlie example of 
Homer, and allowed in an Epic Poem, is 
rather hixuriant and licentious in a letter; 
lest I should add another. I conclude. 

W. C. 



TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, July 11, 1780. 
I account myself sufficiently commended 
for my Latin exercise, by the number of 
translations it has undergone. That which 
you distinguished in the margin by the title 
of " better" was.the production of a friend, 
and, except that, for a modest reason, he 
omitted the third couplet, I think it a good 
one. To finish the group, I have translated 
it myself; and, though I would not wish you 
to give it to the world, for more reasons than 
one, especially lest some French hero should 
call me to account for it, I add it on the other 
side. An author ought to be the best judge 
of his own me.niing; and, whether I have 
succeeded or not, I cannot but wish, that 
where a translator is wanted, the writer was 
always to be his own. 

False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, 
P'rancei)uit.s the warrior's for the assassin's part ; 
To dirty liands a dirty bribe conveys, 
Bids the low street, and lolty palace blaie. 
Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone, 
She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers uswithease, 
We always spare a coward on his knees.* 

I have often wondered that Dryden's illus- 
trious epigram on Jlilton.f (in my mind the 
second best that ever was made) has never 
been translated into Latin, for tlie admiration 
of the learned in other countries. I have at 
last presumed to \cnture upon the task my- 
self. The great closeness of the original, 
which is equal, in th.at respect, to the mo.st 
compact Latin I ever saw, made it extremely 
difficult. 

Tres tria, sed longe distantia, sscula vates 
Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. 

Grecia) suhliaiem. cum majcstate discrtum 
Roma tulit, ielix Anglia uirique parem. 

Partubus ex binis IVatura cxhausta, coacta est. 
Tcrtius ut fjeret, consociare duos. 

I have not one bright thought upon the 
chancellor's recovery : nor can I strike otf so 
much as one sparkling atom from that bril- 

* These line? Jire founded on the suspicion, prevalent 
nl that time, that the Itres in London were owinij to 
French gold, circulated tor the purposes of corruption. 
t Three poets in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The tlrsl in loftiness of thought surpass'd ; 
The next in majesty, in Ijuth the last. 
The force of Nature could no further go. 
To intikc a third she joined the other "two. 



liant subject. It is not when I will, nor 
upon what I will, but as a thought happens 
to occur to me; and then I versify, whether 
I will or not. I never write but for my 
amusement; and what I write is sure to an- 
swer that end, if it answers no other. If, 
besides this purpose, the more desirable one 
of entertaining you be eii'eeted, I then receive 
double fruit of my labor, and consider this 
produce of it as a second crop, the more val- 
uable because less expected. But when I 
have once remitted a composition to you, 1 
have done with it. It is pretty certain that I 
shall never read it or think of it again. Froni 
thiitmoment I have constituted you sole judge 
of its aceomidishments, if it has any, and of 
its defects, wliich it is sure to have. 

For this reason I decline answering the 
question with which you concluded your last, 
and cannot persuade myself to enter into a 
critical exanien of the two pieces upon Lord 
Mansfield's loss,"" eitlier with respect to their 
intrinsic or comparative merit, and, indeed, 
after having rather discouraged that use of 
them which you had designed, there is no 
occasion for it. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney. July 12, 1T80. 

My dear Friend, — Such nights as I fre- 
quently spend are but a miserable prelude to 
the succeeding day, and indispose me above 
all things to the business of writing. Vet, 
with a pen in my hand, if I am able to write 
at all, I find myself gradually relieved; anil 
as I am glad of any employment that may 
serve to engage my attention, so especially 1 
am pleased with an opportunity of convers- 
ing with you, though it be but upon paper. 
Tliis occupation above all others assists me 
in that self-deception to which I am indebted 
for all the little comfort I enjoy : things seem 
to be as they were, tind I almost forget that 
they never can be so again. 

We are both obliged to you for a sight of 

Mr. 's letter. The friendly and obliging 

manner of it will mucli enhance the difficulty 
of answering it. I think I can see plainly 
that, though he does not bojie for your ap- 
plause, he would gladly escape your censure. 
He seems to approach you smoothly and 
softly, and to take you gently by the hand, 
as if he bespoke your lenity, and entreated 
you at least to spare him. You have such 
skill in the management of your pen that 1 
doubt not you will be able to send hira a 
balmy reproof, that shall give him no reason 
to complain of a broken head. How delu- 

* Lord Chief Justice Mansfield incurred the loss, on 
this occasion, of one of the most complete and valuable 
collections of law books ever known, together with man- 
uscripts and legal remarks, the result of his own indus- 
try and professional knnwledgc. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



75 



sive is the wildest speculation, wlien pursued 
with eag^ernoss, and nourished witli sudi ar- 
ffumeiUs as the perverted inijennity of such 
a niiiiii as his can easily furnish ! Judgment 
Calls aslee|) upon the honeh, while Imagina- 
tion, like a smug, pert counsellor, stands 
chattering at the bar, and, with a deal of fine- 
spun, enchanting sophistry, carries all before 
him. 

If I had strength of mind, I have not 
strength of body for the tusk wliich, you say, 
sonic would impose upon me. I cannot bear 
much thinking. The meshes of that fme lu't- 
work, the brain, are composed of such mere 
spinner.s" threads in me, that when a long 
thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, 
and twangs, and bustles about at such a rate 
as seems to threaten the whole contexture. 
No — 1 must needs refer it again to you. 

Mv enigma will probably find you out, 
and you will find out my enigma, at some 
future time. I am not in a hmnor to tran- 
scribe it now. Indeed I wonder that a sport- 
ive thought should ever knock at the door 
of my intellects, and still more that it should 
gain admittance. It is as if harlequin should 
intrude himself into the gloomy chamber 
where a corpse is deposited in state. His 
antic gesticulations would be unseasonable 
at any rate, but more especially so if they 
should distort the features of the mournful 
attendants into laughter. But the mind, long 
wearied with the sameness of a dull, dreary 
prospect, will gladly fi.x its eyes on anything 
that may make a little variety in its contetn- 
plations, though it were but a kitten playing 
with her Uul. 

You would believe, though I did not say it 
at the end of every letter, that we remember 
you and Mr.s. Newton with the same atVee- 
tion as ever : but I would not therefore ex- 
cuse myself from writing what it gives you 
pleasure to read. I have often wished in- 
deed, when writing to an ordinary corre- 
spondent, for the revival of the Roman cus- 
tom — salutis at top, and rale at bottom. But 
as the French have taught all Europe to 
enter a room and to leave it with a most 
ceremonious bow, so they have taught us to 
begin and conclude our letters in the same 
manner. However, I can say to you, 
Sayts ceremonie. 

Adieu, mon and '. W. C. 

The poet's affectionate effort in renewing 
his correspondence with Mrs. Cowper, to 
whom he had been accustomed to pour forth 
his heart without reserve, appears to have 
had a beneficial cilect on his reviving spirits. 
His pathetic letter to that lady was followed, 
in the course of two months, by a letter of a 
more lively east, in which the reader will 
find some touches of his native humor, and 
a vein of pleasantry peculiar to himself. 



TO MRS. COWrEI!. 

July 20, 1780. 

My dear Cousin, — Mr. Newton having de- 
sired me to be of the party, I am come to 
meet him. You see me sixteen years older, 
at the least, than when I saw you last : but 
the efiects of time seem to have taken place 
rather on the outside of my head than with- 
in it. What was brown is become grty, but 
what was foolish remains foolish still. Green 
fruit must rot before it ripen.s, if the season is 
such as to afTord it nothing but cold winds 
and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of 
sunshine. My days steal away silently, and 
march on (as poor mad Lear would have 
made his soldiers march) as if they were 
shod with felt ; not so silently but that I 
hear them : yet were it not that I am always 
listening to their flight, having no infirmity 
that I had not when I was much younger, I 
should deceive myself with an imagination 
that I am still young. 

I am fond of writing as an amusement, but 
do not always find it one. Being rather 
scantily furnished with .subjects that are good 
for anything, and corresponding only with 
those who have no relish for such as are 
good for nothing, I often find myself re- 
duced to the necessity, the disagreeable ne- 
cessity, of writing about my.self. This does 
not mend the matter much, fur, though in a 
descriiition of my own condition, I di.scover 
abundant materials to employ my pen upon, 
yet as the task is not very agreeable to mi; 
so I am suflieiently aware, that it is likely to 
prove irksome to others. A painter who 
should confine himself, in the exercise/ of his 
art, to the drawing of his own picture, must 
be a wonderful coxcomb if he did not soon 
grow sick of his occupation, and be peculiar- 
ly fortunate if he did not make others as sick 
as himself. 

Remoti' as your dwelling is from the late 
scene of riot and confusion, I hope that, 
though you could not but hear the report, 
you heard no more, and that the roarings of 
the mad multitude did not reach you. That 
was a day of terror to the innocent, and the 
present is a day of still greater terror to the 
guilty. The law was, for a few moments, 
like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be of 
no use, and did no execution; now it is an 
arrow upon the string, and many who de- 
spised it lately are trembling as they stand 
before the point of it. 

I have talked more already than I have 
formerly done in three visits — you remem- 
ber my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by 
those who knew me ; not to depart entirely 
from wh.it might be, for aught 1 know, the 
most shining part of my character, I here 
shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to 
Olney. 

w. c. 



76 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, July 27, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — As two men sit silent, 
after having exhausted all their (oiiics of con- 
versation ; one says, " It is very fine weallier,"' 
and the other says, " Yes ;" — one blows his 
nose, and the other rubs his eye-brows ; (by 
the way, this is very much in Homer's man- 
ner such seems to be the case between 
yon and me. After a silence of .some d;iys, 
I wro'te yon a long something, that (I sup- 
pose) was nothing to the pni-jjose, because it 
has not afforded you materials for an answer. 
Nevertheless, as it often happens in the case 
above stated, one of the distressed parties, 
being deeply sensible of the awkwardness of 
a dumb duet, breaks silence again, and re- 
solves to speak, though he has nothing to 
say, so it tares with me. I am with you 
again in the form of an epistle, thougli, con- 
sidering my present emptiness, I have reason 
to fear that your only joy upon the occasion 
will be, that it is conveyed to you in a frank. 
When I began, I e.xpected no interruption. 
But, if I had e.\pected interruptions without 
end, I should have been less disappointed. 
First came the barber ; who, after having 
embellished the outside of my head, has left 
the inside just as unfurnished as he found it. 
Then came Olney bridge, not into the house, 
but into tlie conversation. The cause relat- 
ing to it was tried on Tuesday at Bucking- 
ham. The Judge directed the jury to find a 
verdict favorable to Olney. The jury con- 
sisted of one knave and eleven fools. The 
last-mentioned followed the afore-mentioned 
as .sheep follow a bell-wether, and decided in 
direct opposition to the said judge : then a 
flaw was discovered in the indictment : — the 
indictment was quashed, and an order made 
for a new trial. The new trial will be in tlie 
King's Bencli, where said knave and said 
fools will have nothing to do with it. So the 
men of Oln'ey fling up tlieir caps, and assure 
themselves of a complete victory. A victory 
will save' me and your mother many shillings, 
perhaps some pounds, whicli, except that" it 
has afforded me a subject to write upon, was 
the only reason why I said so much about it. 
I know you take an interest in all that con- 
cerns U.S, and will consequently rejoice with 
us in the prospect of an event in which we 
are concerned so nearly. 

Yours aff'ectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July 30, 1780. 
Sly dear Sir, — You m.ay think perhaps that 
I deal more liberally with Mr. Unwin, in the 
way of poetical export, than I do with you, 
.and I believe you have reason. The truth is 
this: if I walked the streets with a fiddle 



under my arm, I should never think of per- 
forming before the window of a privy coun- 
cillor or a chief justice, but shouM rather 
make free with ears more likely to be open 
to such amusement. The trifles I produce 
in this way are indeed such trifles that I can- 
not think them seasonable presents for you. 
Jlr. Unwin himself would not be offended if 
I was to tell him that there is this difl'erence 
between him and Jlr. Newton ; that the latter 
is already an apostle, while he himself is only 
undergoing the bu.>iness of incubation, with 
a hope that he may be hatched in time. 
When my muse conies forth arrayed in s.a- 
bles, at least in a robe of graver cast, I make 
no scruple to direct her to my friend at Hox- 
ton. This has been one reason why I have 
so long delayed the riddle. But lest I should 
seem to set a value upon it that I do not, by 
making it an object of still further inquiry, 
here it comes. 

I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold, 
And the parent of numbers that cannot be told, 
I am lawful, unlawful — a duty, a fault, 
I am often sold dear — good for nothing when 

bought, 
An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, 
And yielded with pleasure — when taken by Ibrcc. 

w. c. 



TO THE REV. WILLIA.'VI UNWIN. 

Olney, Aug. G, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — You like to hear from 
me — this is a very good reason why I should 
write — but I have nothing to say — this seems 
equally a good reason why I should not; yet 
if you had alighted from your horse at our 
door this morning, and, at this present writ- 
ing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had 
found occasion to say to me — "Mr. Cowper, 
you have not spoke since I came in ; h:n-e 
you resolved never to speak again .'" — it 
would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to 
the summons, I should plead in.ability as my 
best and only excuse. And this, by the way, 
suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruc- 
tion, and reminds me of what I am very ajit 
to forget when I have any epistolary busi- 
ness in hand ; that a letter m.ay be written 
upon anything or nothing, just as that any- 
thing or notliing happens to occur. A m;"in 
that has a journey before him twenty miles 
in length, which he is to perform on foot, 
will not hesitate and doubt whether he shall 
set out or not, bee.inse he does not readily 
conceive how he shall ever reach the end of 
it ; for he knows that, by the sinjple opera- 
tion of moving one fo.ot forward first and 
then the other, he shall be sure to accom- 
plish it. So it is in the present case, and so 
it is in every similar case. A letter is writ- 
ten, as a conversation is maintained or a 
journey performed, not by preconcerted or 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



premeditated mc:ins, a new contrivance, or 
an invention never heard of before ; but 
niorely by niaintainini; a progress, and re- 
sdlviiiir, as a postilion does, havini; once set 
onl, never to stop till we reach t'le appointed j 
end. If a man ni:iy tilk without thinUini,'-, 
why m:iy lie not write upon tlie same terms ? 
A ijravc jjenth'nian of the hist century, a tie- 
wiir. square-toe, Steinkirk tigure, would say, { 
'• My {rood sir, a man has no riijht to do 
either." But it is to be lioped that the pres- 
ent century has nothinsr to do with the 
mouldy opinions of the last : and so, good 
Sir Lannce|^t, or St. Paul, or whatever be 
your name, step into your picture-frame 
ajjain, and look as if you tlioutrht for anotlier 
century, and leave us moilerns in t!ie mean 
time to think when we can, and to write 
whether we can or not, else we might as 
well be dead as you are. 

When we look back upon our forefathers, i 
we seem to look back upon the people of 
another nation, almost upon creatures of an- 
other species. Their va.st rambling mansions, 
spacious halls, and painted casements, the I 
gothic porch, smothered with honeysuckles, ! 
tlu'ir little gardens, and high w.alls, their bo.\- I 
edgings, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, ! 
are become so entirely unfashionable now, 
that we can h.nrdly believe it possible that a 
people who resembled us so little in their 
laste should resemble us in anything else. 
13ut in everything else I suppose they were 
our counterparts exactly, and time, that has 
sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the 
large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk stock- 
ings, has left human nature just where it 
found it. The inside of the man at least 
lias undergone no change. His passions, 
appetites, and aims, are just what they ever 
were. They wear perhaps a handsomer dis- 
guise than they did in the days of yore, for 
philosophy and literature will have their ef- 
fect upon the exterior; but in every other 
respect a modern is only an ancient in a dif- 
ferent dress. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olncy, Aug. 10, 17?0. 
My dear Sir, — I greet you at your castle 
of Buen Retiro, and wish you could enjoy 
the unmi.\ed pleasures of the country ihcre. 
But it seems you are obliged to dash the cup 
with a portion of those bitters you arc al- 
ways swallowing in town. Well — you are 
honorably and usefully employed, and ten 
times more beneficially to .society than if you 
were piping to a few sheep under a spread- 
ing beech, or listening to a tinkling rill. Be- 
sides, by the efFect of long custom and lia- 

* Private cnrrc-spoDtlcnco. 



bitual practice, you are not only enabled to 
endure your occupation, but even find il 
agreeable. I remember the time when it 
would not have suited you so well to have 
devoted so large a part of your vacation lo 
the objects of your iirofes.sioii ; and you, I 
dare s;iy, have not forgot what a sc.isonable 
rela.\ation you found, when lying at full 
stretch ujioii the ruins of an old wall, by the 
sea side, you amused yourself with Tasso"s 
Jerusalem and the Pastor Fido. I recoUec; 
that we both pitied Sir. Dc Grey, when vve 
called at his cottage at Taplow, and found, 
not the master indeed, but his desk, with his 
white-leaved folio upon it, which be-spoke 
him as much a man of business in his rclire- 
ment as in Westminster Hall. But hy these 
steps he ascended the bench.* i\ow he may 
read what he pleases, and ride where he will, 
if the gout will give him leave. And you, 
w'ho have no gout, and prolialily never will, 
when your hour of dismission comes, will, 
for that reason, if for no other, )^ a happier 
man than he. 

I am, my dear friend. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

P. S. — Mr. h.is not thought proper to 

favor me with his book, and having no inter- 
est in the subject, I have not thought proper 
to purchase it. Indeed I have no curiosity 
to read what I am sure must be erroneous 
before I read it. Truth is worth everything 
that can be given for it; but a mere display 
of ingenuity, calculated only to mislead, is 
worth nothing. 

The following letter shows the sporlive- 
noss of his imagin.ition on the minutest sub- 
jects. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTO.N. 

Olnt-y, .\us. 21, 1780. 

The following occurrence ought not to be 
passed over in .silence, in a place where so 
few notable ones are to be met with. Lasit 
Wednesday night, while we were at supper, 
between the hours of eight and nine, I heard 
an unusual noise in the back parlor, as if om^ 
of the hares was entangled and endeavoring 
to disengage herself. I was just going to 
rise from table when it ceased. In about 
five minutes a voice on the outside of the 
parlor door iiuiuired if one of my hares had 
got away. I immediately rushed into the 
next room, and found that my poor favorite 
puss had made her e.scape. She had gnawed 
ill sunder the strings of a lattice work, with 
which I thought I had suliieieiitly secured 

* Till!* (li^tincuislictt lawyer wius a connexion of t'ow- 
pcrN, tiavin-i married Mary, dau^liter t>f William Cowper, 
of tlie Park, near Hertford, Csq. After jiavins; s"cca«»- 
(»ively pa.<sed thrun^ti the ofllces *)f S*>iieilor and Attorney 
(teneral, lie wo? mlvanred lo Itie di'.,'nily of < -liiof .hi.^lico 
of the Court of Commcin PJeass and sntvHequently elevated 
to llie Peera;;e l>y tlie tille of itaruii v\';i;-jn';li.un. 



78 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the window, and which I preferred to any 
other sort of blind, because it admitted 
plenty of air. From thence I hastened to 
tlie kitelien, where I saw the redoubtable 
Thomas Freeman, who told me that, having 
seen her just after she dropped into the street, 
lie attempted to cover her with his hat, but 
she screamed out, and leaped directly over 
his head. I then desired him to pursue as 
Cast as possible, and added Richard Coleman 
to the chase, as being nimbler, and carryinif 
loss weight than Thomas; not expecting to 
see her again, but desirous to learn, if possi- 
ble, what became of her. In something less 
than an hour, Richard returned, almost breath- 
less, with the following account: that, soon 
after he began to run, he left Tom behind him, 
and came in siglit of a most numerous hunt 
of men, women, children, and dogs ; that he 
did his best to keep back the dogs, and pres- 
ently outstripped the crowd, so tliat the race 
was at last disputed between himself and 
puss : she^jfan right through the town, and 
down the lane that leads to Dropshot. A 
little before she came to the house, he got 
the start and turned her ; she pushed for the 
town again, and soon after she entered it 
sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's tan-yard, 
adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's har- 
vest men were at supper, and saw her from 
the opposite side of the way. There she en- 
countered the tan-pits full of water, and, 
while she was struggling out of one pit, and 
plunging into another, and almost drowned, 
one of the men drew her out by the ears, and 
secured her. She was then well washed in 
a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and 
brought home in a sack at ten o'clock. 

This frolic cost us four shillings, but you 
ni.ay believe that we did not grudge a far- 
thing of it. The poor creature received only 
a little hurt in one of her claws and one of 
her ears, and is now almost as wSll as ever. 

I do not call this an answer to your letter, 
but such as it is I send it, presuming upon 
that interest which I know you take in my 
minutest concerns, which I cannot express 
better than in the words of Terence, a little 
varied — Nihil mei a le alienum pulas. 

Yours, my dear friend, VV. C. 



TO MRS. COWPER. 

Olney, Aug. 31, 1780. 
My dear Cousin,— I am obliged to you for 
your long letter, wliich did not seem so, and 
i'or your short one, which was more than I 
liad any reason to expect. Short as it was, 
it conveyed to me two interesting articles of 
intelligence, — an account of your recovering 
from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. 
The latter was, I suppose, to be expected, for, 
bj- what remembrance I have of her Ladyship, 



who was never much acquainted with her, 
she had reached those years that are always 
found upon tlie borders of another world. 
As for you, your time of life is comparatively 
of a youthful date. Vou may think of death 
as much as you please, (you cannot tliink of 
it too much.) but I hope you will live to think 
of it many years. 

It costs me not much difficulty to suppose 
that my friends, who were already grown old 
when I saw them last, are old still, but it 
costs me a good deal sometimes to tliink of 
those who were at that time young as being 
older than they were. Not hiding been an 
eye-witness of the change that time has made 
in them, and my former idea of them not 
being corrected by observation, it remains 
the same : my memory pre-ents me with this 
image unimpaired, and, while it retains the 
resemblance of what they were, forgets that 
by this time the picture may have lost much 
of its likeness, through the alteration that 
sueceedfng years have made in the original. 
I know not what impressions Time may have 
made upon your person, for while his claws 
(as our grannams called them) strike deep 
furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath 
them with ranch tenderness, as if fearful of 
doing injury, to others. But, though an ene- 
my to the person, he is a friend to the mind, 
and you have found him so : though even in 
this respect his treatment of us depends u])on 
what he meets with at our hands: if we use 
him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is 
a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of 
enemies, who takes from us daily something 
that we valued, and gives us nothing better 
in its stead. It is well with them, who, like 
you, can stand a-tiptoe on the mountain-top 
of human life, look down with pleasure upon 
the valley they have passed, and sometimes 
stretch their wings in joyful hope of a liappy 
flight into eternity. Vet a little while, and 
your hope will be accomplished. 

When you can fiivor me with a little ac- 
count of your own family, without incon- 
venience, I shall be glad to receive it, for, 
though separated from my kindred by little 
more than half a century of miles, I know as 
little of their concerns as if oceans and con- 
tinents were interposed between us. 

Yours, my dear cousin, W. C. 



TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Sept. 3, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad you are so 
provident, and that, while you are young, you 
have furnished yourself with the means of 
comfort in old age. Your crutch and your 
pipe may be of use to you, (and may they be 
so !) should your years be extended to an 
antediluvian date ; and, for your perfect ac- 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



79 



commod:ition, you seem to want nothinn: but 
a clerk calli'd Snuflic, and a sexton of tlio 
nanu' of Skeleton, to make your ministerial 
equipage complete. 

I think I have read !is much of the first 
vohune of the Bioirraphia as I shall ever read. 
1 (iiid it very amusing : more so, perliaps, than 
it would have been, had they sifted their 
char.icters wilh more exactness, and admitted 
none but those who had in some way or other 
entitled them^^elves to immorUdity by deserv- 
ing' well of the public. Sueli a compilation 
would perhaps jiave been more judicious, 
though I confess it would liave afiorded less 
variety. The priests and monks of earlier 
and tiie doctors of later days, who have sig- 
nalized themselves by nothing but a contro- 
versial painplilet, long since thrown by and 
never to be perused again, might have been 
forgotten, without injury or lo.ss to the na- 
tional character for learning or genius. This 
obserration suggested to me the following 
lines, which m.ay serve to illustrate my mean- 
ing, and at tlio same time to give my criticism 
a sprightlier air. 

O fond allonipt to give a deathless lot 
To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 
In vain rt'cortleil in historic page, 
They court the notice of a future a^e ; 
Those twinkling, tiny lustres of the land, 
Drop one by one, from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
Lethean gul[>hs receive them as they fall, 
And dark Oblivion soon absorbs them all. 
So whi'U a chilli (as playlul children use) 
Has burnt to cinder a stale last year's news, 
The (lame extinct he views the roving fire, 
Thore goes my lady, and there goes the 'squire, 
There goes the parson — O illustrious spark ! 
And there — scarce less illustrious — goes the clerk ! 

Virgil admits none but worthies into the 
Elysian fields ; I cannot recollect the lines in 
which he describes them all, but these in par- 
ticular I well remember : 

Quique sui memores alios fcccre merendo, 
Invcntas aut qui vitam cicoluere per artes. 

A ch.aste and scrupulous conduct like this 
would well become the writer of national 
biography. But enough of thi.s. 

Our respects attend Miss Shuttleworth, 
with many thanks for her intended present. 
Some purses derive all their value from their 
contents, but these will have an intrinsic 
value of their own : and, though mine should 
be often empty, which is not an improbable 
supposition, I .shall still esteem it highly on 
its own account. 

If you could meet with a second-band 
Virgil, ditto Homer, both Iliad and Odyssey, 
together with a Clavis, for I have no I^^.vieon, 
and all tolerably cheap, I shall be obliged to 
you if you will make the purchase. 

Vours, W. C. 



The three following letters are interesting, 
as containing tjowper's sentiments on the 
subject of education. 

TO THE REV. WILLI.\M UNWIX. 

Olney, Sept. 7, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — As many gentlemen as 
there are in the world, who have children, 
aiid heads cajiablc of refiecting upon the im- 
pi5rtant subject of their education, so many 
opinions there are about it, and many of them 
just and sensible, though almost all (titl'ering 
from each other. With respect to the eiluca- 
tion of boys, 1 think they are generally made 
to draw in Latin and Greek trammels too 
soon. It is pleasing no doubt to a parent to 
see his child already in some sort a proficient 
in those languages, at an age when most 
others are entirely ignorant of them ; but 
hence it often happens that a boy, who could 
construe a fable of ^Esop .at si.x or .seven 
ye.-irs of age, having exhausted his little stock 
of attention and diligence in making that not- 
able acquisiti(ni, grows weary of his task, con- 
ceives a dislike for study, and perhaps m,ike3 
but a very indifferent progress afterwards. 
The mind and body have, in this respect, a 
striking resemblance to each other. In child- 
hood they are both nimble, but not strong ; 
they can skip and frisk about with wonder- 
ful agility, but hard labor spoils them both. 
In maturer years they become less active, but 
more vigorous, more capable of a fixed a[)- 
plication, and can make themselves sport 
with that which a little earlier would have 
alTected them with intolerable fatigue. I 
should recommend it to you, therefore, (but 
after all you must judge for your.self,) to allot 
the two next years of little John's scholar- 
ship to writing and arithmetic, together with 
which, for variety's sake, and because it is 
capable of being formed into an amusement, 
1 would mingle geography, (a science which, 
if not attended to betimes, is seldom made 
an object of much consideration,) essentially 
necessary to the accomplishment of a gentle- 
man, yet, as I know (by sad experience) im- 
perfectly, if at all, inculcated in the schools. 
Lord Spencer's son, when he was four years 
of age, knew the situation of every kingdom, 
country, city, river, and remarkable mountain 
in the world. For this attainment, wliieh I 
siijipose his father had never made, lie was 
indebted to a play-thing ; having been accus- 
tomed to amuse himself with those maps 
which are cut into se\eral compartments, so 
as to be thrown into a heap of confusion, that 
they may be put together again with an exact 
coincidence of all their angles and bearings, 
so as to form a perfect whole. 

If he begins Latin and Greek at eight, or 
even at nine years of age, it is surely soon 
enough. Seven years, the usual allowance 



80 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



for these acquisitions, are more than suffi- 
cient for the purpose, especially with his 
readiness in learning; for you would hardly 
wish to have liim iiualified for the university 
before fifteen, a period in my mind much too 
early for it, and when he could hardly be 
trusted there without the utmost danger to 
his morals. Upon the whole you will per- 
ceive tliat, in my judgment, the difficulty, as 
well as the wisdom, consists more in bridling 
in and keeping buck a boy of his parts th.-ui 
in pushing him forward. If therefore at the 
end of the two years, instead of putting a 
gramraur into his hand, you should allow him 
to amuse himself with some agreeable writers 
upon the subject of natural pliilosopliy for 
another year, I think it would answer well. 
There is a book called Cosraotheoria Pueri- 
lis, there are Derham's Physico and Astro- 
theology, together with several others in the 
same manner, very intelligible even to a child, 
and full of useful instruction. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWI.\. 

Olncy, Sept. 17, ireo. 

My dear Friend, — You desire my further 
thoughts on the subject of education. I send 
you such as had for the most part occurred 
to me when I wrote last, but could not be 
comprised in a single letter. They are in- 
deed on a ditfereut branch of this interesting 
theme, but not less important than the for- 
mer. 

I think it your happiness, and wish you to 
think it so yourself, that you are in every 
respect qualified for the task of instructing 
your son, and preparing him for the univer- 
sity, without committing him to the care of a 
stranger. In my judgment, a domestic edu- 
cation deserves the preference to a public 
one, on a hundred accounts, which I have 
neither time nor room to mention. I shall 
only touch upon two or three, that I cannot 
but consider as having a right to your most 
earnest attention. 

In a public school, or indeed in any school, 
his morals are sure to be but little attended 
to, and his religion not at all. If he can 
catch the love of virtue from the fine things 
that are spoken of it in the classics, and the 
love of holiness from the customary attend- 
ance upon such preaching as he is likely to 
hear, it will be well ; but I am sure you have 
had too numy opportunities to observe the 
inefficacy of such means to expect any such 
advantage from them. In the meantime, the 
more powerful influence of bad example and 
perhaps bad company, will continually coun- 
terwork these only preservatives he can meet 
with, and may possibly send him home to 
you, at the end of five or six years, such as 
)0U will be sorry to see him. You escaped 



indeed the contagion yourself, but a few in- 
stances of happy exemption from a general 
malady are not snificient warrant to conclude 
that it is therefore not infectious, or may be 
encountered without danger. 

You have seen too much of the world, and 
are a man of too much reflection, not to have 
observed, that in proportion as the sons of 
a family approach to years of maturity they 
lose a sense of obligation to their parents, 
and seem at last almost divested of that ten- 
der afl'cction which the nearest of all relations 
seems to demand from tliem. I have often 
observed it myself, and have always thought 
I could sufficiently account for it, without 
laying all the blame upon the children. While 
they continue in their parents' house, they 
are every day obliged, and every day remind, 
ed how mucli it is to their interest as well as 
duty, to be obliging and affectionate in re- 
turn. But at eight or nine years of age, the 
boy goes to school. From that moment he 
becomes a stranger in his father's house. 
The course of parental kindness is inter- 
rupted. The smiles of his mother, those ten- 
der admonitions, and the solicitous care of 
both his parents, are no longer before his 
eyes — year alter year he feels himself more 
and more detached from them, till at last he 
is so eft'ectually weaned from the connexion, 
as to find himself happier anywhere than in 
their company. 

I should have been glad of a frank for this 
letter, for I have said but little of what I 
could say ujion the subject, and perhaps I 
may not be able to catch it by the end again. 
If i can, I shall add to it hereafter. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNVVIS. 

Olncy, Oct. 5, ITSO. 
My dear Friend, — Now for the sequel' — 
you have anticipated one of my arguments 
in favor of a private education, therefore I 
need say but little about it. The folly of 
supposing that the mother-tongue, in some 
respects the most difficult of all tongues, 
may be acquired without a teacher, is pre- 
dominant in all the public schools that I 
have ever heard of To pronounce it well, 
to speak and to write it with fluency and ele- 
gance, are no easy attainments ; not one in 
fiftv of those who pass through Westmin- 
ster and Eton arrives at any remarkable pro- 
ficiency in these aceomplislnnents; and they 
that do, are more indebted to their own study 
and application for it than to any instruction 
received there. In general, there is nothing 
so pedantic .as tlie style of a schoolboy, if he 
aims at any style at all ; and if he does not, 
he is of course inelegant .and perhaps un- 
gramm.iiical — a defect, no doubt, in great 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



81 



measure owing' to want of cultivation, for 
the same lad that is often commended for Ins 
Latin !ri'(|uently would deserve to be whi|iped 
for fii.s Eiiifjish, if the fault were not more 
his master's than his own. I know not wliere 
this evil is so likely to be prevented as at home 
— supposinj^ always, nevertheless, (which is 
the case in yoin- instance.) that the boy's pa- 
rents and liieir acquaintance are persons of 
elegance and taste themselves. For, to con- 
verse with those who converse with [)ropriety, 
and to be directed to such authors as have re- 
lined and improved the lani^ua^fe by their 
productions, are advantages which he cannot 
elsewhere enjoy in an equal degree. And 
though it requires some time to regulate the 
Uiste and fi.v the judgment, and these etfects 
must be gradually wrought even upon the 
best understanding, yet 1 suppose much less 
time will be necessary for the purpose than 
could at first be imagined, because the oppor- 
tunities of improvement are continual. 

A public education is often recommended 
as the most effectual remedy for that bashful 
and awkward restraint, so epidemical among 
the youth of our country. But I verily be- 
lieve that, instead of being a cure, it is often 
the cause of it. For seven or eight years of 
his life, the boy has hardly seen or conversed 
with a man, or a woman, except the maids at 
his boarding-house. A gentleman, or a lady, 
are consequently such novelties to him that 
he is perfectly at a loss to know what sort 
of behavior he should preserve before them. 
lie plays with his buttons or tin; strings of 
Ills hat ; he blows his nose, and hangs down 
his head, is conscious of his own deliciency 
to a degree tliut makes him quite unhappy, 
and trembles lest any one should speak to 
him, because that would quite overwhelm 
him. Is not all this miserable shyness the 
effect of his education? Tome it appears 
to be so. If he saw good company every 
day, he would never be terrified at the sight 
of i:, and a room full of ladies and gentlemen 
would alarm him no more than the chairs they 
sit on. Such is the effect of custom. 

I need add nothing further on this subject, 
because I believe little Jolm is as likely to be 
exempted from this weakne.ss as most young 
gentlemen we a]u\\ meet with. He seems to 
liave his father's spirit in this respect, in whom ' 
I could never discern the least trace of bash- | 
fulness, though I have often heard him com- 
plain of it. Under your management and the 
inlluence of your example, I think he can i 
hardly fail to escape it. If he does, he es- \ 
capes that which has made many a man un- ' 
comfortable for life, and ruineil not a few, by 
forcing them into mean and dishonorable 
company, where only they could be free and I 
cheerful. 

Connexions formed .at school are said to 
be lasting .and often beneficial. There are 



two or three stories of this kind upon record, 

which would not be so constantly cited as 
they are, whenever this subject hajqiens to 
be mentioned, if the chronicle that preserves 
their renieinbrance had many besides to boast 
of For my own part, 1 found such friend- 
sliips,lliiuigli warm enough iiithcirconnnence- 
ment, surprisingly liable to extinction ; and 
of seven or eight, whom I had selected for 
intimates, out of about three hundred, in ten 
years' time not one was left me. The truth 
is, that there may be, and otten is, an attach- 
ment of one boy to another that looks very 
like a friendship, and, while they are in cir- 
cumstances that enable them nuitually to 
oblige and to assist each other, promises well 
and bids fair to be lasting. Hut they are no 
sooner separated from each other, by enter- 
ing into the world at large, than other con- 
nexions and new employments, in which 
they no longer share together, efface the re- 
membrance of what passed in earlier d.ays, 
and they become strangers to each other for- 
ever. Add to this, the man frequently dif- 
fers so much from the boij ; his principles, 
manners, temper, and conduct, undergo so 
great an alteration, that we no longer recog- 
nize in him our old jdayfellow, but fiiul him 
utterly unworthy, antl unfit for the place he 
once held in our affections. 

To close this article, as I did the last, by 
applying myself immediately to the present 
concern — little .lohn is happily placed above 
all occasion for dependence on all such pre- 
carious hope.s, and need not be sent to school 
in quest of some great men in embryo, who 
may possibly make his fortune. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO MKS. NEWTOK. 

Oliiej-, Oct. 5, 1780. 
Dear .Madam, — When a lady speak.s, it is 
not civil to make her wail a week for an an- 
swer. I received your letter within this hour, 
and, forcjceing that the garden will engross 
much of my time for some days to come, 
have seized the present opporinnity to ac- 
knowledge it. I congratulate you on Mr. 
Newton's safe arrival at Ramsgate, making 
no doubt but that he reached th.-it place with- 
out dilliculty or danger, the ro.ad thither from 
Canterbury lieing so good as to ad'ord room 
feu- neither. lie has now a view of the ele- 
ment with whicli he was once familiar, but 
which, I think, he has not seen for many 
years. The sight of his old acquaintance 
will revive in his mind a pleasing recollection 
of ]iast deliverances, and when he looks at 
him from the beach, he may say — " Von h.ive 
formerly given me trouble enough, but I h:ive 
cast anchor now where your billows can 
never reach me." — It is happy for him that 
he can say so. 

6 



Mrs. Unwin returns you many thanks for 

your anxiety on her account. Her health is 

considerably mended upon the whole, so as 

to ailbrd us a hope that it will be established. 

Our love attends you. 

Yours, dear madam, 

W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLLiVM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 9, 1780. 

I wrote the following last summer. The 
tragical occasion of it really happened at the 
next house to ours. I am glad when 1 can 
find a subject to work upon ; a lapidary, I 
suppose, accounts it a laborious part of his 
business to rub away the roughness of the 
stone; but it is my amusement, and if, after 
all the polishing 1 can give it, it discovers 
some little lustre, I think myself well re- 
warded for my pains.* 

I shall charge you a halfpenny a-piece for 
every copy I send you, the short as well as 
the long. This is a sort of afterclap you 
little expected, but I cannot possibly afi'ord 
tliem at a cheaper rate. If this method of 
raising money had occurred to me sooner, I 
should have made the bargain sooner; but 
am glad I ha\'e hit upon it at last. It will be 
a considerable encouragement to my Muse, 
and act as a powerful stimulus to my indus- 
try. If the American war should last much 
longer, I may be obliged to raise my price ; 
but this I shall not do without a real occasion 
for it — it depends much upon Lord North's 
conduct in the article of supplies — if he iin- 
])0ses an additional tax on anything that I 
deal in, the necessity of this measure on my 
])art \vill be so apparent that I dare say you 
will not dispute it. W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, Dec. 10, 1780. 

Jly dear Friend, — I am sorry that the book- 
seller shntHes otf the trouble of package upon 
anybody that belongs to you. 1 think 1 could 
cast him upon this point in an action upon 
the case, grounded upon the terms of his 
own undertaking. He engages to serve 
country customers. Ergo, as it would be 
unreasonal)le to expect that, when a country 
gentleman wants a book, he should order 
his chaise, and bid the man drive to Exeter 
Change ; and as it is not probable that the 
book would find the way to him of itself, 
though it were the wisest that ever was writ- 
ten, I should suppose the Law would compel 
him. For I recollect it is a maxim of good 
authority in the courts, that there is no right 
without a remedy. And if another, or third 
person, should not be suffered to interpose 

♦ Verses on a Goldfinch, starved to death in a cage, 
t Private correspondence. 



between my right and the remedy the law 
gives me, where the right is invaded, much 
less, I apprehend, shall the man himself, who 
of his own mere motion gives nje that right, 
be suffered to do it. 

I never made so long an argument upon a 
law case before. I ask your pardon for do- 
ing it now. You have but little need of such 
entertainment. 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Dec. 21, 1780. 
I thank you for your anecdote of Judge 
Carpenter. If it really happened, it is one 
of the best stories I ever heard ; and if not, 
it has at least the merit of being ben troxato. 
We both very sincerely laughed at it, and 
think the whole Livery of London must have 
done the same ; though I have known some 
persons, whose faces, as if they had been 
cast in a mould, could never be provoked 
to the least alteration of a single feature ; so 
that you might as well relate a good story to 
a barber's block. 

Non equidem invideo, miror magis. 

Your sentiments with respect to me are 
exactly Mrs. Unwin's. She, like you, is per- 
fectly sure of my deliverance, and often tells 
me so. I make but one answer, and some- 
times none at all. That answer gives her no 
pleasure, and would give you as little ; there- 
fore at this time I suppress it. It is better, 
on every account, that they who interest 
themselves so deeply in that event should 
believe the certainty of it, than that they 
should not. It is a comfort to Ihem at least, 
if it is none to me ; and as I could not if I 
would, so neither would I if I could, dcjirive 
them of it. 

I annex a long thought in verse for your 
perusal. It was produced about last mid- 
sunnner, but I never could prevail with my- 
self, till now, to transcribe it.f You ha\e 
bestowed some commendations on a certain 
poem now in the press, and they, I suppose, 
liave at least animated me to the task. If 
human nature may be compared to a piece of 
tapestry, (and why not?) then human nature, 
as it subsists in me, though it is sadly faded 
on the right side, retains all its color on the 
wrong. I am pleased with commendation, 
and though not passionately desirous of in- 
discriminate praise, or what is generally 
called popularity, yet when a judicious friend 
claps me on the back, I own I find it an en- 
couragement. At this season of the year, 
and in this gloomy uncomfortable climate, it 
is no easy matter for the owner of a mind 

* Private correspondence. 

t The Verses alluded to appear to have been separated 
from the letter. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



83 



like mine to divert it from sad subjects, and 
lix it iipoti such as m;iy administer to its 
amuseinciit. Poetry, above all things, is 
useful to me in this respect. Wliile I am 
held in jjiirsiiit of prelly iniaujes, or a pretty 
way of exprcssinif them, I forijet everytliinjr 
that is irksome, and, like a boy that plays 
truant, determine to avail myself of the pres- 
ent opp<ir:uniiy to be aniuse<l. and to put by 
tlie disagreeable reeolleelion that 1 must, after 
all, ijo home and W whipped aijain. 

It will not be loni,'. perhaps, before you 
will reeeive a poem ealled '• The Progress of 
Error." That will be sueeeeded by another, 
in due time, called "Truth." Don't be 
alarmed, I ride Pegasus with a curb. He 
will never run away with me again. 1 have 
even convinced Mrs. Unwin that I can man- 
age him, and make him stop when I please. 
Yours, W. C. 

The following letter, to Mr. Hill, contains 
a piiem already printed in the works of Cow- 
per; but the rejider will be probably gratified 
in finding the sporlivcness of Cowper's wit 
presented to him, as it was originally de- 
spatched by the author for the amusement of 
a friend. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Dee. 2,% 1780. 

>Iy dear Friend, — Weary with rather a 
long' walk in the snow, I am not likely to 
write a very sprigbtly letter, or to produce 
anything that may cheer this gloomy season, 
unless I have recourse to my pocket-book, 
where, perhaps, I may find something to 
transcribe : something that was written be- 
fore the sun had taken leave of our hemi- 
sj))iere, and when I was less fatigued than I 
am at present. 

Happy is the man who knows just so much 
of the law as to make himself a little merry 
now and then with the solemnity of juridical 
proceedings. I have heard of common law 
judgments before now: indeed have been 
present at the delivery of some, that, aeeord- 
Ing to my poor apprehension, while they piiid 
the utmost respect to the letter of the stat- 
ute, have departed widely from the spirit of 
it. and. being governed entirely by the point 
of law, have left ecjuity. reason, and eoinnion 
sen.se behind them, at an infinite distance. 
You will judge whether the following report 
of a ease, drawn up by myself, be not a 
jiroof and illustration of this satirical as- 
sertion. 

Nose, PlainUff:— Eves, Dcfcndamts. 

Between Nose and Eyes a saJ contest arose ; 
The SpeelacleS Bet them unhappily wron;;: 
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
To which the said Spectacles ought to belong. 



So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the 

cause, 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of 

learning. 
While Cliiet" Baron F.ar sat to balance the laws. 
So I'aiu'd fur his talents at nicely ilisccrning. 

"In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly ajipear, 
And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly 

" lind. 
That the .Nose has had Spectacles always in wear, 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind." 

Then holding the Spectacles up to the court, 
" Your lordship observes, they are made with a 

straddle. 
As wide as the ridge of the nose is, in short, 
Desi^Tn'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

" Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, 
('Tis a ease that has happened, and may be 

again,) 
That the visage, or countenance, had not a nose 
Pray wlio would, or who could, wear Spectacles 

theni 

" On the whole it appears, and my argument 

shows. 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 
That the Spectacles plainly were made for the 

Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them,'' 

Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, 
Ho pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: 
But what were his arguments few people know, 
For the court did not think they were equally 
wise. 

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but. 
"That whcncvertlie No.se put his .Spcctacleson — 
By day-light, or candle-light — Eyes should be 
shut !" 

Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Dec, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — Poetical reports of law- 
cases are not very common, yet it seems to me 
desirable that they .should be so. Many ad- 
vantages would aecrne from such a measure. 
They would, in the lirst place, he more com- 
monly deposited in the memory, just as linen, 
grocery, or other such matters, when neatly 
])aek(!d, are known to occupy less room, and 
to lie more coriveuieutly in any trunk, chest, 
or bo.v, to which they may be committed. 
In the next place, being divested of that in- 
finite eircuiniocution, and the endless embar- 
rassment in whieli they are involved by it, 
they would become surprisingly intelligible, 
in comparison with their present obscurity. 
And, lastly, they would by this moans be 
rendered susceptible of musical embellish- 
ment; and, instead of being quoted in the 
country, with that dull monotony which is so 
wearisome to by-standcrs, and fre(|uently 
lulls even the judges tlicm.selves to sleep, 
might be rehearsed in recitation; which 



84 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



would fiave an admirable effect, in keeping 
the attention fixed and lively, and could not 
fail to disjjerse that heavy atmosphere of sad- 
ness and gra\ity. which liangs over tlie juris- 
prudence of our country. I remember, many 
years ago, being informed by a relation of 
mine, who, in his youth, had applied himself 
to the study of the law, that one of his fel- 
hjw-students, a gentleman of sprightly p.".rts, 
and very respectable talent.s of the poetical 
kind, did actually engage in the prosecution 
of such a design; for reasons, I suppose, 
somewhat similar to, if not the same, with 
those I have now suggested. He began with 
Coke's Institutes; a book so rugged in its 
style, that an attempt to polish it seemed an 
Herculean labor, and not less arduous and 
difficult than it would he to give the smooth- 
ness of a rabbit's fur to the prickly back of a 
hedgeliog. But he succeeded to admir.ation, 
as you will perceive by the following speci- 
men, which is all that my said relation could 
recollect of the performance. 

Tenant in fee 

Simple is ho, 
And need neitlier quake nor quiver, 

Who hath Ins lands 

Free from demands, 
To him and his heirs forever. 

You have an ear for music, and a taste for 
verse, which saves me the trouble of pointing 
out, with a critical nicety, the advantages of 
such a version. I proceed, therefore, to what 
I at first intended, and to transcribe the re- 
cord of an adjudged case thus managed, to 
which, indeed, what I piemiscd was intended 
merely as an introduction.* W. C. 

The following year connnences by a letter 
to his friend Mr. Newton, and alludes to his 
two poems entitled " Tlie J'rogress of Error," 
and " Truth." 

TO THE KEV. JOJIN NEWTON.t 

Jan. 21, 1781. 

My dear Sir, — I am glad that the " Pro- 
gress of Error" did not err in its progress, 
as I feared it had, and that it has reached 
you safe ; and still more pleased that it has 
met with yoin- approbation ; for, if it had not, 
r should have wished it had miscarried, and 
have been sorry that the bearer's memory 
had served him so well upon the occasion. 
I knew him to he that sort of genius, whicli, 
being much Ijusied in making excursions of 
the imaginary kind, is not always present to 
its own immediate concerns, much less to 
those of others ; and, having reposed the 
trust in him, began to regret that I had done 
so when it was too late. But I did it to 

* Thi3 letter conctudcd witli tlie poeticnl law-case of 
Nose, pluiritiiT— Eyes, (loft'n(la»t.«, already inserted. 
t IVivate cjrros'pondunce. 



save a frank, and as the affair has fumed out, 
that end was very well answered. This is 
committed to the hands of a less volatile 
person, and therefore more to be depended on. 

As to the poem called "Truth," which is 
already longer than its elder brotlier, and is 
yet to be lengtliened by the addition of per- 
imps twenty lines, perhaps more, I shrink 
from the tliought of transcribing it at pres- 
ent. But as there is no need to be in any 
hurry about it, I hope that, in some rainy 
season, which the next month will probably 
bring with it, when perhaps I niiiy be glad of 
employment, the undertaking will appear less 
formidable. 

You need not withhold from us .any intel- 
ligence relating to yourselves, upon an ap- 
prehension that Mr. R has been before- 
hand with you upon those subjects, for we 
could get nothing out of him. I have known 
such travellers in my time, and Mrs. Newton 
is no stranger to one of them, who keep all 
their observations and discoveries to them- 
selves, till they are extorted from them by 
mere dint of examination and cross-e.xamina- 
tion. He told us, indeed, that some invisible 
agent supplied you every Sunday with a 
coach, which we were pleased with hearing; 
and this, I think, was the sum total of his 
information. 

We are much concerned for Mr. Bar- 
ham's loss;* but it is well for that gentle- 
man, that those amiable features in his char- 
acter, which most incline one to sympathize 
with him, are the very graces and virtues 
that will strengthen him to bear it with equa- 
nimity and patience. People that have neither 
his light nor experience will wonder that a 
disaster, whicli would perhaps have broken 
their hearts, is not heavy enough to make 
any abatement in the cheerfulness of his. 

Your books came yesterday. I shall not 
repeat to you what I said to Mrs. Unwin, 
after having read two or three of the letters. 
I admire the preface, in which you have given 
an air of novelty to a worn-out topic, and 
have actually engaged the favor of the reader 
by saying those things in a delicate and un- 
common way, which in general are disgusting. 

I suppose you know tliat Jlr. Scottf will 
be in town on Tuesday. He is likely to 

* Tlie loss of his excellent wife. Mr. Barhnm was the 
iiilim.'ite friend of Newton, and Cowper. and of the pions 
L(»rd Djirlmouth, whose name is occa-^ionally inlrudueed 
in Uicsc letters in connexion with Olney, when' his lord- 
sliij)'s eliurity wa.s liberalty dispensed. Mr. Uarhani sug- 
gested llie subject of many of the hymns that are in- 
serted in the ( Uney collection, and particularly the one 
entitled " What think ye of Christ';* He was father of 
the late Jos. Fosti-r Itarham, l^sq., many years M.P. for 
the borough of Stockbridge. The editor is happy in 
here bearing testimony to Itie profound piety and en- 
dearing virtues of a man, with whose family he bei';nne 
subsequently connt.-cted. He afterwards married the 
widow of Sir Rowland Hill, Barl., and lived at Ilawke- 
stone in Shrop-shire. 

t The \aJ.c Kev. Thomas Scoll, so well known and dis- 
tinguished by his writings. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



85 



take possession of the vicarage at last, with 
the best grace possible ; at least, if he and 
Mr. Biuwne can agree upon the terms. 

Yours, my dear friend, VV. C. 



TO THE REV. M'II.LIAM UNWIN.* 

Olnoy, Fi-b. 6, HiSI. 

My dear Friend, — Much good may your 
humanity do you, as it does so much good 
to others.} Vou can nowhere find objects 
more entitled to your pity tlian where your 
pity seeks them. A man whose vices and 
irregularities have brought his liberty and 
life into danger will always be viewed with 
an eye of compassion by those who under- 
stand what human nature is made of And, 
while we acknowledge the severity of the 
law to he founded upon principles of neces- 
sity and justice, and are glad that there is 
such a barrier provided for the peace of so- 
ciety, if wx consider that the ditTerence be- 
tween our.selves and the culprit is not of our 
own making, we shall be, as you are, tender- 
ly affected with the view of his misery, and 
not the less so because he has brought it 
upon himself I look upon the worst man 
in Clielmsfurd gaol with a more favorable 

eye than upon , who claims a servant's 

wages from one who never was his master. 

I give you joy of your own hair. No 
doubt you are a considerable gainer in your 
appearance by being disperiwigged. The 
best wig is that which mo.st resembles the 
natural hair ; why then should he that has 
hair enough of his own have recourse to imi- 
t;ition ? I have little doubt but that, if an 
arm or a leg could have been taken oft' with 
as little pain as attends the amputation of a 
curl or a lock of hair, the natural limb v.ould 
have been thought less becoming or less con- 
venient by some men than a vyooden one, and 
been disposed of accordingly. 

Yours ever, W C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olncy, Feb. H, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — It is possible that Mrs. 
Hill may not be herself a sufferer by the late 
terrible catastrophe in the Islands ; but I 
sliould suppose, by her correspondence with 
those parfs, she may be connected with some 
that are. In either case, I condole with her ; 
for it is reasonable to imagine that, since the 
first tour that Columbus made into the West- 
ern world, it never before experienced such a 
convulsion, perhaps never since the founda- 
tion of the globe.t You say the state grows 

* Private correspondence. 

t Tlii^ iitludes U> liis aUend;ince on acondemned male- 
factor ill the j.iil at ('Iietiii^rt>rd. 

J This 8e;L.i«m wsis reiiiarkatjlo Tor the mo!*t deatructivc 
hurricanes ever remembered in the West Indies. 



old, and discovers many symptoms of decline. 
A writer possessed of a genius for hyjiothe- 
sis, like that of Burnet, might construct a 
plausible argument to prove tliat the world 
itself is in a state of superannuation, if there 
be such a word. If not, there must be sucli 
a one as superannuity. When that just 
cipiilibrium that has hitherto supported all 
things seems to fail, when the elements burst 
the chain that had bound them, the wind 
sweejiing away the works of man, and man 
him.sclf together with his works, and the 
ocean seeming to overleap the command, 
" Hitherto shall thou come, and no further, 
and here shall thy proud waves be stayed," 
these irregularand prodigious vagaries seemed 
to bespeak a decay, and forebode, perhap.?, 
not a very distant dis^:olution. This thought 
has so run away with my attention, that I 
have left myself no room for the little poli- 
tics that have only Great Britain for their ob- 
ject. Who knows but that while a thousand 
and ten thousand tongues are employed in 
adjusting the scale of our national concerns, 
ill complaining of new taxes, and funds load- 
ed with a debt of accumulating millions, the 
consummation of all things may (li.scharge it 
ill a moment, and the scene of all this bustle 
disappear, as if it had never been? Charles 
Fox would say, perhaps, he thought it very 
unlikely. I question if he could prove even 
that. I am sure, however, he could not 
prove it to be impossible. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Feb. 15, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad you were 
pleased with my report of so extraordinary 
a case.* If the thought of versifying the de- 
cisions of our courts of justice had struck me 
while I had the honor to attend them, it 
W'Ould perhaps have been no ditiiciilt matter 
to have compiled a volume of sucli amusing 
and interesting precedents : which, if they 
w.mted the eloriuence of the Greek or Ro- 
man oratory, would have amply compensated 
that deliciency by the harmony of rhyme and 
met re. 

Your account of my uncle and your mo- 
ther gave me great pleasure. I have long 
been afr.iid to iiKpiire after some in whose 
welfare I always feel myself interested, lest 
the question should produce a painful an- 
swer. Longevity is the lot of so few, and is 
so seldom rendered comfortable by the asso- 
ciations of good health and good spirits, that 
I could not very reasonably suppose cither 
your relations or mine so happy in those re- 
spects as it seems they are. ilay they con- 
tinue to enjoy those blessings so long as the 

* He alluded lo tlie humorous verses on the Nose and 
the Kyee, inserted in a preceding letter. 



86 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



date of life shall last. I do not think that in 
these eostermonger days, as I have a notion 
Falstatl' calls them, an antediluvian age is at 
all a desirable thing, but to live comfortably 
while we do live is a great matter, and com- 
prehends in it everything that can be wished 
I'or on this side tlie curtain that hangs be- 
tween Time and Eternity 1 

Farewell, my better friend than any I have 
to boast of, eitlier among the Lords or gen- 
tlemen of the House of Commons. 

W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN KEWTON.* 

Olney, Ff b. 1?, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I send you " Table 
Talk." It is a medley of many things, some 
that may be useful, and some that, for aught 
I know, may be very diverting. I am merry 
that I may decoy people into my company, 
and grave that they may be the better for it. 
Now and then I put on tlie garb of a philoso- 
pher, and take the opportunity that disguise 
procures me to drop a word in favor of re- 
ligion. In short, there is some froth, and 
here and there a bit of sweatmeat, which 
seems to entitle it justly to the name of a 
certain di.sli the ladies call a tritie. I do not 
choose to be more facetious, lest I should 
consult the taste of my readers at the ex- 
pense of my own approbation : nor more 
serious than I have been, lest I should forfeit 
theirs. A poet in my circumstances has a 
difficult part to act : one minute obliged to 
bridle his humor, if he has any ; and the 
next, to clap a spur to the sides of it: now 
ready to weep from a sense of the import- 
ance of his subject, and on a sudden con- 
strained to laugh, lest his gravity should be 
mistaken for dulness. If this be not violent 
e.xercise for the mind, I know not what is ; 
and if any man doubt it, let him try. Whe- 
ther all this management and contrivance be 
necessary I do not know, but am inclined to 
susj)ect that if my Muse was to go forth clad 
in Quaker color, without one bit of riband to 
enliven her appearance, she might walk from 
one end of London to the other as little no- 
ticed as if she were one of the sisterhood 
indeed. 

You had been married thirty-one years last 
Monday. When you married I was eighteen 
years of age, and had just left Westminster 
school. At that time, I valued a man accord- 
ing to his proficiency and taste in classical 
literature, and had the meanest opinion of 
all other accomplishments unaccompanied by 
that. I lived to see the vanity of what I had 
made my pride, and in a few years found that 
there were other attainments which would 
carry a man more handsomely through life 
than a mere knowledge of what Homer and 
* Private correspondence. 



Virgil had left beliind them. In measure as 
my attachment to these gentry wore off', I 
found a more welcome reception among those 
whose acquaintance it was more my interest 
to cultivate. But all this time was spent in 
painting a piece of wood th.at had no life in 
it. At last I began to think indeed; I found 
myself in possessiim of many baubles, but 
not one grain of solidity in all my treasures. 
Then I learned the truth, and then I lost it, 
and there ends my history. I would no more 
than you wish to live such a life over again, 
but for one reason. He that is carried to 
execution, though through the roughest road, 
when he arrives at the destined spot would 
be glad, notwithstanding the many jolts he 
met with, to repeat his journey. 

Yours, my dear Sir, with our joint love, 

W. C- 



TO MRS. HILL.* 

Olnej, Feb. 19, 1781. 
Dear Madam, — When a man, especially a 
man that lives altogether in the country, un- 
dertakes to write to a lady he never saw, he 
is the awkwardest creature in the world. He 
begins his letter under the same sensations 
he would have if he was to accost her in per- 
son, only with this difference, — that he may 
take as much time as he pleases for consider- 
ation, and need not write a single word that 
he has not well weighed and pondered be- 
forehand, much less a sentence that he docs 
not think supereminently clever. In every 
other respect, whether he be engaged in an 
interview or in a letter, his behavior is, for 
the most part, equally constrained and un- 
natural. He resolves, as they say, to set the 
best leg foremost, which often proves to be 
what Hudibras calls — 

Not that of bone, 
But much its better — th' wooden one. 

His extraordinary effort only serves, as in the 
case of that hero, to throw him on the other 
side of his horse; and he owes his want of 
success, if not to absolute stupidity, to his 
most earnest endeavor to secure it. 

Now I do assure you, madam, that all these 
sprightly effusions of mine stand entirelyelcar 
of the charge of premeditation, and that I 
lu'ver entered upon a business of this kind 
with more simplicity in my life. I deter- 
mined, before I began, to lay aside all attempts 
of the kind I h.ave just mentioned ; and, being 
perfectly free from the fetters that self-con- 
ceit, commonly called bashfulness, fastens 
upon the mind, am, as you sec, surprisingly 
brilliant. 

My principal design is to thank you in the 
plainest terms, which always afford the best 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



87 



proof of :i niiin's sinecrity, for your obliging 
present. The seeds will make ;i tij,'iir<^ here- 
after ill (lie stove of a mueh greater man than 
myself, who am a little man, with no stove at 
all. Some of them, however, I shall raise 
for my own amusement, and keep them as 
lonjf as they ean be kept in a b:irk heat, 
whieh I give Ihcm all the year; and, in ex- 
change for those I part with, I shall receive 
such exotics as are not too delicate for a 
greenhouse. 

I will nol^mit to tell you, what no doubt 
you have heard already, though perhaps you 
have never made the experiment, that leaves 
gathered at the fall are found to hold their 
heat tnui'h longer than bark, and are prefer- 
able in every resi)ect. Nex.t year, I intend to 
use them myself. I mention it, because Mr. 
Hill told me some time since, that he was 
building a stove, in which I suppose they will 
succeed much better than in a frame. 

I beg to thank you again, madam, for the 
very tine salmon you were so kind as to favor 
me with, which has all the sweetness of a 
Hertfordshire trout, and resembles it so mueh 
in llavor, that blindfold I should not have 
known tile dilferenee. 

I beg, madam, you w'ill accept all ttese 
thanks, and believe them as sincere as they 
really are. Mr. Hill knows ine well enough 
to be able to vouch for me that I am not 
over-much addicted to compliments and fine 
speeches; nor do I mean either the one or 
the other, when I assure you that I am, dear 
madam, not merely for his sake, but yoin- own, 
Your most obedient 

and atfectiomite servant, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Feb. 23, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — He that tells a long story 
should tjike care that it be not made a long 
story by his minner of telling it. His ex- 
pression should be natur.d, and his method 
clear; the incidents should be interrupted by 
very few reflections, and parentheses should 
be entirely discarded. I do not know th.at 
poor Mr. Teedon guides himself in the alTair 
of story-telling by any one of these rules, or 
by any rule indeed that I ever lieanl of He 
has just left us afier a long visit, the greatest 
part of which he spent in the narration of a 
certain detail of facts that might have been 
compressed into a much smaller compass, 
and my attention to which his wearied and 
worn out all my spirits. You know how 
scrupulously nice he is in the choice of his 
e.xprcssioii : an exactness that soon becomes 
very inconvenient both to s])eakerand hearer, 
where there is not a great variety to choose 
out of But Saturday evening is come, tlu^ 
• Private correspondence. 



time I generally devote to my correspondence 
with you ; and Mrs. Unwin will not allow me 
to let it pass without writing, though, having 
done it herself, both she and you might well 
spare me upon the i)resent occasion. 

Notwithstanding my purpose to .shake hands 
with the Muse, and lake my leave of her fur 
the present, we have already had a lele-a-lelc 
since I sent you the last production. I am as 
much or rather more pleased with my new 
plan than with any of the foregoing. 1 mean 
to give a short summary of the Jewish story, 
the miraculous interpositions in behalf of th.at 
people, their great privileges, their abuse of 
them, and their con.sec|uent destruction ; and 
then, by way of comparison, such another 
display of the favors vouchsafed to this coun- 
try, the similar ingratitude with which they 
have recpiited them, and the punishment thev 
have therefore reason to expect, unless re- 
formation interpose to prevent it. " Expos- 
tulation "' is its present title; but I have not 
yet found in the writing it that facility and 
readiness without which I shall despair to 
finish it well, or indeed to tinish it at all. 

Believe me, my dear sir, with love to Mrs. N., 
Your ever atfectionate, 

w. c. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olnc-y, Marcli Ij, IT6I. 

My dear Friend, — Since writing is be- 
come one of my principal amusements, and I 
have already produced so in.any verses on 
subjects that entitle them to a hope that they 
may possibly be useful, I should be sorry to 
suppress them entirely, or to pul)lisli them to 
no purpose, for want of that clieap ingredient, 
the n.ame of the author. If my name there- 
fore will serve them in any degree as a pass- 
port into the public notice, they are welcome 
to it: and Mr. Johnson will, if he pleases, 
announce me to the world by the style and 
title of 

WILLIAM COWPER, ESa, 
OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 

If you are of my mind. I think " Table Talk " 
will be the best to begin with, as the subjects 
of it are perhaps more pojnilar ; and one 
would wish, at first setting out, to cat«h the 
public by the ear, and hold them by it as fast 
as possible, that they may be willing to hear 
one on a second and a third occasion. 

The passage you object to I inserted merely 
by way of catch, and think that it is not 
unlikely to answer the purjjose. My design 
was to say as many serious things as I could, 
and yet to be as lively as was compatible 
with such a purpose. Do not imagine that I 
mean to stickle for it, as a pretty creature of 
• Private correspondence. 



88 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



my own that I am loath to part with ; but I 
am apprehensive that, witliout the sprighth- 
ness of that passage to introduce it, the t'ol- 
lowiiig- paragnipli woukt not sliow to advan- 
tage. — It tlic world had been tilled with men 
like yourself, I .should never have written it; 
but, thinking myself in a measure obliged to 
tickle if I meant to please, I therefore aH'ectcd 
a jocularity I did not feel. As to the rest, 
wherever there is war there is misery and 
outrage ; notwithstanding which it is not only 
lawful to wish, but even a duty to pray, for 
the success of one's country. And as to the 
neutralities, I really think the Russian virago 
an impertinent puss for meddling with us, 
and engaging half a score kittens of her ac- 
quaintance to fcratch the poor old lion, who, 
if he has been insolent in his day, has proba- 
bly acted no otherwise tlian they themselves 
would have acted in his circumstances, and 
witli his power to embolden them. 

I am glad that the myrtles reached you 
safe, but am persuaded from past e.xperjence 
that no management will keep them long 
alive in London, especially in the city. Our 
own English Trots, the n.atives of the coun- 
try, are for the most part too delicate to 
thrive there, much more the nice Italian. To 
give them, however, the best chance they can 
have, the lady must keep them well watered, 
giving them a moderate quantity in summer 
lime every otiier day, and in winter about 
twice a week ; not .spring-water, for that 
would kill them. At Michaelmas, as much 
of the mould as can bo taken out without 
disturbing the roots must be evacuated, and 
its place supplied with fresh, the lighter the 
better. And once in two years tlie plants 
must be drawn out of their pots, with the 
entire ball of eartii about them, and the mat^ 
ted roots pared oft' witli a sharp knife, when 
they must be planted again with an addition 
of rich light earth as before. Thus dealt 
with, they will grow lu.xuriantly in a green- 
house, wiicre they can have plenty of sweet 
air, which is absolutely necessary to their 
health. I used to purchase them at Covent 
Garden almost every year when I lived in the 
Temple: but even in that airy situation they 
were sure to lose tlieir leaf in winter, and 
seldom recovered it again in spring. I wish 
them a better fate at Ho.xton. 

Olney has seen this day what it never saw 
before, and what will serve it to talk of, I 
suppose, for years to come. At eleven o'clock 
this morning, a party of soldiers entered the 
town, driving before them another party, who, 
after obstinately defending the bridge for 
some lime, were obliged to quit it and run. 
They ran in very good order, frequently faced 
about and tired, but were at last obliged to 
surrender prisoners of war. There has been 
much drunnuing and shouting, much scamper- 
ing about in the dirt, but not an inch of lace 



made in the town, at Ica.st at the Silver End 
of it. 

It is our joint request that you will not 
again leave us unwritten to for a fortnight. 
We are so like yourselves in this particular, 
that we cannot help ascribing so long a si- 
lence to the worst cause. The longer your 
letters the better, but a short one is better 
than none. 

Mrs. Unwin is pretty well, and adds the 
greetings of her love. to mine. 

Yours, my dear friend- W. C. 



TO TIIE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Marcli 1?, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — A slight disorder in my 
eye may possibly prevent my writing you a 
long letter, and would perhaps have pre- 
vented my writing at all, if I had not known 
that you account a fortnight's silence a week 
too long. 

I am sorry that I gave you the trouble to 
write twice upon so trivial a subject as the 
passage in question. I did not understand by 
your tirst objections to it that you thought it 
so ^.xccptionablc as you do ; but, being better 
informed, I immediately resolved to expunge 
it, and subjoin a few lines wliicli you will 
oblige me by substituting in its place. I am 
not very fond of w'eaving a jiolitieal thread 
into any of my pieces, and that for two reii- 
sons ; first, because I do not tjiink myself 
qualified, in point of intelligence, to form a 
decided opinion on any such topics: and, 
secoiully, because I tliink them, thougli per- 
haps as popular as any, the most useless of 
all. The following verses are designed to 
succeed immediately after 

fights with justice on his side. 

Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, 
Reward his mem'ry, dear to every muse, &,c.f 

I am oljliged to you for your advice with 
respect to the manner of publication, and feel 
myself inclined to be determined by it. So 
far as I have proceeded on the subject of 
" Expostulation," 1 have written with tolera- 
ble case to myself, and in my own opinion 
(for an opinion I am obliged to have about 
what I write, whether I will or no), with more 
emphasis and energy than in either of the 
others. But it seems to open upon me with 
an abundance of matter that forebodes a con- 
siderable length : and the time of year is 
come when, what with walking and garden- 
ing, I can hud but little leisure for the pen. 
I mean however, as soon as I have engrafted 
a new scion into the " Progress of Error" 
instead of * * * *, and when I have tran- 

* Privjilc correspondence. 

t Viile Poems, wtiere, in the next line, the epithet wn- 
shaken is substituted fur Uie iwhtest^ iu the letter. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



89 



scribed « Truth," and sent it to you, to apply 
myself to the composition last undertaken 
with as niiicli industry as I can. If, there- 
fore, liie tirst three are put into the press 
while I am spinnin;^ and weaving the last, 
the whole may perhaps be ready for publica- 
tion before tlie proper season will be past. I 
mean at present that a few select smaller 
pieces, about seven or eight perhaps, the best 
1 can Hnd in a bookful that I have by me, 
shall accompany them. All together they 
will furnish, I sliould imagine, a volume of 
tolerable bulk, that need not be indebted to 
an um-casonable breadth of margin for tint 
importance of its figure. 

If a board of incpiiry were to be estab- 
lis!ie>l, at which poets were to undergo an 
examination respecting the motives that in- 
duced them to publish, and I were to be sum- 
moned to attend, that I might give an account 
of mine, I think I could truly say, wh.at per- 
haps few poets could, tli.at, though I have no 
objeciion to lucrative conscriuences, if any 
such should follow, they are not my aim : 
much less is it my ambition to exhibit myself 
to the world as a genius. What then, says 
Mr. President, can possibly be your motive .' 
I answer with a bow — amusement. There 
is nothing but this — no occupation within 
the compass of my small sphere, poetry ex- 
cepted, that can do much towards diverting 
that train of melancholy thoughts, which, 
when 1 am not thus enii)loyed, are fijrever 
pouring themselves in upon me. And if I 
did not publish what I write, I could not in- 
terest myself sufKciently in my own success 
to make an amusement of it. 

In my account of the b.attle fought at 01- 
ney, I laid a snare i'or your curiosity and suc- 
ceeded. I supposed it would have an enig- 
matical appearance, and so it had ; but like 
most other riddles, when it comes to be 
solved, you will find that it was not worth 
the trouble of conjecture. There are soldiers 
quartered at Newport and at Olney. These 
met, by order of their respective officers, in 
Emberton .Marsh, performed all the mana^u- 
\Tes of a decdy battle, and the result was 
that this town was taken. Since I wrote, they 
have again encountered with the same inten- 
tion ; and Mr. R kept a room fiU' me 

and Jlrs. Unwin, that we might sit and view 
them at our ease. We did so, l)ut it did not 
answer our expectation ; for, before the con- 
tost could be decided, the powder on both 
sides being expended, the combatants were 
obliged to leave it an undecided contest. If 
it were possible that, when two great armies 
spend the night in expectation of a battle, a 
third could silently steal .away their ammuni- 
tion and arms of every kind, what a comedy 
would it make of that which always has such 
a tragical conclu.sion! 

Yours, my dear friend, \V. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

OInoy, April 2, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Fine weather, and a va- 
riety of exlra-furanmux occupations, (search 
.lohnson's dictionary for that word, and if 
not found there, insert it — for it saves a deal 
of circumlocution, and is very lawfully com- 
pounded,) make it ditticult, (excuse the length 
of a parenthesis, which I did not foresee the 
length of when I began it, and which m.ay 
perhaps a little perplex the sense of whtit I 
am writing, though, as I seldom deal in that 
figure of speech, I have the less need to make 
an apology for doing it at present,) make it 
dillicult (i say) for me to find opportunities 
for writing. My morning is engrossed by 
the garden ; and in tlii^ afternoon, till I have 
drunk lea, I am fit for nothing. At five 
o'clock we walk, and when the walk is over 
lassitude recommends rest, and again I be- 
come fit for nothing. The current hour, 
therefore, which (I need not tell you) is 
comprised in the interval between four and 
five, is devoted to your service, as the only 
one in the twenty-four which is not otherwise 
engaged. 

1 do not wonder that you have felt a great 
deal upon the occasion you mention in your 
last, especially on account of the asperity you 
have met with in the behavior of your friend. 
Reflect, however, that, as it is natural to you 
to have very fine feelings, it is eijually natu- 
ral to some other tempers to leave those 
feelings entirely out of the question, and to 
speak to you, and to act towards you, just as 
they do towards the rest of mankind, with- 
out tlie least attention to the irritability of 
your system. Men of a rough and unspar- 
ing address should take great care that tlu'y 
be always in the right, the justness and pro- 
priety of their sentiments and censures being 
the only tolerable apology that can be made 
for such a conduct, especially in a country 
where civility of behavior is inculcated even 
from the cradle. But, in the instance now 
under our contemplation, I think yon a suf- 
ferer under the weight of an animadversion 
not founded in truth, and which, consequently, 
you did not deserve. I account him faithful 
in the pulpit who dissembles nothing that he 
believes for fear of giving offence. To ac- 
commodate a discourse to the judgment and 
ojiiuion of others, for the sake of pleasing 
tliem, though by doing so we are obliged to 
depart widely from our own, is to i)e un- 
faithful to ourselves at least, and cannot be 
accounted fidelity to Ilim whom we profess 
to serve. But there are few men who do 
not stand in need of the exercise of charity 
and forbearance ; and the gentleman iu cpu's- 
tiou has afforded you an ample opportunity 
in this respect to show how readily, though 
differing in your views, you can practise all 
that he couid possibly expect from you, if 



90 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



your persuasion corresponded exactly with 
his own. 

With respect to Moimp.ur le Cure, I think 
you not quite excusable for sufTerinif such a 
man to give you iiny uneasiness at all. The 
grossness and injustice of his demand ourrju 
to be its own antidote. If a robber should 
miscall you a pitiful fellow for not carryin;T 
a purse full of gold about you, would his 
brutality give you any concern? I suppose 
iiot Why, then, have you been distressed 
m the present instance ? 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, April 8, 1781. 

My dear Friend,— Since I commenced au- 
thor, my letters are even less woi-th your ac- 
ceptance that they were before. I shall soon 
howe\'er, lay down tlie character, and cease 
to trouble you with directions to a printer, at 
least till the summer is over. If I live to see 
the return of winter, I may, perhaps, assume 
It again ; but my appetite for fame is not 
keen enough to combat with my love of tine 
weather, my love of indolence, and my love 
of gardening employments. 

I send you, by Mr. Old, my works com- 
plete, bound in brown paper, and numbered 
according to the series in which I would have 
them published. With respect to the poem 
called "Truth," it is so true, that it can hardly 
fail of giving offence to unenlightened read- 
ers. I think, therefore, that, in order to ob- 
vi.ite in some measure those prejudices tliat 
will naturally erect their bristles against it, 
an explanatory prefiice, such as you"(and no- 
b<)dy so well as you) can furnish me with, 
will have every grace of propriety to recom- 
mend It. Or, if you are not averse to the 
task, and your avocations will allow you to 
undertake it, and if you think it would be 
slill more proper, I should be glad to be in- 
di-bfed to you for a preface to the whole. I 
wish yon, however, to consult your own judn-- 
ment upon the occasion, and to engage ?n 
cither of these works, or neither, just as°your 
discretion guides you. 

I have written a great deal to-day, which 
must be my excuse for an abrupt conclusion. 
Our love attends you both. We are in pretty 
good health ; Mrs. Unwin, indeed, better than 
usual : and as to me, I ail nothing but the 
incurable ailment. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 
Thanks for the cocoa-nut. 
I send you a cucumber, not of my own 
raising, and yet raised by me. 

Solve this enigma, dark enough 

To puzzle any brains 
That are not downright puzzle-proof, 

And eat it lor your pains. 

* Private correspondence. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Monday, April 23, 1781. 

Bly dear Fi'icnd,— Having not the least 
doubt ol your ability to execute just such a 
preface as I should wish to sec prelixed to 
my publication, and being convinced that you 
have no good foundation for those which you 
yourself entertain u|)oii the subject, I neillier 
withdraw my requisition nor ab.ate one jot 
of the earnestness with which I made it. I 
admit the delicacy of the occasion, but am 
ar from apprehending that you will therefore 
ind It dilhcult to succeed. You can draw a 
hair-stroke where another man would make 
a blot as broad as a sixpence. 

I am much obliged to you for the interest 
you take in the appearance of my poems, and 
much pleased by the alacrity with which you 
do It. \ our favorable opinion of them af- 
fords me a comfortable presage with respect 
to that of the public: for though I make al- 
lowances for your partiality to'iiie and mine 
because mine, yet I am sure yon would not 
suiter me unadmoiiished to add myself to 
the multitude of insijiid rhymers, \vitli who>e 
productions the world is already too much 
pestered. 

It is «-orth while to send ynu a riddle, you 
make such a variety of guesses, and turn and 
tumble it about with such an industrious cu- 
riosity. The S(dution of that in question is 
— let me see ; it requires some consideration 
to explain it, even though I made it. I 
raised the seed that produced the plant that 
produced the fruit that produced the seed 
that produced the fruit I .sent you. Tliis 
atter seed I gave to the gardener 'of Tyriii.r- 
iiam, who brought me the cucumber ymx 
mention. Thus you see I raised it— that is 
to say, I raised it virtually by having raised 
Its progenitor; and yet I did not raise it. 
because the identical .seed from which it grew 
was raised at a distance. You obserie I did 
not sjieak raslily when I spoke of it as dark- 
enough to pose an QCdipus, and have no need 
to call your own sagacity in question for fail- 
ing short of the discovery. 

A report has ])revailed at Olney that you 
are coming in a fortnight; but, taking it for 
granted that you know best when you .shall 
come, and that you will make us happy in the 
same knowledge as soon as you are possessed 
ot It yourself, I did not venture to build any 
sanguine exjiectations upon it. 

I have at la.st read the second volume of 

*/''• 's work-, and had some hope that I 

should prevail with myself to read the first 
likewise. I began his 'book at the latter end, 
because the first part of it was engaged when 
I received the second ; but I had not so good 
an appetite as the soldier of the Guards, who 
I was informed when I lived in London' 
«'Ould for a small matter, eat up a cat alive^ 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



91 



beginning at her tail and finishing with her 
whiskers. 

Yours, ul semper, W. C. 

Tlie period was now arrived, in which 
Cowper was at length to make his appear- 
ance in the avowed character of an author. 
It is an epoch in British literature worthy of 
being recorded, bec-iuse poetry in his hands 
became the handmaid of morality and religion. 
Too often has the Muse been prostituted to 
more ignoble ends. But it is to the praise 
of CowpiT, that he never wroti! a line at 
which modesty might blush. His verse is 
idenlilied with whatever is pure in conception, 
chaste in imagery, and moral in its aim. His 
object was to strengthen, not to enervate ; to 
inip.irt health, not to admini.ster to disease ; 
and to inspire a love for virtue, by exhibiting 
the deformity of vice. So long as nature 
shall possess the power to charm, and the 
interests of solid truth and wisdom, arrayed 
in the garb of taste, and enforced by nervous 
language, shall deserve to predominate over 
seduclive imagery, the page of Cowper will 
demand our admiration, and be road with de- 
light and profit. 

Tlie following letters afford a very pleasing 
circumstantial account of the manner in which 
he was induced to venture into the world as 
a poet. 

We will only add to the information they 
contain what we learn from the authority of 
his guardian friend, Mrs. Unwin, that she 
strongly solicited him, on his recovery from 
a very long fit of mental dejection, to devote 
his thoughts to poetry of considerable extent. 
She suggested to him, at the .same time, the 
first subject of his verse, "The Progress of 
Error,'' which the reader will recollect as the 
second poem in his first volume. The time 
wlien that volume was completed, and the 
motives of its author for giving it to the world, 
are clearly displayed in an admirable letter 
to his poetical cousin, Mrs. Cowper. His 
feelings, on the approach of publication, are 
described with his usual nobleness of senti- 
ment and simplicity of expression, in reply to 
a question upon the subject from the anxious 
young friend to whom he gave the first notice 
of his intention in the next letter. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM tlNWIK. 

Olncy, Maj 1, 1781. 
Your mother says I must write, and must 
admits of no apology ; I might otherwise 
plead, that I have nothing to say, that I am 
weary, that I am dull, that it would be more 
convenient therefore for you, as well as for 
myself, that 1 should let it alone. But all 
these pie IS, and whatever pleas besides, cither 
disiiiclin.ation, indolence, or necessity might 
suggest are overruled, as they ought to be, 
the moment a lady adduces her irrefragable 



argument, you inust. You have still however 
one comfort left, that what I mu.st write, you 
may or may not read, just .is it shall plea.se 
you ; unless Lady Anne at your elbow should 
say you must read it, and then, like a true 
knight, you will obey without looking for a 
remedy. 

Ill the press, and speedily will be published, 
in one volume octavo, price three shillings, 
Poems, by William Cowper, of the Inner 
Temple, Esq. You may suppose, by the size 
of the publication, that the greatest part of 
them have been long kept secret, because you 
yourself have never seen them ; but the truth 
is, that they were most of them, except what 
you have in your possession, the produce of 
the last winter. Two-thirds of the compila- 
tion will be occupied by four pieces, the fir.st 
of which sprung up in the month of December, 
and the last of them in the month of March. 
They contain, I suppo.se, in all, about two 
thousand and five hundred lines ; are known, 
or to be known in due time, by the names of 
Tabic TalU — Tiie Progress of Error — 't'ru/k 
— Expostulation. Mr. Newton writes a pre- 
face, and Johnson is the publisher. The 
principal, I may s.iy the only, reason wliy I 
never mentioned to you, till now, an affair 
wiiich I am just going to make known to all 
the world (if thai Mr. AU-the-world should 
think it worth his knowing) has been this; 
that till within these few days, I li.ad not the 
honor to know it myself This may seem 
strange, but it is true, for, not knowing where 
to find underwriters who would choose to 
insure them, and not finding it convenient to 
a purse like mine to run any hazard, even 
upon the credit of my own ingenuity, I was 
very much in doubt for some weeks whether 
any bookseller would be willing to subject 
himself to an ambiguity, that might prove 
very expensive in case of a bad market. But 
Johnson h.is heroically set all pcradventures 
at defiance, and takes the whole charge upon 
himself. So out I come. I shall be glad of 
my Translations from Vincent Bourne in your 
next frank. Jly Muse will lay herself at your 
feet immediately on her first public appear- 
ance. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPU HILL, ESQ. 

Olnej-, May 0, 1781. 
My dear Sir, — I am in the press, and it is 
in vain to deny it. But how mysterious is 
the conveyance of intelligence from one end 
to the other of your great city ! Not many 
days since, except one m-in, and be but little 
taller than yourself, all London was ignorant 
of it ; for I do not suppo.se that the public 
prints have yet announced the most agreeable 
tidings; the title-page, which is the basis of 
the advertisement, having so lately reached 



92 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the publisher; and it is now known to you, 
wlio live at least two miles distant from my 
coiilidaiit upon the occasion. 

My labors are princip;illy the production 
of the last winter ; all indeed, except a few of 
the minor pieces. When I can find no other 
occupation I think, and when 1 think I am very 
apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass, 
that the season of the year whieli generally 
pinches off the flowers of poetry unfolds mine, 
such as they are, and crowns nie with a winter 
garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my 
contemporary bards are by no means upon a 
par. They write when the delightful influen- 
ces of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk 
motion of the animal spirits, make poetry 
almost the langu.age of nature; and I, when 
icicles depend from all the leaves of the Par- 
nassian laurel, and when a reasonable man 
would as little e.xpect to succeed in verse as 
to hear a blackbird whistle. This must be my 
apology to you for whatever want of fire and 
animation you observe in what you will 
shortly have the perusal of As to the public, 
if they like me not, there is no remedy. A 
friend will weigh and consider all disadvan- 
tages, and make as large allowances as an 
author can wish, and larger perhaps than he 
has any right to e.xpect ; but not so the world 
at large; whatever they do not like, they will 
not by any apology be persuaded to forgive, 
and it would be in vain to tell them that I 
vv]-ote my verses in .lanuary, for they would 
inmiediately reply, "Why did not you write 
them in May?" A question that might puzzle 
a wiser head than we poets arc generally 
blessed with. W. C. 



TO THE REV. W^ILLIAM UNWIN. 

OInoy, May 10, 17.11. 

My dear Friend, — It is Friday; I have just 
drunk tea, and just perused your letter; and 
though this answer to it cannot set off till 
Sunday, I obey tlie warm impulse I feel, which 
will not permit me to postpone the business 
till the regular time of writing. 

I expected you would be grieved ; if you had 
not been so, those sensibilities which attend 
you upon every other occasion must have left 
you upon this. I am sorry that I have given 
you pain, but not sorry that you have felt it. 
A concern of that sort would be absurd, be- 
cause it would be to regret your friendship for 
me, and to be dissatisfied with the eflect of it. 
Allow yourself however tiiree minutes only 
for reflection, and your penetration nmst ne- 
cessarily dive into the motives of my conduct. 
In the first place, and by way of prefiicc, re- 
member that I do not (whatever your partiality 
may incline you to do) account it of much con- 
sequence to any friend of mine whether he is, 
or is not, employed by me upon such an oc- 
casion. But all aftected i-enunciations of po- 



etical merit apart, and all unaffected expres- 
sions of the sense I have of my own littleness 
in the poetical character too, the obvious and 
only reason why I resorted to Mr. Newton, 
and not to my friend Unwin, was this: th.at 
the former lived at London, tlie latter at 
Stock ; the former was upon the spot to cor- 
rect the press, to give instructions respecting 
any sudden alterations, and to settle with 
the publisher everything that miglit possibly 
occur in Ihe course of such a business ; the 
latter could not be applied to for these pur- 
poses without what I thought would be a 
manifest encroachment on his kindness; be- 
cause it might happen that the troublesome 
office might cost him now and then a journey, 
which it was absolutely impossible for me to 
endure the thought of. 

When I wrote to you for the copies you 
have sent me, I told you I was making a col- 
lection, but not with a design to publish. 
There is nothing truer than at tliat time I had 
not the smallest expectation of sending a 
volume of Poems to the press. I had several 
small pieces that might amuse, but I would 
not, when I publish, make the amusement 
of the reader my only object. When the 
winter deprived me of other employments, I 
began to compose, and, seeing six or 'seven 
months before me which would naturally 
artbrd me much leisure for such a purpose, I 
undertook a piece of some lengtli ; that fin- 
ished, another; and so on, till I had amassed 
the lunnber of lines I mentioned in my last. 

Believe of me what you please, but not 
that I am indiflxn-ent to you or your friend- 
ship for me on any occasion. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olnc-y, May 23, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — If a writer's friends have 
need of patience, how mucli more the writer! 
Your desire to see my Muse in public, and 
mine to gratify you, must botli snfi'er the 
mortification of delay. I expected that my 
trumpeter would have informed the world, 
by this lime, of all that is needful for them 
to know upon such an occasion ; and that an 
advertising blast, blown through every news- 
paper, would have said — " The Poet is com- 
ing." — But man, especially man that writes 
verse, is born to disappointments, as surely 
as printers and booksellers are born to he 
the most dilatory and ledious of all crea- 
tures. The plain English of this magnificent 
preamble is, that the season of publication 
is just elapsed, that the town is going into 
the country every day, and that my book 
caiHiot appear till they return, that is to s.ay, 
not till next winter. " This misfortune, how- 
ever, comes not without its attendant advan- 
tage ; I shall now have, what I should not 



otherwise have had, an opportmiity to cor- 
rect the press myself: no small advantage 
upon any occasion, but especially important 
wliere poetry is concerned ! A single erratum 
may knock out the brains of a wliole p.is- 
sage, and that, perluip-, which of all others 
the unfortunate poet is the most proud of. 
Add to this that, now and then, there is to 
be found in a printing-house a presumptuous 
inlernieddlcr, who will fancy himself a poet 
too, and, what is still worse, a better than 
he that employs him. The consequence is 
thai, with cobbling and tinkering, and patch- 
ing on here and there a shred of his own, he 
makes such a difl'erence between the original 
and the copy, that an author cannot know 
his own work .again. Now, as I choose to 
be responsible for nobody's dulness but my 
own, 1 am a little comforted when I reHect 
that it will be in my power to prevent all 
such impertinence, and yet not without your 
assistance. It will be quite necessary that 
the correspondence between me and .lohnson 
should be carried on without the expense of 
postage, because proof-sheets would make 
double or treble letters, which expense, as in 
every instance it must occur twice, lirst when 
the packet is sent and again when it is re- 
turned, would be r.ather inconvenient to mo, 
who, as you [)erceive, am forced to live by 
my wits, and to him who hopes to get a little 
matter, no doubt, by the same means. Half 
a dozen franks, therefore, to me, and totidsin 
to him will be singularly aceeptible, if you 
can, without feeling it in any respect a trou- 
ble, procure them for me.* 

I am much obliged to you for your offer 
to support me in a translation of Bourne. 
It is but seldom, however, and never except 
for my amusement, that I translate ; because 
I lind it disagreeable to work by another 
man's pattern; I should, at le.ast, be sure to 
tinU it so in a business of any length. Ag.iin, 
that is epigrammatic and witty in Latin which 
would be perfectly ini-ipid in English, and a 
translator of Bourne would frequently lind 
himself obliged to supply what is called the 
turn, which is in fact the most diflicult and 
the most expensive part of the whole com- 
position, and could nol. perhaps, in many in- 
stances, be done with any tolerable success. 
If a Latin poem is ne.at, elegant, and musical, 
it is enough — but English readers are not so 
easily satisfied. To quote myself, you will 
(ind. in comparing tlie jackdaw with the 
original, that I was obliged to sharpen a 
point, which, though smart enough in the 
Latin, would in English have appeared as 
plain and as blunt as the tag of a lace. I 

• Th« privile;,'? of frankins; letters w.iii rormerly exer- 
cised in a very ditrerenl munnur fnnii wlial is now in 
use. Ttio niinii* of the M.P. was ins^TleJ, as is usual, on 
Ihe cnvcr of the letter, but tiio address was Icll to be 
added wlien and where the writer of the letter found it 
m >Hi exiv.'dienl. 



love the memory of Vinny Bourne. I think 
him a better Latin poet than TibuUus, Pro- 
pertius, Ausonius,* or any of the writers in 
his way, except Ovid, and not at all inferior 
to him. I love him too, with a love of par- 
tiality, because he w.as usher of the fifih 
form at Westminster, when I passed throug!i 
it. lie was so good-natured, and so indo- 
lent, that I lost more than I got by him ; for 
he made me as idle as him<elf. He was such 
a sloven, as if he had trusted to his genius 
as a cloak for everything that could disgust 
you in his person ; and indeed in his writings 
he has almost made amends for all. His 
humor is entirely original — he can speak of 
a magpie or a cat in terms so exquisitely ap- 
propriate to the character he draws, that one 
would suppose him animated by tlie spirit of 
the creature he describes. And with all his 
drollery there is a mixture of rational and even 
religions relleetion at times, and always an 
air of pleasantry, good-nature, and humanity, 
that makes him, in my mind, one of the most 
amiable writers in the world. It is not com- 
mon to meet with an autlior, who can make 
you smile and yet at nobody's expense; who 
is always entertaining and yet always harm- 
less; and who, thongli always elegant, and 
classical to a degree not alw.iys found in the 
classics themselves, charms more by tlie sim- 
plicity and playfulness of his ideas than by 
the neatness and purity of his verse; yet 
such was poor Vinny. I remember seeing 
tlio Duke of Richmond set lire to his greasy 
locks, and box hi.s ears to put it out again. 

Since I began to write long iioems 1 seem 
to turn up my nose at the idea of a short one. 
I have lately entered upon one, which, if ever 
linished, cannot easily be comprised in much 
less than a thousand lines! But this must 
make p.irt of a second publication, and be 
accompanied, in due time, by others not yet 
thought of; for it seems (what I did not 
know till the bookseller Imd occasion to tell 
me so) that single pieces stand no chance, and 
that nothing less than a volume will go down. 
You yourself afford me a proof of the cer- 
tainty of this intelligence, by sending mo 
franks which nothing less than a volume can 
fill. I have accordingly sent you one, but 
am obliged to add that, had the wind been in 
any other point of the compass, or, blowing 
as it does from the east, had it been less bois- 
terous, you must have been contented with 
a much shorier lelter, but the abridgment of 
every other occupation is very favor.ible to 
that of writing. 

I am glad I did not expect to hear from 

* The classic beauty and felicity of expression In the 
I«atin compositions of Rourne h:ivc been justly admirt^d ; 
biu a doubt will exist in the mind of the cl.issical reiulur, 
whether i\w praise which i'x;ills Ijis merits above lho.*e 
of a Tibultiis, to whom both <)vi<l and Horace havo 
borne so distinicuished testimony, does not e.vceod tho 
bounds of I:-i:ittniate e-.l'.o::)'. 



94 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



you by this post, for the boy has lost the 
l)ag in which your letter must have been en- 
closed — another reason for my prolixity ! 
Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, May 23, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to 
you for the pains you have taken with my 
" Table Talk," and wish that my vica nice 
fable-talk could repay you for the trouble 
you have had with tlie written one. 

The season is wonderfully improved within 
this day or two ; and if these cloudless skies 
are continued to us, or rather if the cold 
winds do not set in again, promises you a 
pleasant excursion, as far, at least, as the 
weatlier can conduce to make it such. You 
seldom complain of too much sunshine, and 
if you are prepared for a heat somewhat like 
that of Africa, the south walk in our long 
garden will exactly suit you. Reflected from 
the gravel and from the walls, and beating 
upon your head at the same time, it may pos- 
sibly make you wish you could enjoy for an 
hour or two that immensity of shade afforded 
by the gigantic trees still growing in the land 
of your captivity. t If you could spend a 
day now and then in those forests, and return 
with a wish to England, it W'ould be no small 
addition to the number of your best pleas- 
ures. But pemKc non homini ila/cc. The time 
will come, perhaps, (but death will come 
tirst,) .when you will be abh'. to visit them 
witliout either danger, trouble, or expense; 
and when the contemplation of those well- 
remeinbcred secies will awaken in you emo- 
tions of gratitude and praise, surpassing all 
you could possibly sustain at present. In 
this sense, I suppose there is a heaven 
upon e.arth at all times, and that the disem- 
bodied spirit may find a peculiar joy, arising 
from tlie cuntemplation of those places it 
was formerly conversant with, and so far, at 
least, be reconciled to a world it w'as once 
so weary of, as to use it in the delightful 
way of thankful recollection. 

Miss Catlett must not think of .any other 
lodging than we can, without any inconve- 
nience as we shall with all possible pleasure, 
furnish her with. We can each of us say — 
that is, I can say it in Latin, and Mrs. Unwin 
in English — Nihil tut a me alienum puto. 

Having two more letters to write, 1 find 
myself ohliged to shorten this; so once more 
wishing you a good journey, and ourselves 
the happiness of receiving you in good 
health and spirits, 

I remain affectionately yours, W. C. 

* Private corespondenci;. 

t Mr. Newtnn's voyage to Africa, and his state of inind 
at that period, are ferlintfly described by himself ill hi3 
own writinirs, as well as tiie great mural change which 
hi; subsequenlly e.vperienced. 



TO THE HEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 28, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I believe I never gave 
you trouble without feeling more than I give. 
So mueli by way of preface and apology! 

Thus stands the ease — Johnson has begun 
to print, and Mr. Newton has already cor- 
rected the first sheet. This unexpected de- 
spateh makes it necessary for me to furnish 
myself with the means of communication, 
viz., the franks, as soon as may be. There 
are reasons (I believe I mentioned in my 
last) why I choose to revise the proof my- 
self: nevertheless, if your delicacy must 
suffer the puncture of a pin's ])oint in pro- 
curing the franks for me, I release you en- 
tirely from the task : you are as free as if I 
had never mentioned them. But you will 
oblige me by a speedy answer upon this sub- 
ject, because it is expedient that the printer 
should know to whom he is to send his copy ; 
and when the press is once set, those hum- 
ble servants of the poets are rather impa- 
tient of any delay, because the types are 
wanted for other authors, who are equally 
impatient to be born. 

This fine weather, I suppose, sets you on 
horseback, and allures the ladies into the 
garden. If I was .at Stock, I should be of 
their party, and, while they sat knotting or 
netting in the sliade, should comfort iny.self 
with tlie thought that I had not a beast under 
me whose walk would seem tedious, \vhose 
trot would jumble me, .and whose gallop 
might throw me into a ditch. What nature 
expressly designed me for I have never been 
able to conjecture, I seem to myself so uni- 
versally disqualified for the common and 
customai-y occup.ations and amusements of 
mankind. When I was a boy, I excelled .at 
cricket and football, but the fame I acquired 
by achievements that way is long since for- 
gotten, and I do not know that I have m.ade 
a figure in .anything since. I am sure, how- 
ever, tliat she did not design me for a horse- 
man, and that, if all men were of my mind, 
there would be an end of all jockeyship for- 
ever. I iun rather straitened for time, and 
not very rich in materials ; therefore, with 
our joint love to you all, conclude myself. 
Yours ever, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. .9, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — If the old adage be true, 
that " he gives twice who gives speedily," it 
is equally true that he who not only uses ex- 
pedition in giving, but gives more than was 
asked, gives thrice ;it least. Such is the style 

in whicli Mr. confers a favor. He h.as 

not only sent me franks to Johnson, but, 
under another cover, has added six to you. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



95 



These last, for aught that appears by your 
letter, he threw in of his own mere bounty. 
1 hfir that my sh:ire of thanks may not be 
wantiii!^ on this occasion, and tliat, when you 
write to him next, you will assure him of the 
sense I have of the oblig.ition, which is the 
more llattering, as it includes a proof of his 
predilection in favor of the poems his franlis 
are destined to enclose. May they not for- 
feit iiis good opinion hereafter, nor yours, to 
whom I hold myself indebted in the first 
place, and who have equally given me credit 
for their dcservings ! Your mother says that, 
although there are passages in them contain- 
ing opinions which will not be universally 
subscribed to, the world will at least allow 
what my great modesty will not permit me 
to subjoin. I h.ave the highest opinion of 
her judgment, and know, by b.aving experi- 
enced the soundness of them, that her observ- 
ations are .nlways worthy of attention and 
regard. Yet, strange as it may seem, I do 
not feel the vanity of an author, when she 
commends me ; but I feel something better, 
a spur to my diligence, and a cordial to my 
spirits, both together animating me to de- 
serve, at least not to fall short of, her expect- 
ations. For I verily believe, if my dulness 
should earn me the character of a dunce, the 
censure would affect her more than me ; not 
that I am insensible of the value of a good 
nanus either as a man or an author. With- 
out an aml)ition to attain it. it is absolutely 
unattiiinable under either of those descrip- 
tions. But my life having been in many 
respects a series of mortifications and disap- 
pointments, I am become less apprehensive 
and impressible, perhaps, in some points, than 
I should otherwise have been; and, though I 
should be exquisitely sorry to disgrace my 
friends, could endure my own share of the 
atfliction with a reasonable measure of tran- 
quillity. 

These seasonable showers have poured 
floods upon all the neighboring parishes, but 
have pi-sscd us by. Sfygnrdcn huiguishes, 
and, what is worse, the fields too languish, 
and the upland-grass is burnt. These dis- 
criminations are not fortuitous. But if they 
are providential, wlmt do they import! I 
can only answer, as a friend of mine once 
answered a mathematical question in the 
schools — " Prorsus jie.scio." Perhaps It is 
that men who will not believe what they 
cannot understand may learn the folly of 
their conduct, while their very .senses are 
made to witness .against them; and them- 
selves, in the course of providence, become 
the subjects of a thou.sand dispensations they 
cannot explain. But the end is never an- 
swered. The lesson is inculcated, indeed, 
fri'queutly enough, but nobody learns it. 
Well. Instruction, vouchsafed in vain, is (I 
suppose) a debt to be accounted for hereafter. 



You must understand this to be a soli- 
loquy. I wrote my thoughts without recol- 
lecting that 1 was writing a letter, and to you. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, June 2-t, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — The letter you withheld 
so long, lest it should give me pain, gave me 
pleasure. Horace says, the points are a wasp- 
ish race; and, from my own experience of 
the temper of two or three with whom I was 
formerly connected, I can readily subscribe to 
the character he gives them. But, for my 
own part, I li.ave never yet felt that exces- 
sive irritability, which some writers discover, 
when a friend, in the words of Pope, 

" Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike," 

Le.ast of all would I give way to such an un- 
seasonable ebullition, merely because a civ- 
il question is proposed to me, with such 
gentleness, and by a man whose concern for 
my credit and character I verily believe to be 
sincere. I reply therefore, not peevishly, but 
with a sense of the kindness of your inten- 
tions, that I hope you may make yourself 
very easy on a subject, that I can perceive 
has occasioned you some solicitude. When 
1 wrote the poem called "Truth," it was in- 
dispensably necessary th.at I should .set forth 
that doctrine whicli I know to be true, and 
that I should pass what 1 understood to he a 
just censure upon opinions and persuasions 
that differ from or stand in direct opposition 
to it ; because, though some errors may be 
innocent, and even religious errors are not 
always ]iernicious, yet, in a case where the 
faith and hope of a Christian are concerned, 
they must necessarily be destructive; and be- 
cause, neglecting this, I sliould have betrayed 
my subject ; either suppressing what in my 
judgment is of the last, importance, or giving 
countenance by a timid silence to the very 
evils it was my design to combat. That you 
may understaiul me better, I will subjoin — 
that I wrote that poem on purpose to in- 
culcate the eleemosynary character of the 
Gospel, as a dispensation of mercy in the 
most absolute .sense of the word, to the ex- 
clusion of all claims of merit on the part of 
the receiver ; consequently to set the brand 
of invalidity upon the plea of works, and to 
discover, upon scripfur.il ground, the absurd- 
ity of that notion, which includes a solecism 
in the very terms of it, that man by repents 
of his Maker : I call it a solecism, because 
ance and good works may deserve the mercy 
mercy deserved ceases to be mercy, and must 
take the name of justice. This is tlu' opin- 
ion which I said in my last Ihc world would 
not acquiesce in, but except this I do not re- 



96 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



collect that I have introduced a syllable into 
any of my pieces that they can possibly ob- 
ject to ; and even this I have endeavored to 
deliver from doctrinal dryness, by as many 
pretty things in the way of trinket and play- 
thing as I could muster upon the subject. So 
that, if I have rubbed their gums, I have taken 
care to do it with a coral, and even that coral 
embellished by the ribbon to which it is tied, 
and recommended by the tinkling of all the 
bells I could contrive to annex to it. 

Vou need not trouble yourself to call on 
Johnson; being perfectly acquainted with 
the progress of the business, I am able to 
satisfy your curiosity myself — the post be- 
fore the last, 1 returned to him the second 
sheet of " Table Talk,"' which he had sent me 
for correction, and which stands foremost in 
the volume. The delay has enabled me to 
add a piece of considerable length, which, but 
for the delay, would not have made its ap- 
pearance upon this occasion : it answers to 
the name of Hope. 

I remember a line in the Odyssey, which, 
literally translated, imports that there is no- 
thing in the world more impudent th.an the 
belly. But, had Homer met with an instance 
of modesty like yours, he would either have 
suppressed that observation, or at least have 
qualihed it with an exception. I hope that, 
for the futui-e, Mrs. Unwin will never suffer 
you to go to London without putting some 
victuals in your pocket; for what a strange 
article would it make in a newspaper, that a 
tall, well-dressed gentleman, by his appear- 
ance a clergyman, and with a purse of gold 
in Ills pocket, was found starved to death in 
the street. How would it puzzle conjecture 
to account for such a phenomenon ! some 
would suppose that you h.ad been kidnapped, 
like Betty Canning, of hungry memory ; 
others would say the gentleman was a 
Methodist, and had practised a rigorous self- 
denial, which had unhappily proved too hard 
for his constitution ; but I will venture to say 
that nobody would divine tlie real cause, or 
suspect for a moment that your modesty had 
occasioned the tragedy in question. By the 
way, is it not possible that the spareness and 
slenderness of your person may be owing to 
the same cause i for surely it is reasonable 
to suspect that the bashfulness which could 
prevail against you on so trying an occasion 
may be equally prevalent on others. I re- 
member having been told by Colinan, that, 
when he once "dined witli Garrick, he repeat- 
edly pressed him to eat more of a certain dish 
that he was known to be particularly fond of; 
Colman as often refused, and at last declared 
he could not, '-But could not you," .says 
Garrick, " if you was in a dark closet by your- 
self? The same question might perhaps be 
put to you, with as much or more propriety 
and therefore I recommend it to yon, either 



to furnish yourself with a little more assur- 
ance or always to eat in the dark. 

We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and, if it 
will be any comfort to her to know it, can 
assure her, that a lady in our neighborhood 
is always, on such occasions, the most mis- 
erable "of all things, and yet escapes with 
great facility through all the dangers of her 
state. 

Yours, ul semfer^ W. C. 

Among the occurrences that deserve to be 
recorded in the life of Cowper, the com- 
mencement of his acquainlance with Lady 
Austen, from its connexion with his literary 
history, is entitled to distinct notice. This 
lady possessed a highly cultiv.ated mind, and 
Hie power, in no ordinary degree, to engage 
and interest the attention' This acquaintance 
soon ripened into friendship, and it is to her 
th;it we are primarily indebted for the poem 
of "The Task," fur the ballad of "John Gil- 
pin," and for the translation of Homer. The 
occasion of this acquaintance was as follows. 

A lady, who.se name was Jones, was one 
of the few neighbors admitted in the resi- 
dence of the retired poet. She was the wife 
of a clergyman, who resided at the village of 
Clifton, within a mile of Olney. Her sister 
the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, 
came to pass some time with her in the sum- 
mer of 1781 ; and, as the two ladies entered 
a shop in Olney, opposite to the house of 
Mrs. Unwin, Cowper observed them from 
his window. Although naturally shy, and 
now rendered more so by his very long ill- 
ness, he was so struck with the appearance 
of the stranger, that, on hearing she was sis- 
ter to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwin 
to invite them to tea. So strong was his re- 
luctance to admit the company of strangers, 
that, after he had occasioned this invitation, 
he was for a long time unwilling to join the 
little party ; but, h.aving forced himself at 
last to engage in conversation with Lady 
Austen, he was so delighted with her collo- 
quial talents, that he attended the ladies^ on 
their return to Clifton; and from that time 
continued to cultivate the regard of his new 
accjuaintance with such assiduous attention, 
that she soon received from him the familiar 
and endearing thle of Sister Ann. 

The great and happy influence which an 
incident that seems at' first sight so trivial 
produced on the imagination of Cowper, will 
best appear from the following epistle, which, 
soon after Lady Austen's return to London 
for the winter, the poet addressed to her. on 
the 17th December, 1781. 

Dear Anna, — between friend and friend. 
Prose answers every common end ; 
Serves, in a plain and houiely way, 
T' express th' occurrence of the day ; 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



97 



Our health, the weather, and the news ; 
WImt walks wc take, what books we clioosc ; 
And all the fioatin^ thoughts we find 
Upon the surface oi' the mind. 

But when a poet takes the pen, 
Far more alive than other men, 
He tVels a gentle tingling come 
Down to his finger and his thumb, 
Deriv'd Irom nature's noblest purt. 
The centre ot" a glowing heart ! 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No Mights above the pitch of prose, 
His more sublime vagaries slighting, 
Denominates an itch tor writing. 
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme, 
To catch the triHers of the time. 
And tell them truths divine and clear. 
Which, couch'd in jirose, they will not hear; 
^Vho labor hard to allure, and draw. 
The loiterers I never saw. 
Should feel tliat itching and that tingling. 
With all my purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsic merit true, 
When called to address myself to you. 

Mysterious are his ways, whose power 
Brings forth that unexpected hour. 
When minds that ni ver met before. 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is th' allotment of the skies, 
The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans and orders our connexions; 
Directs us in our dist;int road, 
And m.irks the boumls of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us. 
Peasants and children all around us, 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend. 
Deep in the abyss of Silver End.* 
Thus Martha, ev'n against her will, 
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,t 
Are come I'rom distant Loire, to choose 
A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
This page of Provid'^nce quite new, 
And now just op:;ning to our view, 
Employs our pres'-nt thoughts and pains 
To guess and spull what it contains: 
But day by day, and year by year. 
Will make the dark enigrn:i clear; 
And furnish us pcrliaps at last, 
Like other scenes already past. 
With proof that we and our affairs 
Are p:irt of a Jehovah's cares ; 
For God unfolds, by slow degrees. 
The purport of his deep decrees; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light. 
In aid of our defective sight; 
And spreads at length betbre the soul, 
A beautiful and perlect whole, 
Which busy man's inventive brain 
Toils to anticipate in vain. 

Say, Anna, hail you never known 
The beauties of a rose full blown. 
Could you, tho' luminous your eye, 
By looking on the bud descry, 

• An obsciu-e part of (Ihiey, adjoiniiu; to the residence 
of fowpcr, which fuced the miirket-place. 
t U-uIy Aiulen's ru-sideace iu Fraacc. 



Or guess with a prophetic power, 

The future splendor of the flower'! 

Just so th' Omnipotent who turns 

The system of a world's concerns, 

Proai mere minutiie can educe 

Events of most important use ; 

And bid a dawning sky display 

The blaze of a meridian day. 

The works of man tend, one and all. 

As needs they must, from great to small ; 

And vanity absorbs at length 

The monuments of human strength. 

But who can tell how vast tlie plan 

Which this day's incident begun "? 

Too small perhaps the slight occasion 

For our dim-sighted observation ; 

It pass'd unnotic'd, as the bird 

That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 

And yet may prove, when untlerstood, 

An harbinger of endless good. 

Not that I deem or mean to call 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small ; 
But merely to remark thai ours, 
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
Rose from a seed of tiny size, 
That seemed to proadse no such prize : 
A transient visit intenening. 
And made ahnost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the effect of inclination. 
Much less of pleasing expectation !) 
Produced a t'riendship. then begun. 
That has cemented us in one ; 
And plae'd it in our power to prove. 
By long fidelity and love, 
That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
" A three-fold cord is not soon broken," 

In thi.s interesting poem tlie author seems 
prophotiually to anticipate the literary efforts 
that were to sprinjf, in process of time, from 
a friendship so unexpected and so pleasing. 

Genius of the most exipiisite kind is sorae- 
time.s, and perhaps generally, so modest and 
diHident as to rciiuire continual solicitation 
and encouragement from the voice of sym- 
pathy and friendship to lead it into perma- 
nent and successful e.\erlion. Such was the 
genius of Cowper ; and he, therefore con- 
sidered the cheerful and animating society 
of his new and accomplished friend as a 
blessing conferred on liiin by the sign.al tavor 
of Providence. 

We sliall find frequent allusions to this 
lady in the progress of the following corre- 
spondence. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

OIncy, July 7, I78I. 
lly dear Friend, — Jlr. Old brought us tlic 
acceptable news of your safe arrival. My 
sensations at your departures were far from 
pleasant, and Mrs. Unwiii sulfered more upon 
the occasion than when you first took leave 
of Olney. When we shall meet jlfc^ain, and 
in what circumstances, or whether we shall 
meet or not, is an article to be found no- 
* Private correspondence. 

Y 



98 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



where but in that volume of Providence 
whicli belongs to the current year, and will 
not be understood till it is accomplished. 
This I know, th.at your visit was most agree- 
able here. It was so even to me, who, 
though I live in the midst of many agreea^ 
bles, iim but little sensible of their charms. 
But, when you came, I determined, as much 
as possible, to be deaf to the suggestions of 
despair; that, if I could contribute but little 
to the pleasure of the opportunity, I might 
not dash it with unseasonable melancholy, 
and, like an instrument with a broken string, 
interrupt the harmony of the concert. 

Lady Austen, waving all forms, lias paid 
us the first visit ; and, not content with show- 
ing us that proof of her respect, made hand- 
some apologies for her intrusion. We re- 
turned the visit yesterday. She is a lively, 
agreeable woman ; has seen much of the 
world, and accounts it a great simpleton, as 
it is. She laughs and makes laugh, and 
keeps up a conversation without seeming to 
labor at it. 

I had rather submit to chastisement now 
than be obliged to undergo it hereafter. If 
Johnson, therefore, will mark with a m.argin- 
al Q, those lines that he or his object to as 
not sufficiently finished, I will willingly re- 
toucli them, or give a reason for my refusal. 
I sliall moreover think myself obliged by any 
hints of that sort, as I do already to some- 
body, who, by running here and there two 
or three p.aragraphs into one, has very much 
improved the arrangement of my matter. I 
am apt, I know, to fritter it into too many 
pieces, and, by doing so, to disturb that 
order to which all writings must owe their 
perspicuity, at le.ast in a consider.able meas- 
ure. VVilh all that carefulness of revisal I 
have exercised upon the sheets as they have 
been transmitted to me, I have been guilty 
of an oversight, and have suffered a great 
ftiult to escape me, which I shall be glad to 
correct, if not too late. 

In the " Progress of Error," a part of the 
Young Squire's apparatus, before he yet en- 
ters upon liis travels, is said to bo 

Memorandum-book to minute down 

Tlie several posts, and where the chaise broke 
down. 

Here, the reviewers would s.ay, is not only 
" down," but " down derry down" into the 
bargain, the word being made to rhyme to 
itself This never occurred to me till last 
night, just as 1 was stepping into bed. I 
should be glad, however, to alter it thus — 

With memorandum-book for every town. 

And ev'ry inn, and where the chaise broke down. 

I have advanced so far in " Charity," that I 
have ventured to give Johnson notice of it, 
and his option whether he will print it now 



or hereafter. I rather wish he may choose 
the present time, because it will be a proper 
-sequel to " Hope," and becau.se I am willing 
to think it will embellish the collection. 

Whoever means to take my phiz will find 
himself sorely perplexed in seeking for a fit 
occasion. That I shall not give him one, is 
certain ; and if he steals one, he must be as 
cunning and quicksighted a thief as Auto- 
lycus himself His best course will be to 
draw a face, and call it mine, at a venture. 
They who have not seen me these twenty 
years will say, It may possibly be a striking 
likeness now, though it bears no resemblance 
to what he was : time makes great altera- 
tions. They who know me better will s.ay, 
perhaps. Though it is not perfectly the thing, 
yet there is somewhat of the cast of his 
counten.ance. If the nose was a little longer, 
and the chin a little shorter, the eyes a little 
smaller, and the forehead a little more pro- 
tuberant, it would be just the man. And 
thus, without seeing me at all, the artist may 
represent me to the public eye, with as much 
exactness as yours has bestowed upon you, 
though, I suppose, the original was full in 
his view when he made the attempt. 

We are both as well as when you left us. 
Our hearty affections wait upon yourself and 
JIrs, Newton, not forgetting Euphrosyne, the 
laughing lady. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



The playfulness of Cowper's humor is 
amusingly exerted in the following letter : — 

TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Oluey, July 12, 1781. 

My very dear Friend, — I am going to send, 
what when you have read, you may scratch 
your her.d, and .say, I suppose, there's nobody 
knows whether what I have got be verse or 
not; — by the tune and the time, it ouglit to 
be riiynie, but if it be, did you ever see, of 
late or of yore, such a ditty before '! 

I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but 
as well as I could, in ho])es to do good ; and 
if the Reviewer should .say " to be sure the 
gcntlenunrs Mu«e wears Methodist shoes, 
you m.-'.y know by her pace and talk about 
giMcc, that she ,nnd her bard have little regard 
for Ihe taste and fashions, and ruling passions, 
and hoidening play, of the modern day ; and 
thougli she assume a borrowed plume, and 
now and then wear a tittei-ing air. 'lis only 
her plan to entch, if she can, the giddy and 
gay, as they go that way, by a production on 
a new construction : she has baited her trap, 
in hopes to snap all that may come with a 
sugar-plum." — His opinion in this will not be 
amiss : 'tis what I intend, my principal end, 
and, if I succeed, and folks should read, till a 
few are brought to a serious thought, I shall 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



99 



think I am paid for all I have said and all I 
h:ivo done, thougli I have run many a time, 
after a rliyme, as far as from hence to the end 
of my sense, and hy hook or crook, write 
ajiotlier hook, if I live and am here, another 
year. 

I have heard before, of a room with a floor 
hud upon sprinjii's, and such like things, with 
so much art in every p:irt, that when you 
went in you was forced to begin a miiniet 
p.ice, with an air and a grace, swimming 
about, now in and now out, with a deal of 
state, in a figure of eight, without pipe, or 
string, or any sucli thing ; and now 1 liave 
writ, in a rhyming fit, wliat will make you 
dunce, and as you advance, will keep you 
still, though against your will, dancing away, 
alert and gay, till you come to an end of what 
1 have penn'J, which that you may do, ere 
Madam and you are quite worn out with jig- 
ging about, I take my leave, and here you re- 
ceive a bow profound, down to the ground, 
from your humble rac — W. C- 



TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oincy, July 22, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I am sensible of your 
dilliculties in finding opportunities to write; 
and therefore, though always desirous and 
sometimes impatient to hear from you, am 
never peevish when I am disappointed. 

Johnson, having begun to print, has given 
me some sort of sceurity for his perseverance; 
else the tiirdiness of his operations would 
almost tempt me to desjjair of the end. He 
has, indeed, time enough before him ; but that 
very eircnmsUince is sometimes a snare, and 
gives occasion to delays that cannot be reme- 
died. Witness the hare in the fable, who i'cll 
asleep in the midst of the rjice, and waked 
not till the tortoise had won the prize. 

Taking it for granted that the new mar- 
riage-bill would pass, 1 took occasion, in the 
Address to Liberty, to celebrate the joyful 
era ; but in doing so iitforded another proof 
that poets are not always prophets, for the 
House of Lords have thrown it out. I am. 
however, provided with four lines to fill up 
the g.ip, which I suppose it will be time 
I'nough to insert when the copy is sent down. 
I am in the middle of an affair called " Con- 
versation," which, a.s " Table Talk " serves in 
the present volumes by way of introductory 
fiddle to the band that follows, I design shall 
perform the same oHice in a second. 

Sic brevi fortes jaculamur <evo. 

You cannot always find time to write, and 

I cannot always write a great deal ; not for 

want of time, but for want of something 

equally requisite ; perhaps materials, perhaps 

• Private correspondence. 



spirits, or perhaps more frequently for want 

of ability to overcome an indolence that I 

have sometimes heard even you complain of. 

Yours, my dear Sir, and Mrs. Newton's, 

vv. c. 



TO THE UEV u^LI.UJr rxwix. 

Oluey, JulySa, 1781. 

Jly dear Friend, — Having given the ease 
you laid before me in your last all due con- 
sideration, I proceed to answer it ; and, in or- 
der to clear my way, shall, in the first place, 
set down my sense of those passages in 
Scripture, which, on a h.asty perusal, seem to 
clash with the opinions I am going to give — 
" If a man smite one cheek, turn the other" — 
"If he take thy cloak, let him take thy coat 
also." That is, I suppose, rather than on a 
vindictive principle avail yourself of that 
remedy the law allows you, in the way of re- 
taliation, fur that was the subject immedi- 
ately under the discussion of the speaker. 
Nothing is so contrary to the genius of the 
gospel as the gratification of resentment and 
revenge ; but I cannot easily persuade my- 
self to think, that the Author of that dispen- 
sation could possibly advise his followers to 
consult their own pe.ace at the expense of the 
pea(« of society, or inculcate a universal ab- 
stinence from the use of lawful remedies, 
to the encouragement of injury and oppres- 
sion. 

St. Paul again seems to condemn the prac- 
tice of going to law — " Why do ye not rather 
suffer wrong," &c. But if we look again we 
shall find that a liiigious temper had obtained, 
and was prevalent, among the professors of 
the day. This he condemned, and with good 
reason; it was unseemly to the last degree 
that the disciples of the Prinee of Pe.ace 
.should worry and vex each other with injuri- 
ous treatment and unnecessary disputes, to 
the scand:)l of their religion in the eyes of the 
heathen. But surely he did not mean, any 
Inore than his Master, in the place above al- 
luded to, Ihat the most harmless members of 
society should receive no advantage of its 
laws, or should be the only persons in the 
world wlio should derive no benefit from 
those institutions without which society can- 
not subsist. Neither of them could mean to 
throw down the pale of properly, and to lay 
the Christian part of the world open, through- 
out all ages, to the incursions of unlimited 
violence and wrong. 

By this time you are suflicintly aware that 
I think you have an indisputable riglit to re- 
cover at law wluit is so dishonestly withheld 
from you. The fellow, I suppose, has dis- 
cernment enough to see a difference be- 
tween you and the generality of the clergy, 
and cunning enough to conceive the purpose 
of turning your meekness and forbearance to 



100 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



good account, and of coining them into hard 
cash, which he means to pnt in his pocket, 
But I would disapjioiut liiin, and show him 
that, though a Christian is not to be quarrel- 
some, he is not to be crushed ; and that, 
thougli he is hut a worm before God, he 
is not sucli a worm as every selHsh and 
unprincipled wretch may tread upon at his 
pleasure. 

1 lately heard a story from a lady, who spent 
many years of her life in France, somewhat 
to the present purpose. An Abbe, univer- 
sally esteemed for his piety, and especially 
for the meekness of liis manners, had yet un- 
designedly giving some ofieuce to a shabby 
fellow in his pari.sh. The man concluding 
he might do as he pleased with so forgiving 
and gentle a character, struck hiin on one 
cheek, and bade him turn tiie other. The 
good man did so, and when he had received 
the two slaps, which he thought himself 
obliged to submit to, turned again, and beat 
him soundly. I do not wish to see you fol- 
low the French gentleman's example, but I 
believe nobody that has heard the story con- 
demns him much for the spirit he showed 
upon the occasion. 

I luid the relation from Lady Austen, sis- 
ter to Mrs. .Tones, wife of the minister at 
Clifton. .Slie is a most agreeable woman, 
and has fallen in love with your mother and 
me : insomuch, that I do not know but she 
m.iy settle at OIney. Yesterday se'nnight 
we all dined together in the Sjnmiic — a most 
delightful retirement, belonging to Mrs. 
Throckmorton of Weston. Lady Austen's 
lacc|ucy, and a lad that waits on mc in the 
garden, drove a w heelbarrow full of eatables 
and drinkables to the scene of our fete-cham- 
pdre. A board laid over the top of the wheel- 
harrow, served us for a table ; our dining- 
room was a root-house, lined with moss and 
ivy. At si.x o'clock, the servants, who had 
dined under tlie great elm upon the ground, 
at a little distance, boiled the kettle, and the 
said wheelbarrow served us for a tea-table. 
We then took a walk into the wilderness, 
about half a mile olF, and were at home 
again a little after eight, having spent the day 
together from noon till evening, without one 
cross occurrence, or the least weariness of 
each other — a happiness few parties of pleas- 
lU'C cm boast of 

Yours, with our joint love, 

W. C. 

TO MRS. NEWTON.* 

Olney, August, 17S1. 

Dear Madam, — Though much obliged to 

you for the favor of your last, and ready 

enough to acknowledge tlie debt ; the present 

however, is not a day in which I should have 

* Private cor^c.'^poIK\ence. 



chosen to pay it. A dejection of mind, which 
perhaps may be removed by to-morrow, 
rather disqualifies me for writing, — a busi- 
ness I would alvv.ays perform in good spirits, 
because melancholy is catching, especially 
where there is much .sympathy to assist the 
contagion. But certain poultry, which I un- 
der.stand are about to pay their respects to 
you, have advertised for an agreeable com- 
panion, and I fmd myself obliged to embrace 
the opportunity of going to town with them 
in that capacity. 

While the world lasts, fashion will continue 
to lead it by the nose. And, after all, what 
can fashion do for its most obsequious fol- 
lowers? It can ring the eh.anges upon the 
same things, and it can do no more. Whe- 
ther our hats be white or black, our caps high 
or low, — whether we wear two watches or 
one — is of little consequence. There is in- 
deed an appearance of variety; but the folly 
and vanity tli.-it dictate and adopt the cliange 
are invariably the .same. When the fashions 
of a particular period appear more reasona- 
ble than tho.se of the preceding, it is not be- 
cause tlic world is grown more reasonable 
than it was ; but because in the course of 
perpetual changes, some of them must some- 
times happen to be for the better. Neither 
do I suppose the preposterous customs that 
prevail at present a proof of its greati'r folly. 
In a few years, perhaps ne.vt year, the fine 
gentleman will shut up his umbrella, and give 
it to his sister, filling his hand with a crab- 
tree cudgel instead of it ; and when he lias 
done so, will he be wiser than now 1 By no 
means. The love of change will have be- 
trayed him into a propriety, which, in reality, 
he has no taste for, all his merit on the occa- 
sion amounting to no more than this — that, 
being weary of one plaything, he has taken 
up another. 

In a note I received from Johnson last 
week, he expresses a wish that my pen may 
be still employed. Supposing it possible th'it 
he would yet be glad to .swell the volume, I 
have given him an order to draw upon me 
for eight hundred lines, if he chooses it ; 
" Conversation," a piece which I think I men- 
tioned in my last to Mr. Newton, being fin- 
ished. If Johnson sends for it, I shall tran- 
scribe it as soon as I can, and transmit it to 
Charles-square. Mr. Newton will take the 
trouble to forward it to the ])ress. It is not 
a dialogue, as the title would lead you to 
surmise ; nor does it bear the least resem- 
blance to "Table Talk," except that it is 
serio-comic, like all the rest. My design in 
it is to convince the world that they make 
but an indifl'erent use of their tongues, con- 
sidering the intention of Providence when he 
endued them with the faculty of speech ; to 
point out the abuj^es, which is the jocular 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



101 



part of the business, and to prescribe the 
romody, whicli is tlio grave and sol)er. 

VVe felt ourselves not the less obliged to 
you for the colmci-muIs, though they were 
good for nothing. They contained notliing 
but !i putrid liquor, wilh a round white lump, 
which in taste and substance nnich resembled 
tallow, and was of the size of a small walnut. 
Nor am 1 the less indebted to your kindness 
for the lish, tliough nunc is yet come. 
Yours, dear iladani, 

Most alVectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olnoy, Aug 16, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — I miglit date my letter 
from the greenhouse, which we have con- 
verted into a summer parlor. The walls 
hung with garden mats, and the floor covered 
wilh a carpet, the sun, too, in a great measure, 
excluded by an awning of mats, which forbids 
hini to shine anywhere except upon the car- 
pet, it affords us by far the plcasantest retreat 
in Olney. We eat, driid;, and sleep, where 
we always did ; but liere we spend all the 
rest of our time, and hnd that the sound of 
the wind in the trees, and the singing of birds, 
are much more agreeable to our ears than the 
incessant barking of dogs and screaming of 
children. It is an observation that natm-ally 
occurs upon the occasion, and which many 
other occasions furnish an opi)ortunity to 
m.ake, that people long for what they have 
not, and overlook the good in their posses- 
sion. This is SI) true in the present instance, 
that for years past I should have thought my- 
self happy to enjoy a retirement, even less 
fhittering to my natural taste than this in 
wliicli 1 am now writing; and have often 
looked wistfully at a snug cottage, which, on 
account of its situation, at a distance from 
noise and disagreeable objects, seemed to 
promise me all I could wish or expect, so far as 
happiness may be said lo be local : never once 
adverting to this comfortable nook, which af- 
fords me all that could be found in the most 
sequestered hermitage, with I lie advantage of 
having all those acconnuodations near at hand 
which no hermitage could possibly afford me. 
People imagine they sliould lie happy in cir- 
cumstances which they would lind insuppin-l- 
ably burthensome in less than a week. A 
man that has been clothed in fine linen, .and 
fared sumptuously every day, envies the 
peasant under a thatched hovel ; who, in re- 
turn, envies him as much his palace and his 
pleasure-ground. Could they change situ.v 
tions, the fine gentleman would find his ceil- 
ings were too low, and that his casements 
admitted too much wind; that he had no cel- 
lar for his wine, and no wine to put in his 
cellar. These, witli a thousand other morti- 

* Privato correspoiKlence. 



fying deficiencies, would shatter his romantic 
project into innumerable fragments in a mo- 
ment. The clown, at the same time, would 
find the accession of so much unwieldy 
treasure an incumbrance quite incompatible 
with an hour's case. His choice wmdd be 
puzzled by variety. lie woidd drink to ex- 
cess, because he would foresee iu> end of his 
abundance; and he would eat liimself sick 
for the .same reason. lie would have no idea 
of any other happiness than sensual gratifica- 
tion; would make himself a beast, and die of 
his good fortune. The rich gentleman had, 
perhaps, or might have had, if he pleased, at 
the sliorfest notice, just such a recess as this ; 
but if he had it, he overlooked if, or, if he had 
it not, forgot that he might command it when- 
ever he would. The rustic, too, was actually 
in possession of some blessings, whicli he 
was a fool to relinquish, but which he could 
neither sec nor feel, because he had the daily 
and constant use of them; such as good 
health, bodily strength, a head and a heart that 
never ached, and tenqierance, to the ))ractice 
of which he was bound by necessity, that, hu- 
manly speaking, was a pledge and security 
for the continuance of them all. 

Thus 1 have sent you a schoolboy's theme. 
When I write to you, I do not write without 
thinking, but always without premedif.ation : 
the consequence is, that such thoughts as pass 
through my head when I am not writing 
make the subject of my letters to you. 

Johnson sent me lately a sort of apology 
for his printer's negligence, with his promise 
of greater diligence for the future. There 
was need enough of both. I have received 
but one sheet since you left us. Still, indeed, 
I see that there is time enough before us; 
but I see, likewise, that no length of time 
can he sufficient for the accomi)lisliment of a 
work that does not go forward. I know not 
yet whether he will add '• Conversation" to 
those poems already in his hands, nor do I 
care much. No man ever wrote such quan- 
tifies of verse as I have written this last year 
with so much indiflerence about the event, or 
rather with so little ambition of public praise. 
My pieces are such as may possibly be made 
useful. The more they are approved, the 
more likely they are to spread, and, conse- 
([ucnflv. the more likely to attain the end of 
usefulness; which, as 1 said once before, ex- 
cept my present amusement, is the only end 
I propose. And, even in the pursuit of this 
purpo.se, commendable as it is in itself, I 
have not the spur I should once have had; 
my labor mu.st go unrewarded; and, as Mr. 

R once said, I am raising a scaffold before 

a house that others are to live in, and not I. 

I have left myself no room for polities, 
which I thought, when 1 began, would have 
been my principal theme. 

Yi.urs, my dear sir, W. C. 



102 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The striking and beautiful imagery, united 
with the depressive spirit of the following 
letter, will engage the attention of the dis- 
cuniiiig reader. 

TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Aug. 21, 1781. 

i\Iydear Friend, — Youwi.-h you eould em- 
ploy your time to better purpose, yet are 
never idle. In all that you say or do ; wliclher 
you are alone, or pay visits, or receive them ; 
whether you think,"or write, or walk, or sit 
still ; the state of your mind is such as dis- 
covers, even to yourself, in spite of all its 
wanderings, tliat there is a principle at bot- 
tom, whose determined tendency is towards 
the best things. I do not at all doubt the 
truth of what you say, when you complain of 
that crowd of trifling thoughts that pester 
you without ceasing; but then you always 
have a serious thought standing at the door 
of your imagination, like a justice of peace 
with the riot^act in his hand, ready to read it 
and disperse the mob. Here lies tlie dift'er- 
enee between you and me. My thoughts are 
clad in a sober livery, for the most part as 
grave as that of a bishop's servants. They 
turn, too, upon spiritual subjects, but the tall- 
est fellow, and the loudest amongst them all, 
is he wlio is continually crying, with a loud 
voice, Actum est de tc,ptrnsti. You wish for 
more attention, I for less. Dissipation itself 
would be welcome to me, so it were not a 
vicious one ; but, however earnestly invited, 
it is coy, and keeps at a distance. Yet, with 
all this distressing gloom upon my mind, I 
experience, as you do, the slipperiuess of the 
present hour, and the rapidity with which 
time escapes me. Everything around us, and 
everything that befalls us, constitutes a va- 
riety, which, whether agreeable or otherwise, 
has still a thievish propensity, and steals from 
us days, montlis, and years, with such unpar- 
alleled address, that even wliile we say tliey 
are here they are gone. From infancy to 
manhood is rather a tedious period, chiefly, I 
suppose, because, at that time we act under 
the control of others, and are not suffered to 
have a will of onr own. But thence down- 
ward into tlie vale of years is such a declivity, 
that we have just an opportunity to reflect 
upon the steepness of it, and then And our- 
selves .at the bottom. 

Here is a new scene opening, which, 
whether it perform what it promises or not, 
will add fresh plumes to the wings of time: 
at least wliile it continues to be a subject of 
contemplation. If the project take ett'ect, a 
thousand varieties will attend the change it 
will make in our situation at Olney. If not, 
it will serve, however, to speculate and con- 
verse upon, and steal away many hours, by 
* Private correspondence. 



engaging our attention, before it be entirely 
dropped. Lady Austen, very desirous of re- 
tirement, especially of a retirement near her 
sister, an admirer of Mr. Scott as a preadier, 
and of your two humble servants now in the 
greenhouse as the most agreeable creatures 
in the world, is at present determined to set- 
tle here. That part of our gi-eat building 
wliich is at present occupied by Dick Cole- 
man, his wife, child, and a thousand rats, is 
the corner of the world she chooses above all 
others as the place of her future residence. 
Next spring twelvemonth she begins to repair 
and beautify, and the following winter (by 
which time the lease of her house in town 
will determine) she intends to take posses- 
sion. I am highly pleased with the plan upon 
Mrs. Unwin's account, wlio, since Mrs. New- 
ton's departure, is destitute of all female 
connexion, and has not, in any emergency, a 
woman to speak to. IMrs. Scott is indeed in 
the neighborhood, and an excellent per.son, 
but always engaged by a close attention to 
her fiimily, and no more than ourselves a 
lover of visiting. But these things are all at 
present in the clouds. Two years must 
intervene, and in two years not only this 
project, but all the projects iii Europe maybe 
di.sconcerted. 

Cocoa-nut naught, 
Fish too dear, 
None must be bought 
For us that are here ; 

No lobster on earth 
That ever I saw, 
To me would be wortli 
Sixpence a claw. 

So, dear Madam, wait 
Till fish can be got 
At a reas'nable rate, 
Whether lobster or not. 

Till the French and the Dutch 
Have quitted the seas, 
And then send as much. 
And as oft as you please. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM iraWIN. 

Olney, Aug. 25, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — We rejoice with you 
sincerely in the birth of another son, and in 
the prospect you have of Mrs. Unwin's re- 
co\'ery : may your three children, and the next 
three, when they shall make their appearance, 
prove so many blessings to their parents, and 
make you wish that you had twice the num- 
ber! "But what made you expect daily th.at 
you should hear from me? Letter for letter 
is the law of all correspondence whatsoever, 
and, because I wrote last, I have indulged 
myself for some time in expectation of a 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



103 



sheet from you. Not that I govern myself 
entirely by the punctilio of rceiproeatioii, but 
hiivin;^ been pretty mucli occupieil of bite, I 
was not sorry to find myself ;it liberty to 
exercise my discretion, and furnished with a 
good excuse if I chose to be silent. 

I e.vpectod, as you remember, to have been 
published last sprinj, and was disappointed. 
Tlie delay has allbrded nic an oii|i()riunity to 
increase the quantity of my publication by 
about a third: and, if my Muse has nol for- 
saken nio, which I rather suspect to be the ease, 
may piissibly yet add to it. I have a subject 
ill hand, which promises me a great abund- 
ance of poetical matter, but which, for want 
of a something I am not able to describe, I 
cannot at present proceed with. The name 
of it is " Retirement," and my purpose, to 
recommend the proper iinprovemeiit of it, to 
set forth the requisites for that end, and to 
erdarge upon the hai)pincss of that state of 
life, when managed as it ouLjht to be. in the 
course of my journey through this ample 
theme, I should wish to touch upon the cliar- 
acter.s, the delicienees, and the mistakes of 
thousands, who enter on a .scene of retire- 
ment unqualified for it in every respect, and 
with such designs as have no tendency to 
promote either their own happiness or that 
of others. But as I have told you before, 
there are times when I am no more a poet 
than I am a mathematician, and when such 
a time occurs, I always think it better to give 
up the point than to labor it in vain. I shall 
yet again be obliged to trouble you for franks, 
t!ie addition of three thousand lines, or near 
that number, having occasioned a demand 
wliich I did not always foresee, but your 
obliging friend and your (d)liging self having 
allowed me the liberty of application, I make 
it without apology. 

• The solitude, or rather the duality, of our 
condition at OIney seems drawing to a con- 
clusion. You have not forgot perhaps that 
the building we inhabit consists of two man- 
sions. And, becau.se you have only .seen the 
inside of that part of it which is in our occu- 
pation, I therefore inform you that the other 
end of it is by far the most superb, as well 
as the most commodious. Lady Austen has 
seen it, has set her heart upon it, is going to 
(it it up ami furnish it, and, if she can get rid 
of the remaining two years of the lease of her 
Lonrion house, will probably enter upon it in 
a twelvemonth. Von will' be pleased with 
this intelligence, because I have already tidd 
you that she is a woman perfectly weli-bred, 
sensible, and in every respect agreeable ; and 
above all, because she loves your mother 
dearly. It has in my eyes (and 1 doubt not it 
will have the same in yours) strong marks of 
providential interposition. A female friend, 
and one who bids fair to prove her.self worthy 
of the appellation, comes recommended by a 



variety of considerations to such a place as 
OIney. Since Mr. Newton went, and till this 
lady came, tliere was not in the kingdom a re- 
tirement more absolutely such than ours. We 
did not want company, but when it came we 
found it agreeable. A person that has seen 
much of the world and understjinds it well, 
has high spirits, a lively fancy, and great read- 
iness of conver.s,a1ion, introduces a sprightli- 
ness into such a scene as this, which, if it 
was peaceful before, is not the worse for be- 
ing a little enlivened. In ease of illness too, 
to which all are liable, it w.as rather agloomv 
prospect, if we allowed ourselves to advert 
to it, that there was hardly a woman in the 
place from whom it would have been reason- 
able to have expected either comfort or as- 
sistance. The present curate's wife is a val- 
uable person, but has a family of her own, 
and, though a neighbor, is not a very near 
one. But, if this plan is effected, we shall 
be in a manner one family, and I suppose 
never pass a day without some intercourse 
with each other. 

Your mother sends her warm affections, 
and welcomes into the world the new-born 
William. 

Your.s, my dear friend, W. C. 

TO Tin; REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olnoy, Aus. 25, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — By Johnson's last note, 
(for I have received a p.acket from him since 
I wrote last to you,) I am ready to suspect 
that you have seen him, and endeavored to 
quicken his proceedings. His assurranee of 
greater expedition leads me to think so. I 
know little of book.scllers an<l printers, but 
have heard from others that they are the most 
dilatory of all people; otherwise, I am not 
in a hurry, nor would be so troublesome; 
but am obliged to you nevertheless for your 
interference, if his promised alacrity be owing 
to any spur that you have given him. He 
chooses to add "Conversation" to the rest, 
and says he will give me notice when he is 
ready for it; but I shall .send it to ijoii by the 
first opportune conveyance, and beg you to 
deliver it over to him. He wishes me not 
to be afraid of making the volume too large ; 
by which expression I suppose be means, 
that if I had still another piece, there would 
be room for it. At present I have not, but 
am in the way to produce another, /areai 7nod i 
Musa. I have already begun and proceeded 
a little w.iy in a poem called " Retirement." 
My view in clioosing that subject is to direct 
to the priper n.se of the opportunities it .af- 
fords for the cultivation of a man's best in- . 
terests; to censure the vices and the follies 
which people carry with them into tlieir re- 
treats, where they make no other use of their 
• Private corrcspon(tencc. 



104 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



leisure than to gratify tliemselves with the 
indulgence of their favorite appetites, and to 
pay themselves by a life of pleasure for a 
life of business. In conclusion, I would en- 
large upon the happiness of that state, when 
discreetly enjoyed and religiously improved. 
But all tliis is, at present, in embryo. I gene- 
rally despair of my progress wiieu I begin ; 
but if, Hke my travelling 'squire, I should 
kindle as 1 go, this likewise may make a part of 
tlie volume, for I have time enougli before me. 
I forgot to mention that Johnson uses the 
discretion my poetship has allowed him, with 
much discernment. He lias suggested sever- 
al alterations, or rather marked several defec- 
tive passages, which I have corrected much to 
the advantage of tlie poems. In tlic last slieet 
he sent me, he noted throe such, all wliicli I 
have reduced into better order. In the fore- 
going sheet, I assented to his criticism in 
some instances, and chose to abide by tlie 
original- expression in others. Thus we jog 
on together comfortably enough : and perhaps 
it would be as well for authors in general, if 
their booksellers, when men of some taste, 
were allowed, though not to tinker the work 
themselves, yet to point out the flaws, and 
humbly to recommend an improvement. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Sept. 9, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I am not willing to let 
the post set off witliout me, though I have 
nothing material to put into Iiis bag. I am 
writing in tlie greenhouse, where my myrtles, 
ranged before the windows, make the most 
agreeable blind imaginable; where I am un- 
disturbed by noise, and where I see none but 
pleasing objects. Tlie situation is as favor- 
able to my purpose as I could wish; but the 
state of my mind is not so, and the deficien- 
cies I feel there are not to be remedied by 
the stillness of my retirement or the beauty 
of the scene before me. I believe it is in 
part owing to the e.xcessive he.it of the wea- 
tlier that I hud myself so much at a loss when 
I attempt either verse or prose : my animal 
spirits are depressed, and dulness is tlie con- 
sequence. That dulness, however, is all at 
your service ; and the portion of it that is 
necessary to fill up the present epistle I send 
you without the least reluctance. 

I am sorry to tind that the censure I have 
passed upon Occiduus is even better founded 
than I supposed. Lady Austen has been at 
his sabbatical concerts, which, it seems, are 
compo.sed of song-tunes and psalm-tunes in- 
discriminately ; music without words — and I 
sujipose one may say, consequently, without 
devotion. On a certain occasion, when her 
niece was sitting at her side, she asked his 
* Private correspondence. 



opinion concerning the lawfulness of such 

amusements as are to be found at Vauxliall or 
Ranelagh ; meaning only to draw from him a 
sentence of disapprobation, that Miss Green 
might be the better reconciled to the restraint 
under which slie was held, when she found it 
warranted by the judgment of so famous a 
divine. But she was disappointed: he ac- 
counted them innocent, and recommended 
them as useful. Curiosity, he said, was nat- 
ural to young persons; and it was wrong to 
deny them a gratification which they miglit 
be indulged in with the greatest safety ; be- 
cause, the denial being unreasonable, the de- 
sire of it would still subsist. It was but a 
walk, and a walk was as harmless in one 
place as another; with other arguments of a 
similar import, which miglit have proceeded 
with more grace, at least with less oft'ence, 
from the lips of a sensual layman. He seems, 
together with others of our acquaintance, to 
have sufl'ered considerably in his spiritual 
character by his attachment to music. The 
lawfulness of it, when used with moderation 
and in its proper place, is unquestionable ; but 
I believe that wine itself, though a man be 
guilty of habitual intoxication, does not more 
debauch and befool the natural understanding 
than music, always music, music in season 
and out of season, weakens and destroys the 
spiritual discernment. If it is not used with 
an unfeigned reference to the worship of 
God, and with a design to assist the soul in 
the performance of it, which cannot be the 
case when it is the only occupation, it degen- 
erates into a sensual delight, and becomes a 
most powerful advocate for the admission of 
otlier pleasures, grosser perhaps in degree, 
but in their kind the same.* 

Mr. M , though a simple, honest, good 

man — such, at least, he appears to us — is 
not likely to give general satisfaction. He. 
preaches the truth it seems, but not the 
whole truth ; and a certain member of that 
church, wlio signed the letter of invitation, 
which was conceived in terms sufficiently en- 
couraging, is likely to prove one of his most 
strenuous opposers. Tlie little man, liow- 
ever, has an independent fortune, and has 
nothing to do but to trundle him.sclf away 
to some other place, where he may find 
hearers neither no nice nor so wise as we 
are at (JIney. 

Yours, my dear Sir, 

Witli our united love, W. C. 

TO MRS. NEWTON.f 

Olney, Sept. 16, 1781. 
A noble theme demands a noble verse, 
In such I thank you tor your fine oysters. 

* It is recorded of tlie Rev. Mr. Cecil, tli.at, beinff pii.s- 
sionsitt'ly lontl of playing on the violin, and, finding that 
it eiifjrossed too nuich of his lime and thouglits, lie one 
day took it into his hands and broke it to pieces. 

T Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



105 



The barrel was raajnitiecntly larae. 
But, bcintj s<?nt to Olnry at tree charge, 
Was not insertcJ in the driver's list, 
And thrrclbrc overlook'd, forj^ot, or missM ; 
For. when I'le luess.^nger whom we dispatfii'tl 
Inquir'd lor oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd ; 
Denyinir that his wajfon or his wain 
Did any sueii commodity contain. 
In consequ^nicc of which, your welcome boon 
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon ; 
In consi'fiuence of which some chanc'd to die, 
,\nd some, though very sv/eet. were very dry. 
Now Mftilam says (and what she says must still 
Deserve attention say she what she will.) 
That what we cull the dilijrenee, be-case 
It goes to London with a switlcr pace, 
^Vould better suit the carriage ot' your gift, 
Returning downward with a pace as swill; 
And therefore recommends it with this aim — 
To save at least three days — the price the same ; 
For though it will not carry or convey [may. 
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you 
For oysters bred upon the salt s^a-siiorc, 
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more. 

News have I none that I can deign to write, 
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night; 
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour. 
Caught in the first beginning of the show'r; 
But walking, running, and with much ado. 
Got home — ^just time enough to be wet through. 
Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told, 
.Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold ; 
And wishing just the same good hap to you. 
VVc say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu ! 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

The Greenhouse, Sept. 18, MSI. 

!Vry dear Friend, — I, return your preface, 
with many thanks for so afloction.nte an in- 
troduction to the public. I have observed 
iiothinij that in my judgment required altera- 
tion, except a single sentence in the first 
paraijr.iph, which I have not obliterated, that 
you may restore it, if you please, by oblite- 
r.iting my interlineation. BIy reason for pro- 
posing an amendment of it was, that your 
meaning did not immediately strike me, 
which tlicrefore I have endeavored to make 
more obvious. The rest is what I would 
wisli it to be. Yon say, indeed, more in my 
commendation tlian I can modestly say of 
myself: but something will be allowed to 
the p.iriiallty of friendship on so interesting 
an occasion. 

I have no objection in the world fo your 
conveying a copy to Dr. Johnson : though I 
well know that one of his pointed sarcasm.s, 
if he should happen to be displeased, would 
^■,oon find its way into all companies, and 
.spoil the sale. He writes, indi'e<l, like a man 
that thinks a great deal, and that sometimes 
thinks religiously : but report informs me 
that he has been severe enough in his ani- 
madversions upon Dr. Watts, who was, nev- 
• Private correspondence. 



ertheless, if I am in any degree a judge of 
verse, a man of true poetical ability ; care- 
less, indeed, for the most part, and inatten- 
tive too often to those niceties which consti- 
tute elegance of expression, but freciuently 
sublime in his conceptions and masterly in 
his exeenlion. Pope, I have heard, "had 
placed him once ir. the Duneiad ; but, on 
being advised to read before he judged him, 
was convinced tliat he deserved other treat- 
ment, and thrust somebody's blockhead into 
the gap, whose name, consisting of a mono- 
syllable, happened to fit it. Whatever faults, 
however, I may be chargeable with as a poet, 
I cannot accuse myself of negligence. I 
never suffer a line to pass till I have made it 
as good as 1 can ; and, though my doctrines 
may ntl'end this king of critics, he'will not, I 
flatter myself, be disgusted by slovenly in- 
accuracy, either in the numbers, rhymes, or 
language. Let the rest take its chance. It 
is possible he may be pleased ; and, if he 
should, I i^hall have engaged on my side one 
of tile best trumpeters in the kingdom. Let 
him only speak as favorably of me as he 
has spoken of Sir Richard Blackmore (who, 
thongli he shines in his poem called Crea- 
tion, has written more absurdities in verse 
than any writer of our country,) and my suc- 
cess will be secured. 

I h.ive often promised myself a laugh with 
you about your pipe, but have always forgot- 
ten it when I have been writing, and at pres- 
ent I am not much in a laughing humor. 
You will observe, however, for your comfort 
and the honor of that same pipe, that it 
hardly falls within the line of my censure. 
You never fumigate the ladies, or force them 
out of company ; nor do yon use it as .an in- 
centive to hard drinking. Your friends, in- 
deed, have reason to complain that it fre- 
quently deprives them of the pleasure of 
your own conversation, while it leads you 
either into your study or your garden ; hut 
in all other respects it is as innocent a pipe 
as can be. Smoke away, therefore: and re- 
member that, if one poet has condemned the 
practice, a better than he (the witty and ele- 
gatit Hawkins Browne*) has been warm iti 
the prai.se of it. 

" R(;tirement" grows, but more slowly than 
any of its predecessors. Time was when I 
could with ease produce fifty, sixty, or seven- 
ty lines in a morning; now, I generally fall 
short of thirty, and am sometimes forced 
to be content with a dozen. It consists, at 



* .Vutlictr of the populnr poem, "De Animi Iintnnr- 
lalitiile," wriiren in the style of Lucrelins. The huinor- 
ons poem nlliidi'd to b.v ('owper, in praise of smokiiii^, is 
enlilleil ''The Pipe ofTobacco." It is reinarliable jis e.v- 
liibitin'.; a hap[>y iinitatiun of the style of si.v ditferent 
riulhors — Cibbur, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, I'ope, 
Swift, and Voilnii. The singularity and talent discover- 
able iti this prodnction procured for it much celebrity. 
An edition ot his Poems was published by his son, Isiuic 
Hawkins Browne, Esq. 



106 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



present, I suppose, of between six and seven 
hundred : so lliat there are hopes of an end, 
and I dare say Johnson will give me time 
enough to fniish it. 

I nothing adil but this — that still I ayn 
Your most alTtctionate and humble 

WlLLIAJI. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

Oliicy, .Sept. 2G, 178], 

My dear Friend, — I may, I suppose, con- 
jjratulate you on your safe arrival at Briglit- 
helmstone ; and am the better pleased with 
your design to close the summer there, be- 
cause I am acquainted with the place, and, 
by the assistance of ftiney. can without much 
difficulty join myself to the party, and par- 
take with you in your anmsements and ex- 
cursions. It happened singularly enough, 
that, just before I received your last, in which 
you apprise me of your intended journey, I 
had been writing upon the subject, having 
found occasion, towards the close of my last 
poem, called '• Retirement," to tal;e some no- 
tice of tlie modern passion for sea-side enter- 
tainments, and to direct to the means by 
which they might be made useful as well as 
agreeable. I think with you, that the most 
magnificent object under heaven is the great 
deep ; and cannot but feel an unpolite species 
of astonishment, when I consider the multi- 
tudes thiit view it witliout emotion and even 
witliout reflection. In all its various forms, 
it is an object of all others the most suited 
to atl'ect us with lasting impressions of the 
awfid Power that created and controls it. I 
am the less inclined to think this negligence 
excusable, because, at a time of life when I 
gave as little attention to religious subjects 
as almost any man, I yet remember that the 
waves would preach to me, and that in the 
midst of dissipation I had an ear to hear 
them. One of Shakspeare's characters says. 
"lam never merry when I hear sweet mu- 
sic." The same elfcct that harmony seems 
to have h.ad upon him I Iiave e.xperienced 
from the sight and sound of the ocean, which 
have often composed my thoughts into a 
melanclioly not unpleasing nor without its 
use. So much for Signer Nettuno. 

Lady Austen goes to London this day se'n- 
night. We have told her that you shall visit 
her ; which is an enterprise you may engage 
in with the more alacrity, because, as she 
loves everything that has any connexion with 
your mother, she is sure to feel a sutticient 
jiarliiility for her son. Add to this that your 
own personal recommendations are by no 
moans small, or such as a woman of her fine 
taste and discerinncnt can possibly overlook. 
She has many features in her character which 
* PrjviUe correspondence. 



you will admire ; but one, in particular, on 
account of the rarity of it, will engage your 
attention and esteem. She has a degree of 
gratitude in her composition, so quick a >ense 
of obligation, as is hardly to be found in any 
rank of life, and, if report say true, is scarce 
indeed in the superior. Discover hut a wish 
to please her, and she never forgets it ; not 
only thanks you, but the tears will start into 
her eyes at the recollection of the smallest 
service. With these fine feelings, she has 
the most, and the most harmless, vivacity 
you can imagine. In short, slie is — what you 
will find her to be, upon half an hour's con- 
versation with her ; and, when I hear you 
have a journey to town in contemplation, I 
will send you her address. 

Your mother is well, and joins with mc in 
wishing that you may spend your time agree- 
ably upon the coast of Sussex. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olnpy, Oct. 4, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — ^1 generally write the d:.y 
before the post, but yesterday had no oppor- 
tunity, being obliged to employ myself in 
settling my greenhouse for the winter. I am 
now writing before breakfast, that I may 
avail myself of every inch of time for the pur- 
pose. N. B. An expression a critic would 
quarrel with, and call it by some haW name, 
signifying a jumble of ideas and an unnatunil 
match between time and space. 

I am glad to be undeceived respecting the 
opinion I had been erroneously led into on 
the subject of Johnson's criticism on Watts. 
Nothing can be more judicious, or more ch-ir- 
aeteristic of a distinguishing taste, than his 
observations upon that writer ; though 1 think 
him a little mistaken in his notion that divine 
subjects have never been poetically treated 
with success. A little more Christian kno\\ 1- 
edgc and experience would perh.ips enable 
him to discover excellent poetry upon spirit- 
ual them-es in the aforesaid little Doctor. I 
perfectly acquiesce in the propriety of send- 
ing Johnson a copy of my productions; and I 
think it would be well to send it in our joint 
names, accompanied with a handsome card, 
such a one as you will know how to fabri- 
cate, and such as may predispose him to a 
favorable peru.sal of the book, by coaxing liim 
into a good temper ; for he is a gre.-it bear, 
with all his learning and penetralion.f 

I forgot to tell you in my la.st that I was 
well pleased witli your proposed appearance 
in the title-page under the name of the editor. 
I do not care under how many names you 

* Priviite correspondence. 

t Goldsmith used to say of Johnson, that he had 
nolhing of the beur but the external rouglincss of Its 
coat. 



appear in a book that calls me its author. In 
my l.-ist piece, which I finished the day before 
yesterday, I huve told the public that 1 live 
upon the brinks of the Oiise: that public is a 
rrreat simpleton if it docs not know that yon 
live in Loudon: it will conscipiently know 
that I had need of the assistance of some 
friend in (own, and that I could have recourse 
to nobody with more propriety tlian yourself. 
I shall transcribe and submit to your ajipro- 
bation as fast as possible. I have now, 1 
tliink, finished my volume; indeed I am al- 
most weary of composing, having spent a 
year in doing nothing else. I reckon my 
volume will consist of about eight thousand 
lines. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 6, 1781. 

My dear friend, — What a world are yon 
daily conversant with, which I have not seen- 
these twenty years, and shall never see again ! 
'['he arts of dissipation (I suppose) are no- 
where practised with more refinement or suc- 
cess than at the place of your present resi- 
dence. By your account of it, it seems to be 
just what it was when I visited it, — a scene 
of idleness and lu.xury, music, dancing, cards, 
walking, riding, bathing, eating, drinking, cof- 
fee, tea, scandal, dressing, yawning, sleeping, 
the rooms perhaps more magnificent, because 
the proprietors are grown richer, but the 
manners and occupations of the company just 
the same. Though my life has long been 
that of a recluse, I have not the temper of 
one, nor am I in the least an enemy to cheer- 
fulness and good humor ; but I cannot envy 
you your situation ; I even feel ray.--elf con- 
strained to prefer the silence of this nook, 
and the siuig fireside in our own diminutive 
parlor, to all the splendor and gayety of 
Urighlon. 

You ask me how I feel on the occasion of 
my approaclnng publication? Perfectly at 
my ease. If 1 had not been pretty well as- 
sured beforehand that my tranquillity would 
be but little end-mgercd by such a measure, I 
would never have eUL'aged in it: for 1 cannot 
bear disturbance. I have had in view two 
principal objects; first, to .amuse myself; and. 
secondly, to compass that point in such a 
manner that others might possibly be the 
better for my amusement. If I have suc- 
ceeded, it will give me pleasure ; but, if I have 
failed, I shall not be mortified to the degree 
that miglit perhaps be e.vpectcd. I remem- 
ber an old adage (though not where it is to 
be found) "6?n« viril, qui beiu^ latuil" and, if 
I had recollected it at the right time, it should 
have been the motto to my book. By the 
way, it will m.ake an excellent one for " Re- 



tirement," if you can but tell me whom to quote 
for it. The critics cannot deprive me of the 
pleasure I have in relleeling. that, so far as 
my leisure has been employed in writing for 
the jjiiblic, it has been conscientionsly em- 
])loyed, and witli a view to their advantage. 
There is nothing agreeable, to be sure, in 
being chronicled for a dunce ; but, I believe, 
there lives not a man upon earth who would 
be less affected by it than myself VVitli all 
this indirterenec to fame, which you know me 
too well to supjiosc mo capable of alVecUng, 
I have taken the utmost pains to deserve it. 
This may appear a mystery or a i)nrado.\ in 
practice, but It is true. I considered that the 
taste of the day Is refined and delicate to 
exces.s, and th.it to disgust th.at delicacy of 
taste, by a slovenly inattention to it, would 
be to forfeit, at once, all hope of being useful ; 
and for this reason, though I have written 
more verse this last year than perhaps any 
man in England, 1 have finished, and polished, 
and touched, and retouched, with the utuiosl 
care. If after all I should be converted into 
waste paper, it may be ray misfortune, but it 
will not be my fault. I shall bear it witli the 
most perfect sereinty. 

I do not mean to give a copy ; he is a 

good-natured little man, and crows e.xactly 
like a cock, but knows no more of verse than 
the cock he imit.ites. 

Whoever supposes that L.idy Austen's for- 
tune is precarious is mistaken. I can assure 
you, upon the ground of the most circum- 
stantial and authentic information, that It is 
both genteel and perfectly safe. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

(IllifV, Oct. 14, 17^1. 

My dear Friend, — I would not willingly 
deprive you of any comfort, and therefore 
would wish you to comfort yourself as much 
as you can with a notion that you are a more 
bountiful correspondent tlian I. You will 
give me leave in the meantime, however, to 
assert to myself a share in the .same .'.pedes 
of consolation, and to enjoy the fiattering 
recollection that I have soinetlmes written 
three letters to your one. I never knew a 
poet, except myself, who was punctual in 
anytliing, or to be depended on for the due 
discharge of any duty, except what he thought 
he owed to the Muses. The moment a man 
takes It into his foolish he.ad that he has what 
the world calls genius, he gives himself a 
discharge from the servile drudgery of all 
friendly ollices, and becomes good for uothii}g 
except in the pursuit of his favorite emjiloy- 
ment. But I am not yet vain enough to 
think myself entitled to such self-conferred 

• Private correspondence. 



lOS 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



honors; and, though I have sent much poetry 
to the press, or, at least, what I hope my 
renders will aeeount such, am still as desirous 
as ever of a place in your heart, and to take 
all opportunities to convince you that you 
have siill the same in mine. My attention to 
my poetical function has, I confess, a little 
i.'ilerfcred of late with my other employments, 
and occasioned my writing less frequently 
than I should have otherwise done. But it is 
over, at least for the present, and I think for 
some time to come. 1 have transcribed '•Re- 
tirement," and send it. You will be so good 
as to forward it to Johnson, who will forward 
it, I suppose, to the public, in his own time ; 
but not very speedily, moving as he does. 
The post brought me a sheet this afternoon, 
but we have not yet reached -the end of 
" Hope." 

Jlr. Scott, I perceive by yours to him, has 
mentioned one of his troubles, but, I believe, 
not the principal one. The question, whether 
he shall have an assistant at the great house 

in Mr. R , is still a question, or, at least, 

a subject of discontent between Mr. Scott and 
the people. In a tete-a-tete I had with this 
candidate for the chair in the course of the 
last week, I told him my thoughts upon the 
subject plainly ; advised him to change places, 
by the help of fancy, with Sir. Scott, for a mo- 
ment, and to ask liimself how he. would like a 
self-intruded deputy ; advised him likewise by 
no means to address Mr. Scott any more upon 
the matter, for that he might be sure he would 
never consent to it ; and concluded with 
telling him that, if he persisted in his pur- 
pose of speaking to the people, the probable 
consequence would be that, sooner or later, 
Mr. Scott would be forced out of the parish, 
and the blame of his expulsion would all 
light upon him. He heard, approved, and I 
think the very ne.xt day put all my good 
counsel to shame, at least, a considerable part 
of it, by applying to Mr. Scott, in company 

with Mr. P , for his permission to speak 

at the Sunday evening lecture. Mr. Scott, as 
I had foretold, was immovable ; but ofl'ered, 
for the satisfaction of his hearers, to preach 
three times to them on the Sabbath, which 
he could have done, Mr. Jones having kindly 
olTcred, though without their knowledge, to 
oliiciate for him at Weston. Mr. R. an- 
srf'ered, " That will not do. Sir ; it is not what 
the people wish ; they want variety." Mr. 
Scott replied very wisely, '■ If they do, tltey 
must be content without it; it is not my duty 
(0 indulge that humor." This is the last in- 
telligence I have h.ad upon the subject. I 
received it not from Mr. Scott, but from an 
ear-witness. 

I did not suspect, till the reviewers told me 
so, that you are made up of artifice and de- 
sign, and that your ambition is to delude your 
hearers. Well, I suppose they please them- 



.selves with the thought of having mortitied 
you ; but how much are they mistaken ! 
They shot at you, and their arrow struck the 
Bible, recoiling, of course, upon themselves. 
My turn will come, for I think I shall hardly 
escape a thrashing. 

Yours, my dear sir. 

And Mrs. Newton's, W. C. 



TO MI!S. COWFEK. 

illncy, Ocl. 19, 1781. 
IMy dear Cousin, — Your fear lest I should 
think you unworthy of my correspondence, 
on account of your delay to answer, may 
change sides now, and more properly belongs 
to me. It is long since I received your last, 
and yet I believe I can say truly, that noliia 
post h:is gone by me since the receipt of it, 
that has not reminded me of the debt I owe 
you for your obliging and unreserved com- 
munications both in prose and verse, espe- 
cially for the latter, because I consider them 
as marks of your peculiar contidence. The 
truth is, I have been such a verse-maker my- 
self, and so busy in preparing a volume for 
the press, which I imagine will make its ap- 
pearance in the course of the winter, that 1 
hardly had leisure to listen to the calls of 
any other engagement. It is, however, fin- 
ished, and gone to the printer's, and I have 
nothing now to do with it but to eorre<'t the 
sheets as they are sent to me, and consign it 
over to the judgment of the public. It is a 
bold undertaking at this time of day, wlu'ii 
so many writers of the greatest abilities have 
gone befoi'e, who seem to have anticipated 
every valuable subject, as well as all the 
graces of poetical embellishment, to step 
forth into the world in the character of a 
bard, especially \\\\\;n it is considered that 
luxury, idleness, and vice, have debauched 
the public taste, and that nothing hardly is 
welcome but childish (iction. or what has, at 
least, a tendency to excite a laugh. I thought, 
however, that I had stumbled ui)on some 
subjects that had never before been poetically 
treated, and upon some others to which f 
imagined it would not be difiicult to give an 
air of novelty by the manner of treating 
them. Jly sole driti is to be useful ; a point 
which, however, I knex\' I should in vain aim 
at, unless I could be likewise entertaining. 
I have therefore fixed these two strings upon 
my bow, and by the help of both have done 
my Ix'st to send the arrow to the mark. My 
readers will hardly have begun to laugh, be- 
fore they will be called upon to correct that 
levity and peruse me with a more serious air. 
As to the etiect I leave it alone in His hai:ds 
who can alone produce it; neither prose nor 
ver.se can reform the manners of a dissolute 
age, much less can they inspire a sense of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



109 



reliffloiis obligation, unless assisted and made 
ellii'ai'ious by tlie Power wlio superintends 
tlie truth be has vonchsiit'ed to impart. 

Yon made my boart aehe with a synipa- 
tbetie sorrow wlien you deseribed the state 
of yonr mind on occasion of yom- late visit 
into Hertfordshire. Had I been previously 
informed of your journey before you made 
it, I should have been able to have foretold 
all your feelings with the most unerring cer- 
tainty of prediction. You will never cease 
to feel upon that subject, but, with your prin- 
ciples of resignation and aecpiiescence in the 
divine will, you will always ieel as becomes 
a t'hristian. We are forbidden to murmur, 
but we arc not forbidden to regret ; a:i(l 
whom we loved tenderly while living, we 
may still pursue with an affectionate remem- 
brance, without having any occasion to 
charge ourselves with rebellion against the 
sovereignity that appointed a separation. 
A day is comiiig when, I am eontideiit, you 
will see and know that mercy to both parties 
was the principal agent in a scene, the recol- 
lection of which is still painful. 

W. C. 

Those who read wluit the poet has here 
said of his intended publication may perhaps 
thiidc it strange that it was introdueedtto the 
world with a |)reface, not W'ritten by himself 
but by his friend Mr. Newton. The circum- 
stance arose from two amiable peculiarities 
in the character of Cowper — his extreme 
dillidenee in regard to himself, and his kind 
eagerness to gratify the aflectionate ambition 
of a friend whom he tenderly esteemed ! 
.Mr. Newton has avowed this feeling in a very 
ingenuous and candid manner. He seems 
not to have been insensible to the honor of 
presenting himself to the public as the bosom 
friend of that incomp.iralde autlior whom he 
had attended so faithfully in sickness and 
sorrow. 

In the course of the following letters, the 
reader will lind occasion to admire the grate- 
ful delicacy of the poet, not only towards 
the writer of his preface, but even in the 
liberal praise with which he speaks of his 
publisher. 

TO DIE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, Oct.iH, 1781. 
.My dear Friend, — Mr. Bates, wiflmut in- 
tending it, has pa'^.sed a.scverer censure upon 
the modern world of readers, than any that can 
he found in my volume. If they are so mer- 
rily disposed, in the midst of a thousand 
calamities, that they will not deign to read a 
preface of three or four pages, because the 
purport of it is serious, they are far gone in- 
deed, and in the last stage of a frenzy, such as 
I suppose has prevailed in all nation.s that 
* I*riv;ile correspondence. 



have been e.xemplarily punished, just before 
the inllieiion of the sentence. But, though 
he lives in the wcjrid he has so ill an opinion 
of, and ought therefore to know it hetlcr 
than 1, who liave no intercourse with it at all, 
I am willing to hope that he may be mistaken. 
C'uriosity is a universal passion. Tiicre are 
few people who think a book worth their 
reading, hut feel a desire to know somc^tbing 

[ about tin; writer of it. This desire will na- 
turally lead them to peep into the preface, 
where they will soon lind that a little perse- 

I veranee will furnish them with some informa- 
tion on the subject. If, therelore your |)re- 
face finds no readers, I shall take it for 

I granted that it is becau.se the book itself is 

' accounted not worth their notice. Be that 
as it m;iy, it is quite sufficient that I have 
played the antic myself for their diversion ; 
and that, in a state of dejection such as they 
arc absolute strangers to, I have sometimes 
put on an air of cheerfulness and vivacity, to 
which I myself am in reality a stranger, for 
the sake of winning their attention to more 
useful matter. I cannot endure the thought 
for a nuMuent, tb.at you should descend to my 
level on the occasion, and court their favor 
in a style not more unsuitable to your func- 
tion than to the constant and consistent train 

; of your wliole character and conduct. No — 
let the preface stand. I cannot mend it. 1 
could easily make a jest of it, but it is better 
as it is. 

By the way — will it not be proper, as you 
have taken some notice of the nn)dish dress 
I wear in "Table Talk" to include "Con- 
versation" in the same description, which is 
(the iirst half of it at least) tlie most airy of 
the two? They will otherwise think, "per- 
haps, that the observation might as well have 
been spared entirely ; though I should have 
been sorry if it h.id, for wiien I am jocular 
I do violence to myself, and am therefore 
pleased with your telling them in a civil way 
that I play the fool to amuse them, not be- 
cause I am one myself, but because I have a 
foolish world to deal with. 

I am inclined to tliiid< that Mr. Scott will 
no more be troubled by Mr. R with ap- 
plications of the sort I mentioned in my last. 
Mr. Scott, since I wrote that account, lias re- 
lated to US himself what passed in the course 
of their interview ; and, it seems, the dis- 
cour.se ended with his positive assurance 
that he never would consent to the measure, 
though, at the same time, he declared he 
wouhl never interrupt or attempt to sui)])ress 

it. To which Mr. R replied, that uidess 

he had his free consent, he should never en- 
gage in the olliee. It is to he hoped, there- 
fore, that, in time, that part of the peo- 
ple who may at present be displcasi^d with 
Mr. Scott for withholding his consent, will 
grow cool upon the subject, and be satisfied 



110 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



with receiving their instruction from their 
})roper minister. 

1 beg you will, on no future occasion, 

leave a blank for Jlrs. Newton, unless you 
have first engaged her promise to hll it : for 
thus we lose the pleasure of your company, 
without being indemnified for the loss by 
the acquisition of hers. Our love to you 
both. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 5, 1781. 
My dear William, — I give you joy of your 
safe return from the lips of the great deep. 
Vou did not discern many signs of sobriety 
or true wisdom among the people of Bright- 
helmstone, but it is not possible to observe 
the manners of a multitude, of whatever 
rank, without learning something ; I mean if 
a man has a mind like yours, capable of re- 
lleetion. If he sees nothing to imitate, he is 
s-.ure to see something to avoid ; if nothing 
to congratulate his fellow creatures upon, at 
least much to excite his compassion. There 
is not, I think, so melancholy a sight in the 
world (an hospital is not to be compared with 
it) as that of a thousand persons distin- 
guished by the name of gentry, who, gentle 
perhaps by nature, and made more gentle by 
education, have the appearance of being in- 
nocent and inoffensive, yet being destitute of 
all religion, or not at all governed by the re- 
ligion they profess, are none of them at any 
great distance from an eternal state, where 
.self-deception will be impossible, and where 
amusements cannot enter. Some of them, 
we may say, will be reclaimed — it is most 
probable indeed that some of them will, be- 
cause mercy, if one may be allowed tne ex- 
pression, is fond of distinguishing itself by 
seeking its objects among the most desperate 
class ; but ihe Scripture gives no encourage- 
ment to the warmest charity to hope for de- 
liverance for them all. When I see an 
afflicted and unhappy man, I say to myself, 
there is, perhaps, a man whom the world 
would envy, if they knew the value of his 
sorrows, which are possibly intended only to 
soften his heart, and to turn liis affections 
towards their proper centre. But when I 
see or hear of a crowd of voluptuaries, who 
have no ears but for music, no eyes but for 
splendor, and no tongue but for imperti- 
nence and folly — I sav, or at least I see oc- 
casion to say — -This is madness — this per- 
sisted in must have a tragical conclusion. 
It will condemn you not only as Christians 
unworthy of the name, but as intelligent 
creatures. You know by the light of nature, 
if you have not quenched it, that there is a 
God, and that a life like yours cannot be ac- 
cording to his will. 



I ask no pardon of you for the gravity 
and gloominess of these reflections, wliich I 
stumbled on when I least expected it ; though, 
to say the truth, these or' others of a like 
compiexiou, are sure to occur to me wlien I 
lliink of a scene of public diversion like that 
you have lately left. 

I am inclined to hope that Johnson told 
you the truth, when he said he should publish 
me soon after Christmas. His press has been 
rather more punctual in its remittances than 
it used to be; we have now but little more 
than two of the longest pieces, and the small 
ones that are to follow, by way of epilogue, 
to print oft", and then the affair is finished. 
But once more I am obliged to gape for 
franks ; only these, which I hope will be the 

last 1 sliall want, at yours and Mr. 'a 

convenient leisure. 

We rejoice that you have so much reason 
to be satisfied with John's proficiency. The 
more spirit he has the better, if his spirit is 
but manageable, and put under such manage- 
ment, as your prudence and Mrs. Unwin's 
will suggest. 1 need not guard you against 
severity, of which I conclude tliere is no 
need, aud which I am sure you are not at all 
inclined to practise without it; but perhaps 
if I was to whisper, beware of too much in- 
dulgence, I should only give a hint tliat the 
fondness of a father for a fine boy might seem 
to justify. 1 have no particular reason for the 
caution, at this distance it is not possible I 
should, but, in a c:ise like yours, an admoni- 
tion of that sort seldom wants propriety. 
Yours, my dear I'riend, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Nov. 7, 1781. 
3Iy dear Friend, — Having discontinued the 
practise of \-erse-making for some weeks, I 
now feel quite incapable of resuming it ; and 
can only wonder at it as one of the most ex- 
traordinary incidents in my life that I should 
luive composed a volume. Had it been sug- 
gested to me as a practicable thing in better 
days, thougli I should have been glad to liave 
found it so, many hindrances would liave con- 
sjiired to withhold me from such an entcr- 
))rise. I should not have dared, at that time 
of day to have committed my name to the 
public, and my reputation to the hazard of 
their o])inion. But it is otherwise with ine 
now. I am more indiiTerent about what may 
touch me in that point than ever I was in my 
life. Tlie stake that would then have seemed 
important now seems trivial ;and it is of little 
consequence to me, who no longer feel myself 
possessed of what I accounted infinitely more 
v.aluable, whether the world's verdict shall 
pronounce me a poet, or an empty pretender 
to the title. This happy coldness towards a 
* Private eorresponilence. 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



Ill 



matter so generally interesting to all rhymers 
left me quae at liberty for tlic uiidertakinff, 
uiil'i'ttiTcJ by fear, and under no restraints of 
tb.u dillidence wliieli is my natural temper, 
and wiiieli would either have made it impossi- 
ble .for fne to eommenee an author by natne, 
or would have insured my luisearriage if 1 
had. iu my last despalehes lo Johnson I 
sent him a new edition of tlie tiile-page, having 
discarded the L-.ilin paradox which stood at 
llie head of the former, and added a French 
moito to that from Virgil. It is taken from 
a volume of ihe excellent Caraecioli,* called 
Juuissaiice de sui-meme, and strikes me as pe- 
culiarly apposite lo my purpose. 

Mi: iJull is an honest man. VVe have seen 
him twice since he received your orders to 
marcii hither, and faithfully told us it was in 
consequence of those orders that he came. — 
lie dined with us yesterday ; we were all in 
pretty good spirits, and the day passed very 
agree.ibly. It is not long since he called on 

.Mr. Scott. Mr. R came in. Mr. Bull 

began, addressing himself to the former, " My 
friend, you are in trouble ; you are unhappy ; 
1 read it in your countenance." Mr. Scott 
replied, he had been so, but he was better. 
" Come tlien," says Mr. liull, " I will expound 
to you the cause of all your anxiety. Y'ou 
are too common; you make yourself cheap. 
Visit your people less, and converse more 
with your own heart. How often do you 
speak to them in the week '." Thrice. — '"Ay, 
there it is. Your sermons are an old ballad; 
y<mr prayers are an old ballad ; and you are 
an old ballad too." — I would wish to tread in 
the steps of Mr. Newton.—-' Vou do well to 
follow his steps in all other instances, but 
in this instance you are wrong, and so was 
he. Mr. .Newton trod a path wiiich no man 
but himself could have used so long as he 
did, and he w^ore it out long before he went 
from Olney. Too much familiarity and con- 
descension cost him the estimation of his 
people. He thought he should insure their 
love, to which he had the best possible title, 
and by those very means he lost it. Ue 
wise, niy friend ; take warning ; make your.>elf 
.••caree, if you wi.sh that ])ersons of little un- 
derstanding should know how lo prize you." 
When he related to us this har.uigue, so nicely 
adjusted to the case of the third person pres- 
ent, it did us both good, and as Jacques says, 

'• It made my lungs to crow like chanticleer." 

Our love of you both, though often sent to 

* .Marquis Ciiraccioli, born al i'aris, 1732. It is now 
»ull llniiwij tliat Iho Ictturs of I'lipc llaDk'anelli, lhou;{h 
jia-i.<iiig uudiT llie nainu of thai pontiir, wltu conipost'd 
by Ihjs writor, Thiiso Icllors, !Lt well as all his wnliugs, 
aru dialiii^'uishpd [ly a sweet strain of moral IVulin-,', that 
powerluily awakens (he best eiDolions ol" Ihe heart; but 
Ihere Is a want of more cva[i.i;>'lical iiifht. He is also the 
author of "La Jouissance de soi-in^iue;*' "I.aUouver- 
itation avec soi-ini'-nie ;'' " La (irandeur d'Alue," itc. • 
and of ''The Life of .Madame de Muinteuon-" 



London, is still with us. If it is not an in- 
exhaustible well, (there is but one love that 
can with propriety be called so,) il is, how- 
ever, a very deei) one, and not likely to fail 
while we are living. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLLAM UNWIN.* 

Olney, Nov. 24, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — News is jilways accept- 
able, especially from another world. 1 can- 
not tell you what has been done in the Ches- 
apeake, but I can tell you what has passed in 
West Wycombe, in this county. Do you 
feel yourself di.sposed to give credit to the 
story of an apparition .' No, say you. I am 
of your mind. I do not believe more than 
one inahnudredof those tales with which old 
woman frighten children, and teach ciiildren 
to frighten each other. But you are not such 
a philosopher, I suppose, as to have persuaded 
yourself that an apparition is an impossible 
thing. You can attend to a story of that 
sort, if well authenticated? Yes. Then I 
can tell you one. 

You have heard, no doubt, of the romantic 
friendship that sniisisted once betwi'en I'aul 
Whitehead, and Lord le Despeii-ser, the late 
Sir Francis Dashwood. — When Paul died, he 
left, his lordship a legacy. It was his heart, 
which was taken out of his body, and sent as 
directed. His friend, having built a church, 
and at that lime just finished it, used it as a 
mausoleum upon this occasion ; and, having 
(as I think the newspapers told us at the 
time) erected an elegant pillar in the centre 
of it, on the summit of this jjillar, enclosed 
in a golden urn, he placed the heart in ques- 
tion ; but not as a lady places a china figure 
upon her mantel-tree, or on the top of her 
cabinet, but with much respectful ceremony 
and all the forms of funeral solemnity, lie 
hired the best singers and the best perform- 
ers. He composed an anthem for the pur- 
pose; he invited all the nobility and geiitrv 
in the country to assist at the celebration of 
these obsequies, and, having formed them all 
into an august procession, marched to the 
place appointed at their head, and consigned 
the posthumous tre.isure, with his own hands, 
to its state of honorable elevation. Having 
thus, as he thought, and as he might well 

think, ( ) appeased the 

manes of the deceased, ho rested satisfied 
with what he had done, and supjiosed his 
friend would rest. But not so, — about a 
week since 1 received a letter from a person 
who cannot have been misinformed, telling 
me that Paul has appeared frequentlv of late, 
and that there are few, if any, of his lordship's 
numerous household, who have not seen him, 
• Private correspondence. 



112 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



sometimes in tlie park, sometimes in the gar- 
den, as well as in the house, by day and by 
night, indifferently. I make no redeetion 
upon tliis incident, having other things to 
write about and hut little room. 

1 am much indebted to Mr. S for more 

franks, and still more obliged by the handsome 
note witli wliich he accompanied tliem. He 
has furnished me sufficiently for the jiresent 
occasion, and, by his readiness and obliging 
manner of doing it, encouraged me to liave 
recourse to him, in ease another exigence of 
the .same kind should offer. A French author 
I was reading last niglit says, He that has 
\^Titten will write again. If the critics do not 
set their foot upon this fir.st egg tliat I have 
laid and crush it, I shall probably verify liis 
observation ; and, when I feel my spirits rise, 
and that I am armed with industry sufficient 
for the purpose, undertake the production of 
another volume. At present, however, I do 
not feel my.self so disposed ; and, indeed, he 
that would write should read, not that he may 
retail the observations of other mcTi, but that, 
being thus refreshed and replenished, he may 
find himself in a condition to make and to 
produce his own. I reckon it among my 
principal advantages, as a composer of verses, 
that I have not read an English poet these 
thirteen years, and but one these twenty 
years. Imitation, even of the best models, is 
my aversion : it is servile and mechanical, a 
trick that has enabled many to usurp the 
name of author, who could not have written 
at all, if they had Hot written upon the pat- 
tern of somebody indeed original. But when 
the ear and the taste have been much accus- 
tomed to the manner of others, it is almost 
impossible to avoid it ; and we imitate, in spite 
of ourselves, just in proportion as we admire. 
But enough of this. 

Your mother, who is as well as the season 
of the year will permit, desires me to add 
her love. — The salmon you sent us arrived 
safe, and was remarkably fresli. Wh.at a 
comfort it is to have a friend who knows that 
we love salmon, and who cannot p.ass by a 
fishmonger's shop without finding his desire 
to send us some, a temptation too strong to 
be resisted. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Nov. 20, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you much for 
your letter, which, without obliging me to 
travel to Wargrave at a time of year when 
journeying is not very agreeable, has intro- 
duced me in the most commodious manner, 
to a perfect acquaintance with your neat little 
garden, your old cottage, and above all, your 
* Private correspondence. 



most prudent and sagacious landlady. As 
much as I admire her, I admire much more 
that philosophical temper with which you 
seem to treat her : for I know few characters 
more provoking, to me at least, than the self- 
ish, who are never honest, especially if, while 
they determine to pick your pocket, they have 
not ingenuity enougli to conceal their pur- 
pose. But you are perfectly in the right, and 
act just as I would endeavor to do on the 
same occasion. You sacrifice everything to 
a retreat you admire, and, if the natural indo- 
lence of my disposition did not forsake me, 
so would I. 

You might as well apologize for sending 
me forty pounds, as for writing alxMit your- 
self Of the two ingredients, I hardly know 
which made your letter the most agreeable 
(observe, I do not say the most acceptable). 
Tlie draft, indeed, was welcome ; but though 
it was so, yet it did not make me laugh. I 
laughed heartily at the account you give me 
of yourself and your landlady. Dame Savcall, 
whose picture you have drawn, though not 
with a flattering hand, yet, I dare say, with a 
strong resemblance. As to you, I have nev- 
er seen so much of you since I saw you in 
London, where you and I have so often made 
ourselves merry with each otiiev's humor, yet 
never gave each other a moment's pain by 
doing so. We are both humori.sts, and it is 
well for your wife and my Mrs. Unwiu that 
tliey have alike found out the way to dc.-il 
with us. 

More thanks to Sirs. Hill for her inten- 
tions. She has the true enthusiasm of a 
gardener, and I can pity her under her disap- 
pointment, having so large a share of that 
commodity myself 

Yours, my dear Sir, affectionately, 
W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 26, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — I wrote to you by the 
last post, supposing you at Stock ; but, lest 
that letter should not follow you to Layton- 
stone, and you should suspect me of unrea- 
sonable delay, and lest the frank you have 
sent me should degenerate into waste paper 
and perish upon my hands, 1 write again. 
The former letter, however, containing all 
my present stock of intelligence, it is more 
tliau possible that this may prove a blank, or 
but little worthy your acceptance. You will 
do me the justice to suppose that, if I could 
be very entertaining I would be so, because, 
by giving me credit for such a willingness fo 
please, you only allow me a share of that 
universal vanity which inclines every man, 
upon all occasions, to exhibit himself to the 
best advantage. To say the frutli, however, 
when I write, as I do to you, not about 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



113 



business, nor on any subject that approaclies 
to that description, 1 mean much less my cor- 
respondent's aniusement, wliich my modesty 
will not always permit me to hope for, tlian 
my own. Tliere is a pleasure annexed to the 
communication of one"s ideas, whether by 
word of mouth or by letter, which nothing 
earthly can supply the place of; and it is the 
delight we lind iu tins mutual intercourse that 
not only proves us to be creatures intended 
for social life, but, more than an}'thing else, 
perhaps, (its us for it. I have no patience 
with philosophers: they, one and all, suppose 
(at least I understand it to be a prevailing 
opinion among them) that man's weakness, 
his necessities, his inability to stand alone, 
have furnished the prevailing motive, under 
the inrtuence of which he renounced at first 
a life of solitude, and became a gregarious 
creature. It seems to me more reasonable, 
as well as more honorable to my species, to 
suppose that generosity of soul and a brother- 
ly attachment to our o«n kind, drew us, as 
it were, to one connnon centre, taught us to 
build cities and inhabit theni, and welcome 
every stranger that would cast in his lot 
amongst us, that we might enjoy fellowshii) 
with each other and the luxury of reciprocal 
endearments, without which a paradise could 
afford no comfort. There are indeed all sorts 
of characters in the world ; there are some 
whose understandings are so sluggish, and 
whose hearts are such mere clods, that they 
live in society without either contributing to 
the sweets of it, or having any relish for them. 
A man of this stamp passes by our windo\\' 
continually : I never saw him convcr.sing with 
a neighbor but once in my life, tliougli 1 have 
known him by sight these twelve years; he is 
of a very sturdy make, and has a round protu- 
berance, which he evidently considers as his 
best friend, because it is his only companion, 
and it is the labor of his life to fill it. I can 
ca.sily conceive that it is merely the love of 
good eating and drinking, and now and then 
the want of a new pair of shoes, that attaches 
this man so much to the neighborhood of his 
fellow mortals; for suppose these exigencies 
and others of a like kind to subsist no longer, 
and what is thci^ that could give society the 
preference in his esteem ? He might strut 
about with his two thunihi upon his hips in 
the wilderness; he could hardly be more si- 
lent than he is at Olaey : aad, for any advan- 
tiige of comfort, of friendship, of brotherly 
affection, he could not be more destitute of 
such blessings there than in his present situa- 
tion. But other men have something more to 
satisfy ; there are the yearnings of the heart, 
which, let the philosphers say what they will, 
are more importunate than all the necessities 
of the body, that will not sufTer a creature 
worthy to be called human to be content with 
an insulatei life, or to look for his friends 



among the beasts of the forest.* Yourself, 
for instance! It is not because there are no 

tailors or pastrycooks to be found upon Salis- 
bury plain, that you do not choose it for your 
abode, but because you are a philanthropist; 
because you are susceptible of social impres- 
sions ; and have a pleasure of doing a kind- 
ness when you can. Now, upon the word 
of a poor creature, I have said all that I h.ave 
said, w^ithout the least intention to say one 
word of it when I began. But thus it is witii 
my thoughts — when you shake a crab-tree 
the fruit falls; good for nothing indeed when 
you-have got it, but still the best that is to be 
expected from a crab-tree. You are welcome 
to Ihem, such as they are : and, if you ap- 
prove ray sentiments, tell the philosophers of 
the day that I have outshot them all, and have 
discovered the true origin of society when I 
least looked for it. W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

OIney, Nov. 27, 1781. 
Jly dear Friend, — First Mr. Wilson, then 
Mr. Tecdon, and lastly Mr. Whitford, each 
with a cloud of melancholy on his brow and 
with a mouth wide open, have just announced 
to us this unwelcome intelligonecfrom Amer- 
ica.J We arc sorry to hear ^, and should be 
more cast down than we are, if we did not 
knou' that this catastr,iphe was ordained be- 
forehand, and that therefore neither conduct, 
nor courage, nor any means that can possibly 
be mentioned, could have prevented it. If 
the king and his ministry can be contented to 
close the business here, and, taking poor Dean 
Tucker's advice, resign the Americans into the 
hands of their new masters, it mav be well 
for Old England. But, if they will" still per- 
severe, they will lind it, I doubt, a hopeless 
contest to the hut. Domestic murmurs will 
grow louder, and the hands of faction, being 
strengthened by this late miscarriage, will find 
it easy to set lire to the pile of combustibles 
they have been so long employed in building. 
These are my politics, and, for aught I can 
see, you and we, by our respective firesides, 
though neither connected with men in power, 
nor professing to possess any share of that 
sagacity which thinks itself qualified to wield 
the aft'iirs of kingdoms, can make as probable 
conjectures, and look forward into futurity 
with as clear a sight as the greatest man in 
the cabinet. 

* "Tlierp is a solitude of the godi*, and there is the 
solitude of wild heasls." 

t Private correi>pondencc. 

X The surrender of the army of Lord CornwalHs to the 
combined forces of America and Trance, Oct. IHth, I7H1. 
it is retnarkat)le that this event occurred preci.-tely four 
years after the ftiirrender of iJenenil Burgoyne, at Sara- 
tov, in the s:ltne month, and almost on the same day. 
This disastrous occurrence decided the fate of the Ameri- 
can war. which cost (;re.at llritain an expenditure of one 
hundred and twenty millions and drained it of its best 
blood, and c.\tiausled its vitjil re.-H)urces. 

8 



114 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Though, when I wrote the passage in ques- 
tion, I was not at all aware of any impropri- 
ety in it, and thoiich I have frequently, since 
that time, both read and recollected it with 
the same approbation,! lately became uneasy 
upon the subject, and had no rest in my mind 
for three days, till I resolved to submit it to 
a trial at your tribunal, and to dispose of it 
ultimately according to your sentence. I am 
glad you have condemned it, and, though I do 
not feel as if I could presently supply its 
place, shall be willing to attempt the task, 
whatever labor it may cost me, and rejoice 
that it will not be in the power of the critics, 
whatever else they may charge me with, to 
accuse me of bigotry or a design to make a 
certain denomination of Christians odious, at 
the hazard of the public peace. I had rather 
my book were bmait than a single line of such 
a tendency should escape me. 

We thank you for two copies of your Ad- 
dress to your Parishioners. The first I lent 
to Mr. Scott, whom I have not .seen since I 
put it into his hands. You have managed 
your subject well ; have applied yourself to 
despisers and absentees of every description, 
in terms so expressive of the interest you take 
in their welfare, that the most wrongheaded 
person cannot be offended. We both wish it 
may have the ^fleet you intend, and that, 
prejudices and groundless apprehensions be- 
ing removed, the immediate objects of your 
ministry may make a more considerable part 
of your congregation. 

Yours, my dear Sir, as ever, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

FRAGMKNT. 

S:jm(^ datR. 

Jly dear Friend, — A visit from Mr. Whit- 
ford shortened one of your letters to me; 
and now the cause has operated with the 
same effect upon one of mine to you. He 
is just gone, de.sired me to send his love, and 
talks of enclosing a letter to you in my ne.xt 
cover. 

Literas tuas irato Sacerdoti scriptas, legi, 
perlegi, et ne verbum quidem mutandum cen- 
seo. Gratiastibi aeturum si sapiat, e.\istimo ; 
sin aliter eveniat, amici t:nnen ollicium pro3- 
stitisti, et te coram te vindicasti. 

I have not written in l/itin to sliow my 
scholarship, nor to e.xeite Mrs. Newton's cu- 
riosity, nor for any other wise reason what- 
ever ; but merely because, just at that mo- 
UKMit, it came into my head to do so. 

1 never wrote a copy of Mary and John 
in my life, except that whicli I sent to you. 
It was one of those bagatelles which some- 
times spring up like mushrooms in my ima- 
gination, either while I am writing or just 
* Private correspondence. 



before I begin. I sent it to you, because to 
you I send anything that I think may raise a 
smile, but should never have thought of mul- 
tiplying tlie impression. Neither did I ever 
repeat them to any one except Mrs. Unwin. 
The inference is fair and easy, that you have 
some friend who has a good memory.* 

This afternoon the maid opened the par- 
lor-door, and told us there was a lady in the 
kitchen. We desired she might be intro- 
duced, and prepared for the reception of Mrs. 
JoiK's. But it proved to be a lady unknown 
to us, and not Mrs. Jones. She walked di- 
rectly up to Mrs. Unwin, and never drew 
back till their nose.=> were almost in contact. 
It seemed as if she meant to salute her. An 
uncommon degree of familiarity, accompanied 
with an air of most extraordinary gravity, 
made me think her a little crazy. I was 
alarmed, and so was INIrs. Unwin. She had 
a bundle in her hand — a silk handkerchief 
tied up at the four corners. When I found 
she was not mad, I took her for a smuggler, 
and made no doubt but she had brought 
samples of contraband goods. But our sur- 
prise, considering the lady's appearance and 
deportment, was tenfold what it had been, 
when we found that it was i\Iary Philips's 
daughter, wlio had brought us a few ajiples 
by w;iy of a specimen of a quantity she had 
for sale. 



TO JOSETH HtLL, ESQ.f 

OIncy, Dec. 2, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for the note. 
There is some advantage in having a tenant 
who is irregular in his payments : the longer 
the rent is withheld, the more considerable 
the sum when it arrives; to which we may 
add, that its arri\'al, being unexpected, a cir- 
cumstance that obtains always in a degree 
exactly in proportion to the badness of the 
tenant, is always sure to be the occasion of 
an agreeable surprise ; a sensation that de- 
serves to be ranked among the pleasantest 
that belong to u.s. 

I gave two hundred and fifty pounds for 
the chambers. I\Ir. Ashursfs receipt, and 
the receipt of the person oT whom he pur- 
chased, are both among my papers ; and 
when wanted, as I suppose they uill be in 
case of a sale, shall be forthcoming at your 
order. 

The conquest of America seems to go on 
but slowly. Our ill success in that quarter 

* The lines alluded to are the following, which appeared 
afterwards, somewhat varied, in the Elegant Extracta in 
Verse : 

If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 

'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. 

Should John wed a score, oh ! Ihe claws and the 

scratches ! 
It can't be a match : 'lis a bundle of matches. — Ed. 
t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



115 



will obliije mc to suppress two pieces that I 
was rathiT proud of. Tliey were written 
two or tliri'c years a^'o : not lonif after the 
double repulse sustained by Mr. D'Estaing 
at Lueia and at Savannah, and when our 
operations iii the western world wure a more 
proniisinif aspect. Presuming upon sueh 
promises, that I niiijht venture to prophesy 
an illustrious eonsummation of the war, I 
did so. But my predictions provinjr false, 
the verse in which they were expressed must 
perish with them. 

Vours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTOS.* 

Olm-y, Dec. 4, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — The present to the queen 
of France, and the piece addressed to Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, my only two political ef- 
fort's beinjif of the predictive kind, and both 
falsilied, or lilioly to be so, by the miscar- 
riajfe of the royal cause in America, were 
alre;uiy condemned when I received your 
last.f I have a poetical ejiistle which I 
wrote bst summer, and anollier poem not 
yet finished, in stanzas, with which I mean 

• Private correspondence, 

t As the re'jder miiy wisli la see ttie lines to ?ir Joshua, 
they arc here supplied from the documents left hy Dr. 
Jolinson. Those t*i the Queen of France are not found. 

TO sm J0SI1C& BEY.V'OLDS. 

Dear President, whose art sublime 
Gircs perpetuity to time, 
And bids truusactions of a day. 
That lleetin'.? hours woiUd wah away 
To dark futurity, survive. 
And in unfading beauty live, — 
You canuul with a grace decline 
A special mandate of the Nine— 
youn><df, whatever Ijlskft'oti choose. 
So much indebted to the Muse. 

Thus Bays the Sisterhood ; — We rorae— 
Fix well your p.ailet <mi your thumb, 
Trepare the pencil and the tints — 
We come to furnish you with hints. 
French dis.ippoiutiueut, Itrttish giory, 
Must be the subject of my story. 

Fiwi strike a carve, a i;raceful bow, 
Then slope it to a point helow : 
Your outline eiu^y, airy, li;:ht, 
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. 
Let independence. s.tti'/uine, horrid, 
Ithize like a meteor on the forehead: 
Heneath (but lay aside your graces) 
Draw nit and lir'-rrtij rurfid facta^ 
Kach with a sturiu'.:, stedfast eye, 
Fix'd on his irreal and ^ood ally.. 
France Hies the kite— 'tis on Ihi: win;— 
Tlritannia's litfhtnin? cuts the strinff. 
The wind tliat raised it, ere it ce;i«e3, 
.lust i-eiifls it into thirteen pieces. 
Takes cbarce of every tlutl'rinu sheet, 
And lays them all at Geor;;e's feet 

Iberia, Iremblinz tVom afar. 
Renounces the cont'edValc war. 
Her elTort-s and her arts trercomc, 
France r;il!s her shatter'd navies home: 
liepetituii; Holland learns to mourn 
The sacred tre;Uies she has torn ; 
Astonishment and awe prr>found 
Are stanip'd tipon the natiiuis round: 
Without one friend, above all foes, 
Britauikia ^ives the world repose. 



to supply their places. Henceforth I have 
done with politics. The stafje of national 
affairs is such a fluctuatiufj scene that an 
event which tippears jirobable to-day be- 
comes impossible to-morrow; and unless a 
man were indeed a prophet, he cannot, but 
with the irreatest hazard of losing his ]:tbor, 
bestow his rhymes upon future contingen- 
cies, which perhaps are never to take place 
but in his own wishes and in tlie reveries of 
his own fancy. 1 learned «iien I was :i boy, 
being the son of a staunch Whig, and a man 
that loved his country, to glow with that pa- 
triotic entliusiasm which is apt to break forth 
into poetry, or at least to prompt a person, if 
he has any inclination that way, to poetical 
endeavors. Prior's pieces of thtit sort were 
recommended to my particular notice : and, 
as thttt part of the present century was a 
season when clubs of a political character, 
and conseijueiitly |)olitical songs, were much 
in fashion, the best in that style, some writ- 
ten by Kowe, and I think some by Congreve, 
and many l>y other wits of the day, were 
pro])ose(l to my admiration. Being grown 
lip, 1 became desirous of imitating sueh 
bright examples, and while I lived in the 
Temple produced .several half-penny ballads, 
two or three of which had the honor to be 
popular. What we learn in childhood we 
retain long: and the successes we met with 
about three years ago, when D'Estaing was 
twice repulsed, once in America and once in 
the West Indies, having set fire to my patri- 
otic zeal once more, it discovered itself by 
the same .'symptoms, and produced effects 
much like those it h:ul produced beibre. But, 
unhappily, the ardor I felt upon the occasion, 
disdaining to be conlined within the bounds 
of fact, pushed me upon uniting the prophet- 
ical with the poetical character, and defeated 
its own purpose. — I am glad it did. The 
less there is of that sort in ray book the 
l)etter ; it will be more consonant to your 
character, who patronize the volume, and, 
indeed, to the constant tenor of my own 
thoughts upon public matters, that I should 
c.\hort my countrymen to re]>entance, than 
that 1 should (latter their pride — that vice 
for which, perhaps, they are even now so 
severely punished. 

We are gl.id, for Mr. Barliam's sake, that 
lie has been hajjpily disappointed. How lit- 
tle does the W((rld suspect what passes in it 
every day ! — that true religion is working 
the same h oiidcrs now as in the first ages 
of the church — that parents surrender up 
their children into the hands of God, to die 
at his own appointed moment, and by what 
death he pleases, without a murmur, and re- 
ceive them iigain as if by a resurrection from 
the dead ! The world, however, would be 
more justly cliargeable with wilful blindness 
than it is, if all professors of the truth exem- 



116 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



plified its power in their conduct as conspic- 
uously as Mr. Barham. 

Easterly winds and a state of confinement 
within our own walls suit neither me nor 
Mrs. Unwin ; though we are both, to use the 
Iri.sh term, rather unwell than ill. 

Your.s, my dear friend, W. C. 

Mrs. Madan is happy. — She will be found 
ripe, fall when she may. 

We are sorry you speak doubtfully about 
a spring visit to Olney. Those doubts must 
not outlive the winter. W. C. 

We now conclude this portion of our work. 
The incidents recorded in it cannot fail to ex- 
cite interest, and to awaken a variety of re- 
flections. Remarks of this kind will, how- 
ever, appear more suitable, when all tlic 
details of the poet's singular history are 
brought to a close, and presented in a con- 
nected series. In the meantime we cannot 
but admire that divine wisdom and mercy, 
which often so remarkably overrules the 
darkest dispensations — 

From seeming evil still educing good. 

It might liave been anticipated that the mor- 
bid temperament of Cowper would either 
have unfitted him for intellectual exertion, or 
that his productions would have been tinged 
with all the colors of distempered mind: but 
such was not the case. Whether he com- 
posed in poetry or prose, the effect upon his 
mind seems to have been similar to the intlu- 
ence of the harp of David over the spirit of 
Saul. The inward struggles of the soul 
yielded to the magic power of song ; and the 
inimitable letter-writer forgot his sorrows in 
the sallies of his own sportive imagination. 
The peculiarity of his temperament, so far 
from restraining his powers, seems from his 
own account to have quickened them into 
action. "I write,'' he .says, in (me of his let- 
ters, -'to amuse and forget myself; and yet 
always willi the desire of benefiting others.'' 
llis object in writing was twofold, and so 
was his success ; for he wrote and forgot 
himself; and yet wrote in such a manner, as 
never to be forgotten by others. 



We have now conducted Cowper to the 
threshhold of fame, with all its attendant 
hopes, fears, and anxieties ; a fame resting 
on the noblest foundation, the application of 
the powers of genius to improvement of the 
age in which he lived. Tlie circumstances 
under which he commenced his career as an 
Aulhor are singular. They form a profitable 
subject of in(piiry to those who analyze the 
oper.itions of the human mind; for lie wrote 
in the moments of depres.sion and sorrow. 



under the influence of a morbid tempera- 
ment, and with an imagination assailed by 
the most afflicting images. In the midst of 
these discouragements his mind burst forth 
from its prison-house, arrayed in all the 
charms of wit and humor, sportive without 
levity, and never provoking a smile at the 
expense of virtue. 

A mind so constituted furnishes a remark- 
able proof of the wisdom and goodness of 
God; for it shows that the greatest trials are 
not without their alleviations, and that in the 
bitterest cup are to be found the ie.grcdicnts 
of mercy. Who can tell how often the mind 
might lose its equilibrium, or sink under the 
pressure of its woes, w ere it not for the in- 
terposition of that Almighty Power which 
guides the planets in their orbits, and says to 
the great water, "Hitherto sh.alt thou come, 
but no further; and here shall thy proud 
waves be .stayed." Job xxxviii. 11. 

We now resume the correspondence of 
Cowper which contains some incidental no- 
tices of his admired Poems of Friendship 
and Retirement. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Dec. 17, 1781. 
My dear Friend, — The poem I had in hand 
when I wrote last is on the subject of Friend- 
ship. By the following post I received a 
packet from Jolmson. The proof-sheet it 
contained brought our business down to the 
latter part of "Retirement;" the next will 
consequently introduce the first of the smaller 
pieces. The volume consisting, at least four- 
fifths of it, of heroic verse as it is called, and 
graver matter, I was desirous to displace the 
" Burning Mountair^'f from the post it held 
in the van of the liglit infantry, and throw it 
into the rear. Having fini>hed "Friendship," 
and fearing that, if I delayed to send it, the 
press would get the start of my intention, 
and knowing perfectly that, with respect to 
the subject and the subject matter of it, it 
contained nothing that -you would think e.v- 
ceptionable, I took the liberty to transmit it 
to Johnson, and hope that the next post will 
return it to me printed. It consists of be- 
tween thirty and forty stanzas; a length that 
qualifies it to supply the place of the two 
cancelled pieces, without the aid of the epis- 
tle I mentioned. According to the present 
arrangement, therefore, " I'riendship," which 
is rather of a lively cast, though quite sober, 
will follow next after " Retirement." and 
" vEtna" will close the volume. Modern nat- 
urali.sts, I think, tell us that the volcano forms 
tlu^ mountain. I shall be charged therefore, 
perhaps, with an uiiphilosophical error in 
supposing that jEtna was once unconscious 

* Pi'iv.ite corrpspondence. 

t Tlie poem utterwards entitled " Heroism." — Vide 
Poems. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



117 



of intestine fires, and as lofty as at present 
before the oonimeneement of the eruptions. 
It is possible, luiwever, that tlie rule, thnuirh 
just iii some instances, may not be of univer- 
sal application ; an<l, if it be, 1 do not know 
that a poet is obli;,'cd to write with a philo- 
sopher at his elbow, prepared always to bend 
down his imat,'iiialion to mere matters of fact. 
You will obllLje me by your opinion ; and 
tell me, if you please, whether you think an 
apoloi^elieal note may be necessary ; for I 
would not a])pear a dunce in matters that 
every Review reader must needs be apprized 
of. I say a note, because an alteration of the 
piece is impracticable ; at least without cut- 
ting oil" its head, and setting on a new one ; 
a task I should not readily undertake, be- 
cause the lines which must, in tliat ease, be 
thrown out, are some of the most poetical in 
the performance. 

Possessing greater advantages, and being 
equally di.ssolutc with the most abandoned 
of the neighboring nations, we are certainly 
more criminal than they. They cannot see, 
and we will not. It is to be e.\pected, there- 
fore, that when judgment is walking through 
the earth, it will come commissioned with the 
heaviest tidings to the people chargeable with 
the most perverseness. In the latter part of 
the Duke of Newcastle's administration, all 
faces gathered blackness. The people, as 
they walked the streets, had, every one of 
them, a countenance like what we may sup- 
po.se to have been the prophet Jonah's, when 
he cried, " Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall 
be destroyed." But our Nineveh too re- 
pented, that is to say, she was all'ected in a 
manner somewhat suitable to her condition. 
.She was dejected ; she learned an humbler 
language, and seemed, if she did not trust in 
God, at least to have renounced her confi- 
dence in herself. A respite ensued; the 
expected ruin was averted : and her prosper- 
ity became greater than ever. Again she 
became self-conceited and proud, as at the 
first; and how stands it with our Nineveh 
now? Even as you say ; her distress is infi- 
nite, her destruction appears inevitable, and 
her heart as hard as the nether millstone. 
Thus, I suppose, it was when ancient Nine- 
veh found lier.self agreeably disappointed; 
she turned the grace of God into lascivious- 
ness, and that llagrant abuse of mercy ex- 
posed her, at the expiration of forty ye.irs, to 
the complete execution of a sentence she 
had only been threatened with before. A 
similarity of events, :K'eompanied by a strong 
similarity of conduct, seems to justifv our 
expectations that the cat;istr<iphe will not be 
very different. Buf, after all, the designs of 
Providence are inscrutable, and, as in the case 
of individuals, so in that of nations, the .same 
causes do not always produce the same ef- 
fects. The country indeed cannot be saved 



in its present state of profligacy and profane- 
uess, but may, nevertheless, be led to re- 
pentance; by means we are little aware of, 
and at a time when we least expect it. 

Our best love attends yourself and Mrs. 
Newton, and we rejoice that you feel no bur- 
thens but those you bear in conmion with 
the liveliest and most favored Christians. It 
is a happiness in poor Peggy's case, that she 
can swallow five shillings' worth of physic in 
a day, but a person must be in her case to be 
duly sensible of it. 

Vours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

OIney, Dec. 19, 1781. 

My dear William, — I dare say I do not en- 
ter exactly into your idea of a present theo- 
cracy, because mine amounts to no more than 
the common one, that all mankind, though 
few are really aH'are of it, act under ii provi- 
dential direction, and that a gracious superin- 
tendence in particular is the lot of those who 
trust in God. Thus I think respecting indi- 
viduals, and with respect to the kingdoms of 
the earth, that, perhaps, by his own immedi- 
ate operation, though more probably by the 
intervention of angels, (vide Daniel,) the 
great Governor manages and rules them, as- 
signs them their origin, duration, and end, 
appoints tlicm prosperity or adversity, glory 
or disgrace, as their virtue or their vices, their 
regard to the dictates of conscience and his 
word, or their prevailing neglect of both, may 
indicate and require. But in this persuasion, 
as I said, I do not at all deviate from the gen- 
eral opinion of those who believe a Provi- 
dence, at least who have a scriptural belief of 
it. I suppose, therefore, you mean something 
more, and shall be glad to be more particu- 
larly informed. 

I see but one feature in the face of our na- 
tional concerns that pleases me ; — the war 
with America, it seems, is to be conducted on 
a dift"erent plan. This is something, when 
a long series of measures, of a certain de- 
scription, has proved unsuccessful, the adop- 
tion of others is at leas', pleasing, as it en- 
courages a hope that they may possibly prove 
wiser and more effectual : but, indeed, w ith- 
out discipline, all is lost. Pitt himself could 
have done nothing with such tools ; but he 
would not have been so betrayed : he would 
have m.ade the traitors answer with their 
heads for their cowardice or supineness, and 
their punishment would have made survivors 
active. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olliey. The sllortcst diiy, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I might easily make this 
* Private correspondence. 



118 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



letter a continuation of my last, another na- 
tional miscarriage having furnished me with 
a fresh illustration of the remarks we have 

both been making. Mr. S ,* who has 

most ol)li)iingly supplied me with franks 
throiigliout my whole concern with Johnson, 
aceompnnied tlie last parcel he sent me with 
a no:e daicdfroni the House of Commons, in 
•whicli he seemed liappy to give me the earli- 
est intelligence of the capture of the French 
transports by Admiral Kem])eiil'clt, and of a 
close engagement between the two fleets, so 
much to be expected. This notejvas written 
on Monday, and reached me by Wednesday's 
post ; but, alas ! the same post brouglit us 
the newspaper that informed us of his being 
forced to tly before a much superior enemy, 
and glad to take shelter in the port he had 
left so lately. This event, 1 suppose, will 
have W'orse consequences than the mere dis- 
appointment ; will furnish Opposition, as all 
our ill success has done, with the fuel of di.s- 
sention, and with the means of thwarting 
and ])erple.xing administration. Thus, all we 
])urchase with the many millions expended 
yearly is distress to ourselves, instead of our 
enemies, and domestic quan'els instead of 
victories abroad. It takes a great many blows 
to knock down a great nation ; and, in the 
ease of poor England, a great many heavy 
ones have not been wanting. They make us 
reel and stagger indeed, but the blow is not 
yet struck that is to make us fall upon our 
knees. That fall would save us ; but, if we 
fall upon our side at last, we are undone. 
So much for politics. 

I enclose a few lines on a thought which 
struck me yesterday.f If you .-ipprove of 
them, you know what to do with them. I 
should think they might occupy the place of 
an introduction, and should call them by that 
n.ime, if I did not judge the name I luave 
given them necessary for the information of 
the reader. A flatting-mill is not met with in 
every street, and my book will, perhaps fall 
into the hands of many who do not know 
that such a mill was ever invented. It hap- 
pened to me, however, to spend much of my 
time in one, when I was a boy, when I fre- 
quently amused myself with watching the 
operation I describe. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 

The reader will admire the sublimity of 
the following letter in allusion to England 
and America. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 

Oliiey. The last day of 1781. 
My dear Friend, — Yesterday's post, which 

• Mr. Smitti, afterwards Lord CarrinRton. 
t Tlio linos alluded to are entitled '■ The FlaUing-Mill, 
an Illustratiun.^' 
i Private correspondence. 



brought me yours, brought me a packet from 
Joliiison. We have reached the middle of 
the Mahometan Ilog. By the way, your 
lines, which, when we had the pleasure of 
seeing you here, you said you would furnish 
him with, are not inserted in il. I did not 
recollect, till after I had finished the '-Flat- 
ting-Mill," that it bore any athnity to the 
motto taken from Caraccioli. The resem- 
blance, however, did not appear to me to give 
any impropriety to the verses, as the thought 
is much enlarged upon, and enlivened by the 
addition of a new comparison. But if it is 
not wanted, it is superfluous, and if super- 
fluous, better omitted. I shall not bumble 
Johnson for finding fault with " Friendship," 
though I have a better opinion of it myself; 
but a poet is of all men the most unfit to be 
judge in his own cause. Partial to all his 
productions, he is always most partial to the 
youngest. But, as tliere is u sutticient quan- 
tity without it, let that sleep too. If I should 
live to write again, I may possibly take up 
that subject a second time, and clothe it in a 
diiTerent dress. It abounds with excellent 
matter, and much more than I could find 
room for in two or three pages. 

I consider England and America as once 
one country. They were so, in respect of 
interest, intercourse, and afiinity. A great 
earthquake has made a partition, and now 
the Atlantic Ocean flows between them. He 
that can drain that ocean, and shove the two 
shores together, so as to make them aptly 
coincide, and meet each other in e\ery part, 
can unite them again. But this is a work for 
Omnipotence and nothing less than Omnipo- 
tence can heal the breach between us. This 
dispensation is evidently a scourge to Eng- 
land ; but is it a blessing to America '.* Time 

* Cowper, tlioush a Whig, vindicates the American 
war, keenly as he censures the ineiftcirncy with wliich it 
wa? conducted. The subject has now lost much of its 
interest, and is become rattier a maUer of historical rec- 
oi-d. Such is Ihe inlluenceof the lapse of lime on the 
intenseness of polilicat feetinij ! The conduct of Franc*-, 
at ttiis crisis, is exhibited with a liappy poignancy of wit. 

"True we have lost an empire — let it pass. 
True; we may thnnlv the perlldy of France, 
Tliat pick'd the jewel out of Kns,'land's crown. 
With alt the cunnin:? of an envious shrew. 
And let that pass — *Lwa3 but a trick of stale." 

Tax/it book ii. 

Cowper subsequently raises the question how far the 
attainment of Independence was likely to exercise a salu- 
tar>' influence on the future prospects of Amei'ica. He 
.anticipates an unfavorable issue. Events, however, have 
not fidlilled this prediction. What country has made 
such rapid strides towards Imperial fireatness? Where 
shall we lind a more boundless extent of territory, a more 
rapid increase of population, or ampler resom-ces fur a 
commerce that promises to make the whole world tribu- 
tary to its support V Besides, why should not the de- 
sce'ndiints jirove wortliy o\' their siresV Why should a 
Kreat cxpcriineiU in IcLrislation and government suspend 
ttie natural coui-se of political and moral causes? May 
the spiritual improvement of her reliRious privileges 
keep pace with the career of lu'r national greatness! 
What we most apprehend for A merica is the danger of 
internal dissension. If corruption tte the di.scase of mon- 
archies, faction is the banc of republics. We add one 
more retlection, with sentiments of profound regret, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



119 



may prove it one, but at present it does not 
st'em to \ve:ir an aspect t'.ivorable to tlicir 
privileges, eitlier civil or rclii^nous. I cannot 
doubt the trutli of Dr. W.'s assertion : but 
the rrciicli,\vlio p:iy but little regard to trea- 
ties that clash with their convenience, with- 
out a treaty, and even in direct contradiction 
to verbal engagements, can easily pretend a 
claim to a country which they have both bled 
and paid for; and, if the validity of that 
claim be disputed, behold an army ready 
landed, and well-appointed, and in possession 
of some of the most fruitful provinces, pre- 
pared to prove it. A scourge is a scourge 
at one end only. A bundle of thunderbolts, 
such as you have seen in the talons (if Jupi- 
ter's eagle, is at both ends equally tremen- 
dous, and can inflict a judgment upon the 
West, at the same moment that it seems to 
intend only the chastisement of the East. 
Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 

Dr. Johnson's celebrated work, " The Lives 
of the Poets," h.ad at this lime m.ade its .ap- 
pearance, and some of the following letters 
refer to that subject. 

TO THE REV. UaLLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, .Ian. 5, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Did I allow myself to 
plead the common excuse of idle correspond- 
ents, and esteem it a sufficient reason for 
not writing that I have nothing to write 
about, I certainly should not write now. But 
I have so ofien found, on similar occasions, 
when a great penury of matter lias .seemed 
to threaten me with an utter impossibility of 
li.atching a letter,. tliat nothing is necessary 
but to put pen to p;iper, and go on, in order 
to conquer all difficulties; tli.at, availing my- 
self of past e.\perience, I now begin with the 
most a.ssured persuasion that, sooner or later, 
one idea n.aturally suggesting another, I shall 
come to a most prosperous conclusion. 

In the last " Review," I mean in the last but 
one, I saw Johnson's critique upon Prior and 
Pope. I am bound to acquiesce in his opin- 
ion of the latter, becau.se it has always been 
my own. I could never agree with those 
who preferred him to Dryden, nor with others 
(I have known such, and persons of ta.sto 
and discernment too) who could not allow 
him to be a poet at all. He was certainly a 
mechanical maker of verse.s, and, in every 
line he ever wrote, we see indubitable marks 

borrow tlie rausu of Cowper to convey our incunin^ and 
uur wiBlit-s. 

*' I would not liave a slave to tilt my ground. 
To carry nie, to tun nie while i sleep. 
And Ireinlile when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bou'..'()t and sold have ever camM. 
No; dear as freedom is and in my hearths 
Just estimation priz'd above all price, 
1 hml lunch rather be myself the slave. 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him." 
Ttukf book ii. 



of most indefatigable industry and labor. 
Writers, who find it necessary to make such 
.strenuous and painful exertions, are generally 
as phlegnnitic as they are correct; but Pojie 
was, in this resjjtict, exempted from the com- 
mon lot of authors of that class. Willi the 
unwearied application of a plodding Flemish 
p.tinter, who draws a shrim|) with the ino-t 
minute exactness, he had all the genius of 
one of the first masters. Never, I believe, 
were such talents and such drudgery united. 
But I admire Dryden most, who has suc- 
ceeded by mere dint of genius, and in spite 
of a laziness and carelessness almost pecu- 
liar to himself. His faults are numberless, and 
so are his beauties. His faults are tho.se of 
a great ni.an, and his beauties are such (at 
least sometimes) as Pope, with all his touch- 
ing and retouching, could never eqH:il. Ko 
far, theretbre, I have no quarrel with Johnson. 
But I c;uinot subscribe to what he says of 
Prior. In the first place, though my memory 
may fail me, I do not recollect that he takes 
any notice of his Solomon, in my mind the 
best poem, whether we consider the subject 
of it or the execution, tliat ho ever wrote.'" 
In the next place, he condemns him for in- 
troducing Venus and Cupid into his love 
ver.se.s, and concludes it impossible his pas- 
sion could be sincere, because when he would 
express it, he iias recourse to fables. But, 
when Prior wrote, those deities were not so 
obsolete as they are at present. His co:em- 
porary writers, and some that succeeded him, 
did not think them beneath their notice. 
Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved tlieir existence 
as mucli as we do ; yet Tibullus is allowed 
to be the prince of all poetical inamoratos, 
though he mentions them in almost every 
page. There is a fashion in these things 
which the Doctor seems to have forgotten. 
But what shall we say of his rusty-fusty re- 
marks upon Henry and Emma] I agree with 
him, that, morally considered, both the knight 
and his lady are bad characters, and that each 
exhibits an cxam]ilc which ought not to be 
followed. The man dissembles in a way 
that would have justifieil the woman had she 
renounced him, and the woman resolves to 
follow liiin at the expen.se of delicacy, pro- 
priety, and even modesty itself. But when 
the critic calls it a dull dialogue, who but a 
critic will belii^ve him ? There are few read- 
ers of poetry «( either sex in this country 
who c:innot remember how that enehanting 
piece has bewitched them, wlio do not know 
that, instead of linding it tedious, they have 
been so delighted with the romantic turn of 

* This remark is inaccurate, i'rinr's Solomon is dis- 
tinctly meiuioned, thou;rh Johnson observes that it fails 
in exciting int^rrest. His concladin'^ remarks are, how- 
ever, hi ,'tily honorable to the merit of that work. " Ho 
that shall peruse it will be able to mark many pas.4al{08, 
ti) which be in.iy recur for instrneliiui or delii^ht; many 
from which the poet may learn to write, and the philoso- 
pher to reason,"— /^x/e uf Prior.— l^onoR. 



120 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



it as to have overlooked all its defects, and 
to have given it a consecrated place in their 
memories without ever feeling it a burlhen. 
I wonder almost, that, as the bacchanals 
served Orplieus, tlio boys and girls do not 
tear lliis husky, dry commentator, limb from 
limb, in resentment of such an injury done 
to their darling poet. I admire Jobnson as a 
man of great erudition and sense, but, when 
he sets himself up for a judge of writers 
upon the subject of love, a passion which I 
suppose he never felt in his life, he might as 
well think himself qualified to prononnce 
upon a treatise on horsemanship, or the art 
of fortification. 

The next packet I receive will l)ring me, I 
imagine, the last proof-sheet of my vohmie, 
which will consist of about three hundred 
and fifty pages, honestly printed. Jly public 
entree therefore is not far distant. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Jan. 13, 1783. 

My dear Friend,— I believe I did not thank 
you for your anecdotes, either foreign or do- 
mestic, in my last, therefore Ido it now ; and 
still feel myself, as I did at the time, truly 
obliged to you for them. More is to be 
learned from one matter of fact than from 
a thousand speculations. But alas! what 
course can Government take'! I have heard 
(for I never m.ade the experiment) that if a 
man grasp a red-hot iron with his naked hand, 
it will stick to him, so that he cannot pres- 
ently disengage himself from it. Such are 
the colonies in tlie hands of administration. 
While they liold them they burn their fingers, 
and yet they must not quit them. I know 
not wliether your sentiments and mine upon 
this part of the subject exactly coincide, 
but you will know when you understand 
wliat mine are. It appears to me that tlic 
King is bound, botli by the duty he owes to 
liimself and to his people, to consider him- 
self, with respect to every inch of his terri- 
tories, as a trustee deriving his interest in 
them from God, and invested with them by 
divine authority for the benefit of his sub- 
jects. As he may not sell them or waste them, 
so ho may not resign them to an enemy, or 
transfer his right to govern them to any, not 
even to themselves, so long as it is possible 
for him to keep it. If he does, he betrays 
at once his own interest and that of ids otlier 
dominions. It mny be said, suppose Provi- 
dence luxs ordained that they shall be wrested 
from him, how then i. I answer, tliat cannot 
appear to be the ease, till God's purpose is 
actually accomplished ; and in the meantime 
the most probable prospect of such an event 
* Private correspondence. 



does not release him from his obligation to 
hold them to the last moment, forasmuch as 
adverse appearances are no infallibh> indica- 
tion of God's designs, but may give place to 
more comfortable symptoms, when we least 
expect it. Viewing the thing in this light, if 
I sat on his Majesty's throne, I should be as 
obstinate as he,* because, if I quitted the 
contest while I had any means of carrying it 
on, I slionld never know that I had not re- 
linquished what I might have retained, or bo 
able to render a satisfirctory answer to the 
doubts and inquiries of my own conscience. 
Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM DNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 17, 1782. 
My dear William, — I am glad we agree in 
our opinion of king critic,t and the writers on 
wliom he has bestowed his animadversions. 
It is a matter of inditlcrence to me wliether I 
think with the world at large or not, but I 
wish my friends to be of my mind. The 
same work will wear a dift'erent appearance 
in the eyes of the same man, according to the 
different views with which he reads it ; if 
merely for his amusement, his candor being 
in less danger of a twist from interest or 
prejudice, he is pleased with what is really 
pleasing, and is not over-curious to discover 
a blemish, because the exercise of a minute 
exactness is not consistent witli his purpose. 
But if ho once becomes a critic by trade, the 
case is altered. He must then, at any rate, 
establish, if lie can, an opinion in every mind 
of his uncommon discernment, and liis ex- 
quisite taste. This gi-eat end he can never 
accomplish by thinking in the track that has 
been beaten under the hoof of public judg- 
ment. He must endeavor to convince the 
world that their favorite authors liave more 
faults thini they are aware of, and such as 
they have never suspected. Having marked 
out a writer universally esteemed, whom he 
finds it for that very reason convenient to de- 
preciate and traduce, lie will overlook some 
of his beauties, he will faintly praise others, 
and in such a manner as to make thousands, 
more modest though quite as judicious as 
himself, question whether tliey are beauties 
at all. Can there be a stronger illustration 
of all that I h.ave said than the severity of 
Johnson's remarks upon Prior — I might have 
said the injustice ? His reputation as an au- 
thor, who, with much labor indeed, but with 
admirable success, has embellislicd all his 
poems witli the most charming ease, stood 

* The rclention of the American colonies »■»;< known 
to be a favorite project with George 111. ; but the sense 
of the nation was opposed to the war, and the expense 
and reverses attending its prosecution increased llie pub- 
lic discontent. 

t Dr. Johnson. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



121 



unshaken till Johnson thrust his head against I 
it. And how does he attack him in this his | 
principil fort? I cannot ri>(;olloct his very 
words, but I am much misir.ken indeed, it' my 
ineiuory fails me with respect to the purport 
of thoni. " His words," lie says, " appear to ; 
be forced into their proi>er places. There 
indeed we find them, but find likewise that [ 
their arrangement has been the eftect of con- 
straint, and that without violonce they would i 
certainly have stood in a dill'erent order."* 
By your leave, most learned Doctor, this is ' 
the most disingenuous remark I ever met 
with, and .would have come with a better 
grace from Curl or Dennis. Every man con- 
versant with verse-writing knows, and knows 
by painful experience, that the familiar style 
is of all styles the most dillicnlt to succeed 
in. To make verse speak the language of 
prose, without being prosaic, to marshal the 
words of it in such an order us they might ' 
milurally take in falling from the lips of an 
cxieniporary speaker, yet wiihout meanness, 
harmoniously, eleganlly, and without seeming 
to displace a syllable for the sake of the 
rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a 
poet can undertake. He that could accom- 
plish this task was Prior : many have imitated 
his excellence in this particular, but the best 
copies have fallen far short of the original. ' 
And now to tell us, after we and our fathers 
have admired him for it so long, that he is an 
easy writer indeed, hut that his ease has an 
.air of stitViiess in it ; in short, that his ease is 
not ease, but only something like it, w hat is 
it but a self-i^ontr.idiction, an observation that 
grants what it is just going to deny, and de- 
nies what it has just granted, in the same 
sentence, and in the same breath ? — But I 
have filled the greatest part of my sheet with ' 
a very uninteresting subject. I will only say i 
that, as a nation, we are not much indebted, 
in point of poetical credit, to this too saga- 
cious and unmerciful judge : and that, for mv- : 
.self in particular, I have reason to rejoice that I 
he entered upon and exhausted the labors of | 
his oifice, before my poor volume could pos- 
sibly become an object of them. j 

[That .lohnson, in his " Lives of the Poets," 
has exhibited many instances of erroneous 
criticism, and that he sometimes censures 
where he might have praised, is we believe 
very generally admitted. His treatment of 
Swift, Gay, Prior, and Gray, has excited re- 
gret; and .Milton, though justly extolled as a 
sublime poet, is hashed as a republican, with 
unrelenting severity.! Few will concur in 

* Tlie Ian^ua'.c<i in Ihe original Is as fulluws : " His ox- 
pro*«ioii h:w every mark of laborious sludy ; the line sel- 
dom siicm-* lo have heun formed at onc« ; Uie words did 
not come Lill Uu,'y were c-iUed, and were then pnl by con- 
straint into their placed, where they do their duty, but do 
it HuHenly.*' — .See /-/o-s of thr Portn. | 

t The severity of Johnson's strictures on Milt/tn, in his i 
Lives of Uio Pouts, awakened a keen sense of indignation ' 



Johnson's remarks on Gray's celebrated 
" Progress of Poetry ;" and Murphy, in speak- 
ing of his criliiine on the well-known and 
admired opening of "The Bard," 

■ Ruin seize thee, ruthless king,'' &c., 

expresses a wish th.at it had been blotted 
out.* But Johnson was the Jupiler Tonans 
of literature, and not urifre(|nently hurls his 
thunder and darts his lightning with an air 
of conscious superiority, which, though it 
awakens terror by its power, does not always 
command respect for its judgment. 

Willi all these deductions, the "Lives of 
the Poets" is a work abounding in inimitable 
beauties, and is a lasting memorial of John- 
son's fame. It has been justly eharac'.erizcd 
a.s " the most brilliant, and, certainly, the 
most popular, of all his writings."! The most 
splendid passage, among many that might be 

in the brea.st of Cowper, which he has recorded in the 
marginal remaiks. written in his own copy of that work. 
They are cliar.icteristjc of the generiius ardor of lijs 
mind, in behalf of a man whose political views, however 
strong, were at least sincere and conscientious; and the 
splendor of whose name ought to have dissipated tho 
animosities of party feeling. From these curious and in- 
teresting' comments we extract the following :— 

,/rtA7i.v<m— "I know not any of the Articles which seem 
to thwart his opinions, but the thoughts of obedience, 
whether canonical or civil, roused his indignation." 
C'owpci — " Candid." 

Julia.-icn — "Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they 
are, he was proud enough to publish them before his 
poems ; though he says he cannot be suspected but to 
have known that they were said, .Xun tarn dc sf^ quam 
supra jrc." Cincper—^^ Me did well." 

Joknson—'-- 1 have traiLScribed this title to show, by his 
contemptuous mention of tlsher, that he had now adopted 
a puritanical s.ivageness of manners." t'oiepei — " Why 
is it coiitemptiioiis? ICspecially, why is it savaije ?" 

.hhn.<(m — ■ from this time it is observed, that he be- 
came an enemy to the Presbyterians, whom he had fa- 
vored before, lie that changes his party by his humor, 
is not more virtuous than he that changes it by his in- 
terest. He loves himself rather than truth." Coirprr — 
" You should have proved that he was iutluenceil bv his 
humor." 

Johnson— ^^ It were injurious to omit, that Milton afler- 
wards received her father and her brothers in his own 
house, when they were distressed, with other Royalists." 
(V>jf/*rr— "Strong proof of a temper both forgiving and 
liberal." 

Johnson — " But, as faction seldom leaves a man hon- 
est, however it may llnd him, Milton is suspef^tt^d of hav- 
ing interpolated thr' book called 'Ikon Basilike,' &c." 
Cowper — " A strange proof of your proposition !" 

Johnson — " 1 cannot but remark a kind of respect, per- 
haps unconsciously paid to this great man by his biogra- 
phers. Kvery house in which he resided is historically 
mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any 
place that he honored by his presence." Cotoper — "They 
have all pai<I him more than you." 

Johnson — *' If he considered the Latin Secretary as ex- 
ercising any of the powers of CovernmenU ht^ that hail 
showed authority either with the Parliament or with 
Cromwell, miglit have forborne to t-alk very loudly of his 
honesty." Cowpci — '■ He might if he acted oil principle, 
talk xs loudly as he ple.i,sed." 

Johnson — "This darkness, had his eyes been better 
employed, had undoubtedly deserved companion." 
C^oiepn — " Brute !" 

Johnson~"Thnt his own daughters might ivit break 
the ranks, he sutTeroJ them t,) be deprescH'd by a lilean 
and penurious education. He thought wiuilen made 
only for obedience, and man only for reliellion." Cutrprr 
— "Aiul could you write this'without blushing".' Us 
hominis /" 

Johnson — "Such is his malignity, that hell grows darker 
ut bis frown." Coirper — " vVnd ai think !" 

» See Murphy's "Essay on the Genius of Dr. Johnson.** 

t Ibid. 



122 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



quoted, is perhaps the eloquent comparison 
instituted between tlie relative merits of Pope 
and Drydeu. A-^ Cuwper alludes to this 
critique with satisfaction, we insert an ex- 
tract from it, to gratify those who are not 
familiar with its existence. Speaking of Dry- 
den, Johnson observes: "His mind has a 
larger range, and he collects his images and 
illustrations from a more extensive circuui- 
ferciice of science. Dryden knew more of 
man in his general nature, and Pope in liis 
local manners. The notions of Dryden were 
formed by comprehensive speculation ; and 
those of Pope by minute attention. There 
is more dignity in the knowledge of Drydiui, 
and more certainty in that of Pope.' Again : 
" Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid : 
Pope is always smooth, uniform, and geiUle. 
Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into 
inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu- 
berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a 
velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and lev- 
elled by the roller." 

"Of genius, that power -which constitutes 
a poet; that quality without which judgment 
is C(dd, and knowledge is inert ; tliat energy 
which collects, combines, amplifies, and ani- 
mates ; the superiority must, witli some hesi- 
tation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be 
inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had 
only a little, because Dryden had more ; for 
every other writer since Milton must give 
place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must 
bo said that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he 
has not better poem.s." 

lie concludes this brilliant comparison in 
the following words. "If the flights of Dry- 
den, therefore, are higher. Pope continues 
longer on the wing ; if of Dryden's fire the 
blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more 
regular and constant. Dryden often sur- 
passes expectation, and Pope never falls be- 
low it. Dryden is read with frequent aston- 
ishment, and Pope with perpetual delight."* 

We now insert the sequel of the preceding 
letter to Mr. Unwin.] 

You have already furnished John's memory 
with by far the greatest part of what a parent 
would wish to store it with. If all that is 
nu'rely trivial, aqd all that has an immoral 
tendency, were expunged from our English 
poets, how would they shrink, and how would 
some of them completely vanish! I believe 
there are sonic of Dryden's Fables, which he 
would find very entertaining: they are for 
the most part tine compositions, and not 
above his apprclien.sion : but Dryden lias 
written few things that are not blotted here 
and there with an unchaste allusion, so that 
you must pick his way for him, lest he should 
tre:id in the dirt. You did not .mention Mil- 
ton's " Allegro " and " Penseroso," which 1 
* SCO "Life of Pope." 



remember being so charmed with when a 
boy, that I was never weary of them. There 
are even passages in the p..r,idisiacal part of 
"Paradise Los;,'' which he might study with 
advantage. And to teach him, as you can, to 
deliver some of ihe fine orations made in the 
PandaMnonium, and iho.-e between Hatan, 
Ithuriel, and Zephon, with emphasis, dignity, 
and propriety, might be of great use to him 
hereafter. The sooner the ear is formed, 
and the organs of speecli are accustomed to 
the various inllections of the voice, which the 
rehearsal of those passages demands, the 
better. I .should think too that Tliimison's 
" Seasons " might afford him ."■ome useful les- 
sons. At least they would have a tendency 
to give his mind an observing and a philo- 
sophical turn. I do not forget that he is but 
a child, but I remember thai he is a child fa- 
vored with talents superior to his year.s. We 
were much pleased with his remarks on your 
alms-giving, and doubt not but it will be 
verified with respect to the two guineas you 
sent us, wliich have made four Christian 
people h.'ippy. Ships I have none, nor have 
touched a pencil these three years ; if ever I 
take it up again, which I rather suspect I 
shall not (the employment requiring stronger 
eyes than mine,) it shall be at John's service. 
Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESq.* 

OIney, Jan. 31, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Having thanked you for 
a barrel of very fine oysters, I shouUl have 
nothing more to say, if I did not determine to 
say everything that ni.ay happen to oc'cur. 
The political world affords no very agreeable 
subjects at present, nor am I sulHciently con- 
versant with it to do justice to so magnificent 
a theme, if it did. A man that lives as I do, 
whose chief occupation at this season of the 
year, is to walk ten times in a day from the 
fire-side to his cucumber frame and back 
again, cannot show his wisdom more, if he 
has any wisdom to show, than by leaving the 
mysteries of government to the management 
of persons in point of situation and informa- 
tion, much better qualified for the business. 
Suppose not, however, tliat I am perfectly an 
unconcerned spectator, or that I take no in- 
terest at all in the affairs of the country ; far 
from it — I read the news — I see tli:it things 
go wrong in every quarter. I meet, now and 
then, with an account of some disaster that 
seems to be the indisputable progeny of 
treachery, cowardice, or a spirit of faction ; I 
recollect that in those happier days, when 
you and I could spend our evening in enume- 
rating victories and acquisitions, that seemed 
to follow each other in a continued series, 
* Private correspondence. 



tliere was some pleasure in hearing a politi- 
cian ; and a ni:in niiglit talk away upon so 
entiTlainin^ a subjoi't, williont dan;;or of bc- 
couiiiii; liresoniL' to others, or im-umni,' weari- 
ness inmself. When poor Bob White lironjjht 
nie the news of Boseawen's success ofi' tiie 
coast of I'ortuifal, how did I leap for joy ! 
When Hawke demolished Conllans, I was 
still more transpor.ed. But nothinj,' eoukl 
express my rapture, when Wolfe made tlie 
conquest of Quebec. I am not, therefore, I 
suppose, destitute of true patriotism : but 
the course of public events lias, of late, af- 
forded me no opportunity to exert it. I can- 
not rejoice, because I see no rea-on ; and I 
will not murmur, because for tliat I can tind 
no i;ood one. And let me add, he that has 
seen both sides of fifty, has lived to little 
purpose, if he has not other views of tlie 
world than he had when he was much 
younger. He finds, if he retlecis at all, that it 
will be to the end what it has been from the 
beginninjf, a shifiing, uncertain, lluctuating 
Scene : that nations, as well as individuals, 
have their seasons of infancy, youth, and age. 
If he be an Enirlishman, he will observe that 
ours, in particular, is aflected with every 
.symptom of decay, and is already sunk into 
a state of decrepitude. I am reading Mrs. ' 
Ulacaulay's History. I am not quite such a 
superannuated simpleton as to suppose that 
mankind were wiser or much better when I 
was young than they are now. But I may 
venture to assert, witliout e.xposing myself 
to the charge of dotage, that the men whose 
integrity, courage, and wisdom, broke tlie 
hands of tyranny, established our constitu- 
tion upon its true basis, and gave a people 
overwhelmed wiih the scorn of all countries 
an opporluiiity to emerge into a state of the 
highest respect and estimation, make a better 
figure in history than any of the present day 
are likely to do, when their petty harangues 
arc forgotten, and nothing sluill survive but 
the remembrance of the views and motives 
with which they made them. 

My dear friend, I have written at random, 
in every sense, neither knowing what senti- 
ments I should broach when I began, nor 
whether they would accord with yours. E.x- 
cuse a rustic, if he errs on such a subject, 
and believe me sincerely yours, 

w. c. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIney, Feb. 2, nei 
5Iy dear Friend, — Though I value your 
correspondence highly on its own account, I 
certainly value it the more in consideration 
of the many dilliculties under which you 
carry it on. H;iving so many other engage- 
ments, and engagements .so much more wor- 
thy your attention, I ought to esteem it, as 



I do, a singular proof of your friendship that 
you so often make an opportunity to bestow 
a letter ujion me ; and this not only l>ecau.se 
mine, which 1 write in a state of mind not 
very favorable to religious contemplations, 
are never worth your reading, but especially 
because while you consult my gratilicalioii, 
and endeavor to amuse my melancholy, your 
thoughts are forced out of the only chaiiiiel 
in which they delight to How, and constrained 
into another so ditlerent, and so little inter- 
esting to a mind like yours, that, but for me, 
and for my sake, they would perhaps never 
visit it. Though I should be glad therefore 
to hear from you every week, 1 do not com- 
plain tliat I enjoy that privelege but once in 
a forlnight, but am rather happy to be in- 
dulged in it so often. 

I thank you for the jog you gave John- 
son's elbow ;• communicated from him fo the 
printer, it has produced me two more sheets, 
and two more will bring the business, I sup- 
pose, to a conclusion. 1 sometimes feel such 
a perfect indifference, with respect to the 
public opiuion of my book, that I am ready 
to Hatter myself no censure of reviewers or 
other critical readers would occasion me the 
smallest disturbance. But not feeling my- 
self constantly possessed of this desirable 
apathy, I am sometimes apt to suspect that 
it is not altogether sincere, or at least that I 
may lose it just at the moment when I may 
hajipen most to want it. Be it, however, 
as it may, I am still persuaded that it is 
not in their power to mortify me much. 
1 have intended well, and performed to the 
best of my ability: so far was right, and this 
is a boast of which they cannot rob me. If 
they condemn my poetry, I must even say 
with Cervantes, '-Let them do better if they 
can 1" — if my doctrine, they judge that wliicii 
they do not understand; I shall except to 
the jurisdiction of the court, and plead Voruni 
noil judice. Even Horace conkl say he 
should neither be the plumper for the praise 
nor the leaner for the commendation of his 
readers ; and it will prove me wanting to 
myself indeed, if, supported by so many siib- 
limer considerations than he was master of, I 
cannot sit loo.se to poiiularity, which, like the 
wind, bloweth where it listeth, and is et|ually 
out of our command. If you, and two or 
three more such as you are, say, well done, 
it ought to give me more contentment than 
if I could earn ChurchiU's laurels, and by the 
.same means. 

I wrote to Lord Dartmouth to appri.se him 
of my intended present, and have received :'. 
most affectionate and obliging answer. 

1 am rather pleased that you have adopted 

other sentiments respecting our intended 

present to the critical Doctor.* I allow him 

to be a man. of gigantic talents and most 

* Ht. JuhosOD. 



124 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



profound learning, nor have I any doubts 
about the universality of his knowledge : but, 
hv wliat I have seen of his animadversions 
on tlie poets, I feel myself much disposed to 
question, in many instances, eitlier his can- 
dor or his taste. He finds fault too often, 
like a man that, having sought it very indus- 
ti-iously, is at last obliged to stick it on a 
pin's point, and look at it througli a micro- 
scope ; and, I am sure, I could easily convict 
him of having denied many beauties and 
overlooked more. Whether his judgment 
be in itself defective, or whether it be warped 
by collateral considerations, a writer upon 
such subjects as I have chosen would proba- 
bly find but little mercy at his hands. 

No winter, since we knew Olney, has kept 
us more confined than the present. We 
have f ot more than three times escaped into 
the fields since last autumn. M;in, a change- 
able creature in himself, seems to subsist 
best in a state of variety, as his proper ele- 
ment: — a melancholy man, at least, is apt 
to grov\' sadly weary of the same walks 
and the same pales, and to find that the 
same scene will suggest the same thoughts 
perpetually. 

Though I have spoken of the utility of 

changes, we neither feel nor wish for any in 

our i'riendships, and consequently stand just 

where we did with respect to your whole self 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Feb. 0, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I thank you for Mr. 
Lowth's verses. They are so good that, had 
I been present when he .spoke them, I f hould 
have trembled for the boy, lest the man 
should disappoint the hopes such early genius 
had given birth to. It is not common to see 
so lively a fancy so correctly managed, and 
so free from irregular exuberance, at so un- 
exi)erienced an age, fruitful, yet not wan- 
ton, and gay without being bawdry. When 
sehool-boys write verse, if they have any (ire 
at all, it generally spends itself in flashes and 
transient sparks, whicli may indeed suggest 
an expectation of something better hereafter, 
but deserve not to be much commended for 
any real merit of their own. Their wit is 
generally forced and false, and their sublim- 
ity, if they affect any, bombast. I remember 
well when it was thus with me, and when a 
turgid, noisy, unmeaning speech in a tragedy, 
which I sliould now laugh at. aflbrded me 
r.iplures, and tilled me with wonder. It is 
not in general till reading and observation 
have settled the taste that we can give the 
prize to the best writing in preference to the 
worst. ■ Much less are we able to execute what 
is good ourselves. But Lowtli seems to have 



stepped into excellence at once, and to have 
gained by intuition what we little folks are 
happy if we can learn at last, after much la- 
bor of our own and instruction of others. 
The compliments he pays to the memory of 
King Ciiarles he would probably now retract, 
though he be a bishop, and his majesty's 
zeal for episcopacy was one of the causes of 
his ruin. An age or two must pass before 
some characters can be properly understood. 
The spirit of party employs itself in veiling 
their faults and ascribing to them virtues 
which they never possessed. See Charles's 
face drawn by Clarendon, and it is a hand- 
some portrait. See it more justly exhibit- 
ed by Mrs. Maeanlay, and it is deformed to 
a degree that shocks us. Every feature 
expresses cunning, employing itself in the 
maintaining of tyranny ; and dissimulation, 
pretending itself an advocate for truth. 

Jfy letters have already apju'ized you of 
that close and intimate connexion that took 
place between the lady you visited in Queen 
Anne's street and us.* Nothing could be 
more promising, though sudden in the com- 
mencement. She treated us with as much 
unreservedness of communication as if we 
had been born in the same house and edu- 
cated together. At her departure, slu^ her- 
self proposed a correspondence, and because 
writing does not agree with your mother, 
proposed a correspondence witli me. By her 
own desire, I wrote to her under the assumed 
relation of brother, and she to me as my 
sister. 

I thank you for the search you have made 
after ray intended motto, but I no longer 
need it. 

Our love is always with yourself and 
family. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Lady Au.sten returned in the following 
summer to the house of her sister, situated 
on the brow of a hill, the foot of which is 
washed by the river Ouse, as it Hows between 
Clifton and Olney. Her benevolent ingenuity 
was exerted to guard flu' spirit of Cowper 
from sinking again into that hypochondriacal 
dejection to which, even in her company, he 
still sometimes discovered an alarming ten- 
dency. To promote his occupation and 
amusement, she furnished him with a small 
portable printing press, and he gratefully sent 
Iier tlie following ver.ses printed by himself, 
and enclosed in a billet that alludes to the 
occasion on which they were composed — ^a 
very unseasonable flood, that interrupted the 
communication between Clifton and Olney. 

To watch the storms, and hear tlie sky 
Give all our almanacks the lie; 
To shake witli cold and see the plains 
In autumn drown'd with wintry rams; 

* Lady Austen. 



(LIFE OF COWPER. 



125 



'Tis thus I sponil my momonts hero. 
And wish mysell' a Duk-li mynlicer; 
I then shoul(i liavc no need of wit; 
For lumjiish HoilandiT unjil! 
Nor should I then repine at mud, 
Or ineadtjws dehi;;ed with a llnod : 
Hut in a hot; live well content, 
Antl liiid it just my element; 
Sliould he a clod, ami not a man ; 
Nor wish in ^ain ii)r SistiT Ann, 
With cliarltalili' aiil to drag 
My mind out of its proper quag; 
Should have the genius of a boor, 
And no ambition to have more. 

i\!y (le;ir Sister, — You see my beginning — 
I do not know but in time, 1 miiy proceed 
even to tlie printing of baltpenny ballad.s — 
excuse tlie coarseness of my paper — 1 wasted 
such a (juantity bcl'ore I could accomplish 
anything legible that 1 could not atl'ord finer. 
1 inlend to employ an ingenious mechanic of 
the town to make me a longer case : for yon 
may observe that my lines turn up their tails 
like Dutch mastitis, so difficult do I lind it to 
make tlie two halves exactly coincide with 
each otiier. 

We wait with impatience for the departure | 
of this unseasonable Hood. We think of yon, i 
and talk of you, but we can do no more till \ 
the waters shall subside, I do not think our i 
correspondence should drop becau.se we are I 
within a mile of each other. It is but an 
imaginary approximation, (he Hood having in 
reality as efieetually parled us as if the Brit- 
ish channel rolled between us. 

Vours, my dear sister, with Mrs. Unwin's 
best love, W. C. 

.\ tlooil that precluded him from the con- 
versation of such an enlivening friend was to 
Cowper a serious evil ; but he was happily 
relieved from the apprehension of such disap- 
pointment in future, by seeing the friend so 
pleasing and so useful to him very comfort- 
ably setlled as his next-door neighbor. An 
event so agreeable to the poet was occasioned 
by circumstances of a p.iinful nature, related 
in a letter to .Mr. Unwin, which, though it 
bear.s no date of month or year, seems pro- 
perly to claim insertion in this place. 



TO TUB Ri;V. WILLI.VM UNWIN. 

My dear William, — The modest terms in 
which you express yourself on the subject of 
I.ady Austen's commendation embolden me 
to add my suffrage to hers, and to confirm it 
by assuring you that I think her just and well- 
founded in her opinion of you. The compli- 
ment indeed glances at myself: for, were you 
less than she accounts yon, I ought not to 
alFord you that place in my esteem which you 
have held .so long. Hfy own sagacity, there- 
fore, and discernment are not a little con- 
cerned i:pon the occasion, for cither you 



resemble the picture, or ] have strangely 
mistaken my man, and formed an erroneous 
judgment of his character. With respect to 
your face and ligure, indeed, there I leave (he 
ladies to determine, as being naturally best 
qualified to decide the point; but w^helher 
you are perfectly the man of sense and the 
gentleman, is a question in which I am as 
much interested as they, and which, you be- 
ing my friend, I am of course prepared to 
settle in your favor. The l;idy (whom, when 
you know her as well, you will love Iter as 
much, as we do) is, and has been, during the 
last forlnight, a part, of our I'lniily. ISelbre 
she was perfectly restored to heallli, she re- 
turned to Clifton". Soon after she came back, 
Mr. Jones had occasion to go to London. 
No sooner was he gone than the cimtmu, be- 
ing left without a garrison, was besieged as 
regularly as the night came on. Villains were 
both heard and .seen in the garden, and at the 
doors and windows. The kitchen window in 
particular was attempted, from which they 
look a complete |)ane of glass, exactly oppo- 
site to the iron by which it was fastened, but 
providentially the window had been n.ailed to 
the wood-work in in-der to keej) it close, and 
that the air might be excluded ; thus tliey were 
di.,appointed, and, being discovered i)y the 
maid, withdrew. The ladies, being worn out 
with continual watchijig and rei)ea\ed alarms, 
were at last prevaileti upon to take refuge 
with us. Men furnished with firearms were 
put into the house, and the rascals, having 
intelligence of this circumstance, beat a re- 
treat. Mr. Jones returned : JIr.s. Jones and 
Miss Green, her daughter, left us, but Lady 
Austen's spirits having been too much dis- 
turbed to be able to repose in a i>laee v\here 
she had been so much terrified, she was left 
behind. She remains with us till her lodg- 
ings at the vicarage can be made ready for 
her reception. I have now sent you what 
has occured of moment in our history since 
my last. 

I say amen with all my heart to your ob- 
servation on religious characters. Blen who 
profess themselves adepts in mathematical 
knowledge, in astronomy, or jurispru<leiiee, 
are generally as well qualified as they would 
appear. The' reason may be, that they are 
always liable to detection sliould they at- 
tempt to impose ujion mankind, and tlierefore 
take care to be what they pretend. In re- 
ligion alone a profi'ssioif is often sliidilly 
taken up and slovenly carried on, because, 
forsooth, candor and charily rei|uire us to 
.hope tlie best, and to judge favorably of our 
neighbor, and becau.se it is easy to deceive 
the ignorant, who are a great majority, upon 
this subject. Let a man attach liiniself to 
a particular party, contend furiously for what 
are properly called evangelical docirincs, and 
enlist him-elf under tlie banner of some 



126 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



popular preacher, and the business is done. 
Behold a Christian ! a saint ! a phoenix I In 
the meantime, perhaps, his heart and his 
temper, and even his conduct, are nnsaneti- 
lied ; possibly less exemplary than those of 
some avowed infidels. No matter — he can 
talk — he has the Shibboleth of the true 
elmreli — the Bible in his pocket, and a head 
well stored with notions. But the quiet, 
luinible, modest, and peaceable person, who 
is in his practice what the other is only 
in his profession, who h.ites a noise, and 
therefore makes none, who, knowing the 
snares that are in the world, keeps himself as 
much out of it as he can, and never enters it 
but when duty calls, and even then with fear 
and trembling — -is the Christian, that will al- 
ways stand highest in the estimation of those 
who bring all ch.aracters to the test of true 
wisdom, and judge of the tree by its fruit. 

You are desirous of visiting the prisoners; 
you wish to administer to their necessities, 
and to give them instruction. This task you 
will undertake, though you expect to en- 
counter many things in the performance of 
it th.at will give you p.iin. Now this I can' 
understand — you will not listen to the sensi- 
bilities that distress yourself, but to the dis- 
tresses of others. Therefore, when I meet 
with one of the specious praters .above men- 
tioned, I will send him to Stock, that by your 
diffidence he may be taught a lesson of mod- 
esty ; by your generosity, a little feeling for 
others ; and by your general conduct, in short, 
to chatter less and do more. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Oliicy, Feb. 16, 1782. 

Carraccioli says — "There is something 
very bewitching in authorship, ,and that he 
who has once written will write again." It 
may be so ; I can subscribe to the foniier 
part of his assertion from my own experience, 
having never found an amusement, among 
the many I have been obliged to liiive re- 
course to, that so well answered the purpose 
for which I used it. The quieting and com- 
posing etfect of it w.as such, and so totally 
absorbed have I sometimes been in my rhym- 
ing occupation, that neither the past nor the 
future (those themes which to rae are so fruit- 
fid in regret at other times) had any longer 
a share in my contemplation. For this 
reason, I wish, and have often wished, since 
the fit left me, that it would seize me again; 
but hitlierto I have wished it in vain. I see 
no want of subjects, but I feel a total dis- 
ability to discuss them. Whether it is thus 
with other writers or not I am ignor.mt, but 
I should .suppose my case in this respect a 
little peculiar. The voluminous writers, at 



least, whose vein of fancy seems always to 
have been rich in proportion to their oc- 
casions, cannot have been so unlike and so 
unequal to themselves. There is this dill'er- 
ence between my poetship and the generality 
of Ihrm — -they have been ignorant how much 
they have stood indebted to an Almighty 
power for the exercise of those talents they 
have supposed their own. Whereas I know, 
and know most perfectly, and am perhaps to be 
taught it to the last, that my power to thiidi, 
whatever it be, and consequently my power 
to compose, is, as much as my outward form, 
afforded to me by the same liand that makes 
me in any respect to differ from a brute. 
This lesson, if not constantly iticuleated, 
might perhaps be forgotten, or at least too 
slightly remembered. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Fob. 24, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — If I should receive a 
letter from you to-morrow, you must still 
rememlicr, that I am not in your debt, hav- 
ing paid you by anticipation. Knowing that 
you take an interest in my publication, and 
that you h.ave waited for it with some im- 
patience, I write to inform you, that, if it is 
possible for a printer to be punctual, I shall 
come forth on the first of March. I have 
ordered two copies to Stock ; one for Mr. 
John Unwin. It is possible, after all, that 
my book may come forth without a preface. 
Mr. Newton has written (he could indeed 
write no other) a very sensible, as well as a 
very friendly one : and it is printed. But the 
bookseller, who knows him well, and es- 
teems him highly, is anxjous to have it can- 
celled, and, with my consent first obtained, 
has oll'cred to negotiate that matter with the 
author. He judges, that, though it would 
servo to recommend the volume to the re- 
ligious, it would disgust the prof;ine, and 
that there is in reality no need of a preface 
at all. I have found Johnson n very judi- 
cious man on other occasions, and am there- 
fore willing that he should determine for me 
upon this. 

There are but few persons to whom I pro- 
sent my book. The Lord Chancellor is one. 
I enclose in a packet I send by this post to 
Johnson a letter to his lordship, which will 
accompany the volume ; and to you I en- 
close a copy of it, because I know you will 
have a friendly curiosity to see it. An au- 
thor is an important character. Whatever 
his merits may be, the mere circumstance of 
autlior.ship waiTants his approach to persons 
whom otherwise perhaps he could hardly ad- 
dress without being deemed im|)ertinent. Ho 
can do me no good. If I should hajjpen to 
do him a little, I shall be a greater man than 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



127 



he. I have ordered a copy likewise to Mr. 
Smitli. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO LOUD THURLOW. 

(enclosed to MR. UNWIN.) 

OIney, Bucks, Feb. 23, 17*2. 

My Lord, — I malic no apolojjy for what I 
account a duty. I .should offend a;,'ainst the 
cordiality of our fornier friciuisliij) sliould I 
send a volume into the world, and forget 
liow much I am hound to p.iy my particular 
respects to your lordsliip upon that occasion. 
When we parted, you little thoujfht of hear- 
ing from me again ; and I as little that I 
aliould live to write to you, still lcs.s that I 
should wait on you in the capacity of an 
autlior. 

Among the pieces I have the honor to 
send there is one for which I must entreat 
your pardon ; I mean tliat of which your 
lordsliip is the suhject. The hcst e.\cuse I 
can m.ike is, that it flowed almost spontane- 
ously from the alVectionatc remembrance of 
a connexion that did me so much honor. 

As to tlie rest, their merits, if they have 
any, and their defects, which are probably 
more than I am aware of, will neither of 
them escape your notice. But where tjicrc 
is much discernment, there is generally much 
candor ; and I commit myself into your lord- 
ship's hands with tlie less an.\iety, being well 
acquainted with yours. 

If niy lir.st visit, after so long an interval, 
should prove neither a troublesome nor a dull 
one, but especially, if not altogether an un- 
prolitable one, omne lulil putictiim. 

I have the honor to be, though with very 
different impressions of some subjects, yet 
with the same sentiments of afi'ection and 
esteem as ever, your lordship's faithful and 
most obedient, humble servant, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Otnoy, Feb , 1782. 
My dear Friend, — I enclose Johnson's let- 
ter upon the subject of the Preface, and 
uould send you my reply to it, if I had kept 
a copy. This however was the purport of 

it. J'hat Mr. , whom I described as you 

described him to ine, had made a similar ob- 
jection, but that, being willing to hope that 
two or three pages of sensible matter, well 
e.\pres.sed, might po.ssibly go down, though 
of a religious cast, I was resolved to believe 
him mistaken, and to pay no regard to it. 
That hi.f judgment, however, who by his 
occupation is bound to understand what will 
l)rom()te the sale of a book, and what will 
hinder it, seemed to deserve more attention. 
That therefore, according to his own offer, 



written on a small slip of paper now lost, I 
should be obliged to him if he would state 
his dillieulties to you; adding, 1 need not 
inform him, who is so well accjuainted with 
you, that he would find you easy to be per- 
suaded to sacrifice, if necessary, what you 
had written, to the interests of the book. I 
j find he has had an interview with you upon 
the occasion, and your behavior in it has 
1 verified my prediction. What course he de- 
j terniines upon, I do not know, nor am I at 
all anxious about it. It is impossible for 
me, however, to be so insensible of your 
j kindness in writing the Preface, as not to be 
desirous of defving all contingencies, rather 
I than entertain a wish to suppri\ss it. It will 
I do me honor in the eyes of those whose good 
j opinion is indeed an honor; and if it hurts 
j me in the estimation of others, I cannot help 
it ; the fault is neither yours, nor mine, but 
theirs. If a minister's is a more s|)lendid 
j character than a poet's, and I think nobody 
that under.stands their value can hesitate in 
deciding that question, then undoubtedly the 
advantage of having our names united in the 
same volume is all on my side. 

We thank you for the Fast-sermon. I had 

not read two pages before I exclaimed — the 

man has read Expostulation. But tliough 

j there is a strong resemblance between the 

I two pieces, in point of matter, and some- 

I times the very same expressions are to be 

I met with, yet I soon recollected that, on 

] such a theme, a striking coincidence of both 

might happen without a wonder. I doubt 

not that it is the production of an honest 

ra in, it carries with it an air of sincerity and 

zeal that is not easily counterfeited. But, 

though I can see no reason why kings 

should not hear sometimes of their faults 

as well as other men, I think I see many 

good ones why they should not be reproved 

so publicly. It can hardly be done with that 

j respect which is due to their oHicc, on the 

1 part of the author, or without encouraging a 

spirit of unmannerly censure in his readers. 

I His majesty too, perhaps, might answer — my 

' own personal feelings, and offences. I am 

ready to confess, but were I to follow your 

advice, and cashier the profligate from inv 

, service, where must I seek men of faith and 

i true Christian piety, qualified by nature and 

by education to succeed them ? Bu.siness 

must be done, men of business alone can do 

it, and good men are rarely found, under that 

description. When Nathan reproved D.ivid, 

he did not employ a herald, or accompany 

his charge with the sound of the trumpet; 

nor ctin I think the writer of this .scnnoi^ 

quite justifiable in exposing the king's faults 

in the sight of the people. 

Your answer respecting .il^tna is quite sat- 
isfactory, and gives me much pleasure. I 
hate altering, though I never refuse the task 



128 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



when propriety seems to enjoin it ; and an 
alteration in tliis instance, if I am not mis- 
taken, would have been singularly difficult. 
Indeed, when a piece has been finished two 
or tin-ee years, and an antlior finds occasion 
to amend or make an addition to it, it is not 
easy to fall upon the very vein from which 
he drew his ideas in the first instance, but 
either a diflerent turn of thought or expres- 
sion will betraj' the patch, and convince a 
reader of discernment that it has been cob- 
bled and varnished. 

Our love to you both, and to the young 
Enplirosyne ; the old lady of that name be- 
ing long since dead, if she pleases, she .shall 
fill her vacant office, and be my muse here- 
after. 

Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 6, 1763. 
Is peace the nearer because our patriots 
have resolved that it is desirable 1 Will the 
victory they have gained in the House of 
Commons be attended with any other? Do 
they e.xpect the same success on other occa- 
sions, and, having once gained a majority, are 
they to be the majority tbrever?* These are 
the questions we agitate by the fire-side in 
an evening, without being able to come to 
anv certain conclusion, partly, I suppose, be- 
cause the subject is in itself uncertain, and 
partly, because we are not furnished with 
the means of understanding it. I find the 
politics of times past more intelligible than 
those of the present. Time has tin-own light 
upon what was obscure, and decided what 
was ambiguous. The characters of great 
men, which are always mysterious while 
tliey live, are ascertained by the faithful his- 
torian, and sooner or later receive the wages 
of f.ime or infamy, according to their true 
deserts. How have I seen sensible and 
learned men burn incense to the memory of 
Oliver Cromwell, ascribing to him, as the 
greatest hero in the world, the dignity of 
the British empire, during the interregnum. 
A century passed before that idol, which 
seemed to be of gold, was proved to be a 
wooden one. The fallacy, however, was at 
length detected, and the honor of that detec- 
tion has fiillen to the share of a woman. I 
do not know whether you hiive read Blrs. 
JIacaulay's history of that jieriod. She has 
handled him more roughly that the Scots did 
at the battle of Dunbar. He would have 
thought it little worth his while to h.ave 
Jjroken through all obligations divine and 

♦ The nation was growinR weary of the American war, 
especiaily since tlie surrender of Lord Cornwaliis's army 
at York Town, and the previous capture <if General Bur- 
Kuync's at Saratoga. The ministry at this time were fre- 
quently outvoted, and Lord Norttrs administration was 
ultimately dissolved. 



human, to have wept crocodile's tears, and 
wrapped himself up in the obscurity of 
speeches that nobody could understand, 
could he have foreseen that, in the ensuing 
century, a lady's scissors would clip his lau- 
rels close, and expose his naked villainy to 
the scorn of all posterity. This however 
has been accomplished, and so cfi'ectually, 
that I suppose it is not in the power of the 
most artificial management to make them 
grow again. Even the sagacious of man- 
kind are blind, when Providence leaves them 
to bo deluded: so blind, that a tyrant shall 
be mistaken for a true patriot : true patriots 
(such were the long Parliament) shall be ab- 
horred as tyrants, and almost a whole nation 
shall dream that they have the full enjoy- 
ment of liberty, for years tiftor such a com- 
plete knave as Oliver shall have stolen it 
completely from them. I am indebted for 
all this show of historical knowledge to Mr. 
Bull, who has lent me five volumes of the 
work I mention. I was willing to display 
it while I have it; in a twelvemonth's time, 
I shall remember almost nothing of the 
matter. W. C. 

It has been the lot of Cromwell to be 
praised too httle or too much. Of his politi- 
cal delinquencies, and gross hypocrisy, there 
can be only one opinion. But tho.'^e who 
are conversant with that period well know 
how the genius of Mazarine, the minister of 
Louis XIII., was awed by the decision and 
boldness of Cromwelfs character : that Spain 
and Holland experienced a signal humilia- 
tion, and that the victories of Admiral Blake 
at th.at crisis are among the most brilliant 
records of our naval fame. It was in allu- 
sion to these triumphs that Waller remarks, 
in his celebrated panegyric on the Lord Pro- 
tector, 

■' The seas our own, and now all nations greet, 
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet. 
Your power extends as far as winds can blow, 
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go."* 

We add the following anecdote recorded of 
Waller, though it is probably familiar to 
many of our readers. On Charles's resto- 
ration the poet presented that prince with a 
congratulatory copy of verses, when the king 
shortly afterwards observed, " You wrote 
better verses on Cromwell ;" to which Wal- 
ler replied, " Please your majesty, we poets 
;d ways succeed better in fiction than in trnth.'' 

TO THE REV. WM. UNWIiV. 

Olney, March 7, 1782. 
My dear Friend, — We have great pleasure 
in the contemplation of your northern jour- 
ney, as it promises us a sight of you and 

* Waller's Panegyric to my Lord Protector, 1(154. 



LIFE OF COVVPKR. 



129 



yours by the way, and are only sorry Miss 
SluitloH'ortli c iiinot. ha of lliy p.irty. A lint' 
toasc-i-ruiiii the lumr wlieiiwe may expect you, 
by tlio next precilin^' post, will be weK-omc. 

Il is not miieli tor my aiivantaife that the 
prinler del.iys so long to ifr.itil'y your ex- 
pL'ctation. It is a state of mind th:it is apl 
to tire and disenneert us; and there are bnl 
few pleasure-i that make ns amends for the 
p.iin of repeated disappointment. 1 lake it 
for granted you liave no; received the vol- 
ume, not having received it myself, nor in- 
deed heard from Johnson, since he fixed the 
lirst of the nnnith for its publication. 

VVnat a medley are our piddie prints ! Half 
the pige lilled willi the ruin of the country, 
and the other half lilled willi the vices and 
pleasures of it — here is an island taken, and 
there a new comedy — here an empire lost, 
and there an Italian opera, or a lord's rout 
on a Sund ly ! 

" May it please your lord-ihip ! I am an 
Englisinn wi, and must stand or fall with the 
nation. Religion, its true pdlidium, lias 
been stolen away: and it is crumbling into 
dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great 
especially, and of their sins esjiecially the 
violation of the sabbath, because it is natu- 
rally productive of all the rest. If you wish 
well to our arms, and would be glad to see 
the kingdom emerging from her ruins, pay 
more respect to an ordinance that deserves 
the deepest ! I do not say. pardon this short 
remoustrance! The concern I feel for my 
eouiilry, and the interest I have in its pros- 
perity, give me a right to make it, I am,&,e." 

Tlui-i one might write to his lordship, and 
(I suppose) might be as profitably employed 
in whistling the tune of an old ballad. 

I have no copy of the Pref.icc, nor do 1 
know at present how Johnson .and iMr. New- 
ton have settled it. In the matter of it there 
was noMiing offensively peculiar. 15ut it 
was Ihought too jiious. 

Vours, my dear friend, W. C. 

^is impossible to read this passage with- 
out very piinful emotion*. How low must 
have been the state of religion at that period, 
when the introduetion of a Preface to the 
Poems of Cowper, by the Hev. John New- 
ton, was suilicieiit to endanger their popu- 
larity. We are at the same time expressly 
assured, that tiicre was nothing in the Pref- 
r.ee ofTeiisivcly peculiar ; and that the only 
cliarge alleged against it was that of its be- 
ing " too pious." VVh.at a melancholy pic- 
ture does this single fict present of the state 
of religion in those days ; and with what 
sentiments of gratitude ought we to hail the 
great mor.il revolution that has since oc- 
curred ! Witness the assemblage of so many 
Christian charities, our Bible, Missionary, 
Jewish, and Tract Societies, which, to use 



the emphatic language of Burke, " like so 
many non-conJuc.or.s, avert the impending 
wrath of lie.ivcn !'' Witness the inerea-iiig 
instances of rank ennobled by piety, and 
consecrated to its advanecmenl ! Witness 
too the entr.mcc (d' religion into our scats of 
learning, and into some of our public schools, 
thus presenting the delightful spceUicle of 
classic taste and knowledge in .alliance with 
heavenly wisdom. To lliese causes of pious 
gratitude we may add the revival of religion 
among our clergy, and generally among the 
ministers of the sanctuary, till we are con- 
strained to exclaim, ''llow beautiful upon 
the mountains are the feet of liim that bring- 
etli good tidings, that publisheth peace, that 
saitli unto Zioii, Thy God reignetli !"* Wo 
trust that we arc indulging in no vain ex- 
pectation, when we express our firm persu.a- 
sion, that the dawn of a brighter day is ar- 
rived ; and though we see, both at homo and 
on the continent of Europe, much over whicli 
piety may weep and trcinble, while idolatry 
and superstition spread their (hick veil of 
darkness over the largest portion of tlic 
globe, .still, notwithstanding all these impedi- 
ments and discouragements, we believe that 
the materials for the moral amelioration of 
mankind are all prepared ; and that nothing 
but the lire of the Eternal Spirit is wanting, 
to kindle them into liame and splendor. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIncy, Marcli 14, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — I can only rejieat what 
1 said some time since, that the world is 
grown more foolish and careless than il was 
when I had the honor of knowing it. Though 
your Preface w.is of a serious cast, it was 
yet free from everything that might with 
propriety expose it to the charge of Alethod- 
ism, being guilty of no olfensivc peculiari- 
ties, nor containing .any of those obnoxious 
doctrines at which the world is apt to bo an- 
gry, and wiiich we must give her leave to be 
angry at, because we know she cannot help it. 
It asserted nothing more than every rational 
creature must admit to be true — " tiiat divine 
and earthly things can no longer st.and in 
comp'.'':ition with each other, in the judgment 
of any man, than while he continues igno- 
rant of their respective value ; and that the 
moment the eyes are opened, the latter arc 
always cheerfully relinquished for the sake 
of the former." Now I do most certainly 
remember the time when such a [iroposition 
as this would have been at least supportable, 
and when it would not have spoiled the m.arket 
of any volume to which it liad been prefixed ; 
ergo — the times are aliercd for the worse. 

I have reason to be very much satisfied 
with my publisher — he marked such lines as 

• IvLtali Hi. 7. 

9 



130 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



did not please him, and, as often as I eould, 

I p:iid all possible respect to his animndver- 
.■•ioiis. Voii will accordingly find, at least if 
you recollect how Ihey stood in the MS., 
t'lat .sever..l passages are better for having 
undergone his cri ical notice. Indeed I know 
nut, where I could have found a bookseller 
who could have pointed out to me my de- 
fects with more discernment ; and as I find 
it is a f ishiou for modern hards to publi-h 
ihe naifles of the literati who have favored 
their works with a revisal, would myself 
most willingly have acknowledged my obli- 
gations to Jolinson, and so I told him. I 
am to thank yon likewise, and ought to have 
done it in tlie first pl.ice, for having recom- 
mended to me the suppression of some lines, 
which I am now more than ever convinced 
would at least have done me no honor. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

OIney, M.ircli 14, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — .\s servant-maids, and 
such sort of folks, account a letter good for 
nothing, unless it begins with — This comes 
hoping you are well, as I am at this present : 
so I should be chargeable with a great orais- 
.sion, were 1 not to make frequent use of the 
following grateful e.xordium— -Many thanks 
for a fine cod and oysters. Your bounty 
never arrived more seasonably. 1 had just 
been observing that, among other deplorable 
effects of the war, the scarcity of fish which 
it oee.tsioned was severely felt at Olney ; but 
your plentiftd supply immediately reconciled 
me, though not to the war, yet to my small 
share in tlie calamities it produces. 

I hope my bookseller has paid due atten- 
tion to the order I gave him to furnish you 
with my books. The composition of those 
pieces afforded me an agreeable amusement 
at intervals, for about a twelvemonth ; and I 
should be glad to devote the leisure honrs 
of anotlier twelvemonth to the same occu- 
p-ition ; at least, if my lucubrations should 
meet with a favorable acceptance. But I 
cannot write wlien I would; and whether I 
shall find readers is a ]irohlem not yet decided. 
So the Mu-e and I are parted for the present. 

I sent Lord Thurlow a volume, and the 
following letter with it, which I communicate 
because you will undoubtedly have some cu- 
rriosity to see it.f 

Yours, W. C. 

TO THE KEY. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, March If, 1782. 

My dear Friend,— Nothing has given me so 

much pleasure, since the publication of my 

•volume, as your favorable opinion of it. It 

* Private correspondence. 

t This letter has been inserted in the preceding pages. 



may possibly meet with acceptanfte from hun- 
dreds, who^^e commendation would afford me 
no other satisfaction than what 1 should find 
in the liojie that it might do them good. I 
have some neighbors in tliis place, who say 
they hke it ; doub.less I had rather they 
should than that ihey should not, but I know 
them to be persons of no more taste in poe.ry 
than skill in the mathematics; their applause, 
therefore, is a sound that has no music in it 
for me. But my vanily was not so entirely 
(luiescent when J read your friendly account 
of the manner it had affected yov. It was 
tickled, and pleased, and told me in a pretty 
loud whisper, that others, perhaps, of whose 
taste and judgment I had a high opinion, 
would approve it too. As a giver ot good 
counsel, 1 wish to please all ; as an author, I 
am perfectly inditl'erent to the judgment of 
all, except the few who are indeed judicious. 
The circumstance, however, in your letter 
which pleased me most wiis, that you wrote 
in high spirits, and, though you said much, 
suppressed more, lest you should hurt my 
delicacy : my delicacy is obliged to you, but 
you observe it is not so sr(ueamish but that, 
after it has feasted upon praise expressed, it 
can find a comfortable desr>ert in the contem- 
l>lation of praise implied. I now feel as if I 
should be glad to begin another volume, but 
from the will to the power is a step too wide 
for me to take at present, and the season of 
the year brings with it so many avocations 
into the garden, where I am my own fuc-lol inn, 
that I have little or no leisure for the quill. 
I should do myself much wrong, were I to 
omit mentioning the great complacency with 
which 1 read yoiu" narrative of Mrs, Unwin's 
smiles andteai's; persons of much sensibility 
are always persons of taste; and a taste for 
poetry depends iiub-ed upon that very article 
more than upon any oilier. If she had Ari.s- 
totle by heart, I shuuld not esteem lier judg- 
ment so highly, were she defective in point 
of feeling, as I do and must esteem it, know- 
ing her to have such feelings as Aristnllc 
could not communicate, and as half the Add- 
ers in the world are destitute of. This it is 
that makes me set so high a price upon yuuv 
mother's opinion. She is a critic by nature 
and not by rule, and has a pereep;ion of \\\vA 
is good or bad in composition that I never 
knew deceive her, insomuch that when two 
sorts of expression have pleaded equally for 
the precedence in my own esteem, and I have 
referred, as in such cases I always did, the 
decision of the point to her, I never knew her 
at a loss for a just one. 

Whether I shall receive any answer from 
his Chancellorship* or not, is at present in 
amhigun, .and will probably continue in the 
same state of ambiguity much longer. He is 
so busy a man, and at this time, if the papers 

* Lord Thurlow. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



131 



m:iv be credited, so p:ir!ieiiliirly busy, tliiit I 
am tbrcL'd to nuir.il'y iiiy-cH' willi llie ihoiij^lit, 
tliat bolli my bonk aiul my letter imiy Ije 
tiirott'ii into a eorjier, as too iiisiijnifu-ani t'ui- a 
statesinun's notice, and never tbuiid till liis 
executiir lind.-> them. This allair, however, is 
nciiher at my libitum nor his. I have sent 
liiin the truth. He tliat put it into tlie heart 
of a certain eastern uionareli to amuse liimselt', 
one sleepless night, with listeiiinjf to the rec- 
ords of his kingdom, is able to <;ive birth to 
such another occasion, and inspire his lord- 
ship with a curiosity to know what he has 
received fr<ini a friend he once lo\ed and I 
valued. If an answer come.s, howi'ver, you ' 
shall not lonjj be a stranger to the contents 
of it. 

I have read your letter to their worships, 
and inucli ajiprove cjf it. May it have the de- 
sired cfl'ccl it oiij,'ht 1 If not, still yoti have 
acted a humaiu' and becoming part, iuid the 
poor acliinij toes ami lingers of the j)risoncrs 
will not appear in judgment against you. 1 
li.ive made a flight alteration in the last sen- 
tence, which perhaps you will not distijiprove. 
Vours ever, VV. C. 

The conclusion of the preceding letter .al- 
ludes to an application made by Mr. Unwin to 
the magistratcri, for some warmer clothing for 
the prisoners in Chelmsford gaol. 

It is a gratifying rellcction, that the whole 
system of prison discipline has undergone an 
entire revision since the alwve period. This 
reformation first commenced under the great 
philanthropist Howard, who devoted his life 
to the prosecution of so benevolent an object, 
and liii.dly fell a victim to his zeal. fSubse- 
(|uently. and in oar own times, the system has 1 
been extended still further; and the names of ) 
a Gurney,a Buxton, a Iloare.and others, will j 
long be remembered with gratitude, as the 
friends and benefactors of these ontca.sts of 
society. One more effort was still wanting to 
complete this humane enterprise, viz., to en- 
deavor to eradicate the habits of vice, and to 
ijnplant the seeds of virtue. This attempt 
has been made by ilrs. Fry and her excellent 
female associates in the prison of Newgate : 
and the result, in some instances, has proved 
that no one, however depraved, is beyoiul the 
reach of mercy ; and that divine truth, con- 
veyed with zeal, and in the accents of Chris- 
tian love and kindness, seldom fiils to pene- 
trate into the heart and conscience. 

The unwillingness with which the mind 
receives the consolations of religion, when 
laborii.g under an illusion, is painfully evinced 
in the following letter: — 

TO THE KF.V. JOHN NEWTON.* 

OliH-y, Marcli ■J4, I7S». 
My dear Friend, — I w.is not uniuajuaiiited 
• Private correspoodence. 



with Mr. B 's extraordinary ease,* before 

you fivored me with bis letter and his in- 
tended dcdic.tiion to the Queen, though I am 
obligeil to you for a sight of those two curi- 
osities, which I do not recollect to have ever 
seen till you sent them. I conld. however, 
were it not a subject that would make us all 
melancholy, point out to you sonic essential 
differences between his state of mind and my 
own, wliicli would prove mine to be by far 
the most deplorable of the two. I suppose 
no man would despair, if he did not apprehend 
something singular in the circumstances of 
his own story, something that discrimiiuites 
it from that of every other man, and that in- 
duces despair as an inevitable conse(|uence. 
You may encounter bis unhappy persuasion 
with as many instances as you please of per- 
soQs w ho, like him, having renounced all hope, 
WOTe yet restored ; and may tlience infer that 
he, like them, shall meet with a season of 
restoration — but it is in vain. Every such 
individual accounts himself an exception to all 
rules, and therefore the blessed reverse that 
others have experienced affords no ground of 
comfortable expectation to liim. But, you 
will say, it is reasonable to conclude, that as 
all your predecessors in this \ale of misery 
and InuTor have found themselves delightful- 
ly disappointed at last, so will you: — 1 grant 
the reasonableness of it ; it wotdd be sinful, 
perhaps, because uncharitable, to reason oth- 
erwi.se ; but an argument, hypothetical in its 
nature, however rationally conducted, may 
lead to a false conclusion; and, in this in- 
stance, so will yours. But I forbear. For 
the cau.se above mentioned, I will say no 
more, tliough it is a subject on which I could 
write more than the iu:iil would carry. I 
must deal with you as I deal witii poor Mrs. 
Unwin, in all our disputes about it, cutting 
all controversy short by an appeal to the 
event. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLI AIM UNWIN. 

OIni-y, April I, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — I could not have found a 

* Ttie person lu-rt' alluded to is Simon Browne, n 
leiu'nt.'d iJissenliiii? minister, born iit SJiei)t(m M.illel, 
al)oat Itie year MSJ. lie liibori-il nnder a most oxlnior- 
dinary species or mental derani^'ement, which led him to 
Ijeliei'e "that <Mid hiul in it t'nulunt in;unier tiniiihiliited 
in him ttie thinkin;; sabstanee, and uttiirly divested him 
of cunscionsiiess ; iind that, allhoii(;h lie relnined the hu- 
man shalie, and the faculty of spettkin'/. in ;t inautier that 
appeared toothers rational, he had all thewliile no more 
notion of what he said tlian a parrot." His intellectual 
faculties were not in any way alfected by this sinijular 
ulieiiatinn of mind, in proof oi' which \w published many 
thiioluifical work.s, wrill4>n with irresit clearness and 
vji{ur of thought. He addresse'd a De<lication to Queen 
Caroline, in which he details the per iliiirities of his i-x- 
tnuirdinary case, but his friends prevented its jxiblicn- 
lion. tl w;ks subse<(Ueiitly inserted in No. HS of the " .\d- 
venturer." Pnrh was the ftirce of his delusion, that ho 
considered himself no Ioniser tt» be a moral airent ; he de- 
sistt'd from his ntinislerial functions, and eoidd never ho 
induced to enijiuie in any act of worship, nuldic or pri- 
vate. In this Htate he died, in the year 173-i, iiged lltty- 
Ave ycara. 



U-2 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



better trumpeter. Your zc.nl to serve the in- 
terest of my volume, together with your ex- 
tensive aequaintaiiee, qualify you peri'eetly for 
tliat most useful oltiee. Methiriks I see you 
with the lon^' tube at your mouth, proclaim- 
ing to your rminerous eonnexions my poetical 
merits, and at proper intervals levellmg it at 
Olney, and ])ourinu; into my e.ir the welcome 
sound of their api)robation. I need not en- 
courage you to proceed ; your breath will 
never fail in such a cause ; and, thus encour- 
aged, 1 myself perhaps may proceed also, and, 
when the versifying tit returns, produce anoth- 
ervoluine. Alas! we sliall never receive sucli 
commendations from him on the woolsack 
as your good friend has lavi.slied upon us. 
Whence I learn that, however imjjorlant I 
may be in my own eyes, I am very ijisignili- 
cant in his. To make me amends, howe^T, 
for this mortification, Mr. Newton tells me 
that my book is likely to nni, spread, and pros- 
per; that the grave cannot help smiling, and 
the gay are struck with the truth of it; and 
that it is likely to find its way into his Ma- 
jesty's hands, being put into a proper course 
for that purpose. Now, if the King should 
fall in love with my muse, and with you for 
her sake, such an event would make us am- 
ple amends for the Chancellor's indill'ereiice. 
and you might be the first divine that ever 
reached a mitre, from the shouldersof a poet. 
But (F believe) wi! must be content, I with 
my gain.s, if I gain anything, and you with 
the pleasure of knowing that I am a gainer. 

We laughed heartily at your answer to lit- 
tle John's question ; and yet I think you 
might h.ave given him a. direct answer — 
'■ There are various sorts of cleverness, my 
dear. — I do not know that mine lies in the 
poetical way, but I can do ten times more 
towarils the entertainment of company in the 
way of conversation than our friend at Olney. 
He can ryhme and I can rattle. If he had my 
talent, or I liad his, we should be too charm- 
ing, and the world would almost adore us." 
Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, April '-'7, 1782. 

My dear William,— A part of Lord Har- 
rington's new-raised corps have taken up 
their quarters at Olney, since you left us. 
They have the regimental music with them. 
Tlie men have beoi drawn up this morning 
upon the Market-hill, and a concert, such as 
we have not heard these many years, has 
been performed at no great distance from our 
window. Your mother and I both Ihrusl our 
heads into the c(ddest east wind that ever 
blew in April, that we might hear them to 
greater advantage. The band .acquitted them- 
selves with taste and propriety, not blair'nv^, 
like trumpeters at a fair, but producing gentle 



and eleg.ant symphony, such as charmed our 
ears and convinced us that no length of time 
can wear out a taste for liarmony, and that 
though jdays, balls, and masquerades, have 
lost all their power to please us, and we 
should find tliein not only insipid but insup- 
portable, yet sweet music is sure to find a 
corresponding faenlty in the soul, a sensi- 
bility that lives to the last, which even re- 
ligion itself does not extinguish. 

When we objected to your coming for a 
single night, it was only in the way of argu- 
ment, and in hopes to prevail on you to con- 
trive a longer abode with us. But rather 
than not see you at all, we should be glad of 
you though but for an hour. If the paths 
should be clean enough, and we are able to 
walk, (for you know we cannot ride,) we will 
endeavor to meet you in Weston-park. But 
i mention no particular hour, that 1 may not 
lay you under a supposed obligation to be 
punctual, which might be difficult :it the end 
of so long a journey. Only, if the weather 
be favorable, yon shall find us there in the 
evening. It is winter in the south, perhaps 
therefore it may be spring at least, if not 
summer, in the north ; for 1 have read that it 
is warmest in Greenland when it is coldest 
here. Be that as it may, we may hope at the 
latter end of such an April, that the first 
change of wind will improve the season. 

The curate's simile Latinized — 

Sors adversa gcrit stimulum. sed tcndit et alas : 
Pungit api similis, sed velut ista lugit. 

What a dignity there is in the Roman lan- 
guage ; and what an idea it gives us of the 
good sense and masculine mind of the peojjle 
that spoke it! The same thought whidi, 
clothed in English, seems childish and even 
foolish, assumes a difti?rent air in L.atin, and 
makes at least as good an epigram as some 
of Martial's. 

I remember your making an observation, 
when here, on the subji'ct of "parentheses," 
to which I acceded without limitation ; but a 
little attention will convince us both that they 
are not to be nniver.-sally condemned. When 
they abound, and when they are long, they 
both embarrass the sense, and are a proof that 
the writer's head is cloudy ; that he has not 
l)roperly arranged his matter, or is not well 
skilled in the graces of expression. But, as 
parenthesis is ranked by grammarians among 
the figures of rhetoric, we may suppose they 
had a reason for conferring that honor upon 
it. Accordingly we shall find that, in the u^e 
of .some of (uir finest writers, as well as in 
the hands of the ancient poets and orators, it 
has a peculiar elegance, and iin])arts a beauty 
which the period would want without it. 

'Ho.' neinus hunc, inquit, frondoso vcrticc collcm 
(Ciuis deus incertuai est) habitat deus." 

ViBG. .'En. 8. 



LIFE OP COWPKR. 



133 



In this instance, the first that occurred, it is 
gnicoCul. I liave not time to seek for more, 
nor room to iii-ert ihtnn. But your own ob- 
servation, 1 believe, will eonlirm my opinion. 
Yours ever, VV. C. 



TO THE I'.r.V. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May '27, I78J. 
My de:n- Friend, — Ratlu-r aslnimod of having 
been at all dejeeted by llie censure of the 
Critic d Reviewers, who certainly could not 
read without prejudice a book replete with 
opinions and doctrines to which tliey cannot 
subscribe, 1 have at present no little occasion 
to keep a strict ijuard upon my vanity, lest it 
should be too much Mattered by the following 
eulogiuiii. I send it to you for the reasons I 
gave, when I imparted to you some other 
anecdotes of a similar kind, while we were 
together. Our interests in tlu! success of tliis 
same volume are so closely united, that you 
mufl share with ine in the praise or blame 
tJiat attends it: and, sympathizing with me 
under the burden of injurious treatment, 
have a right to enjoy with me the cordials I 
now and then receive, as I happen to meet 
with more candid and favor.ible judges. 

A merchant, a fri(!iid of ours,* (you will 
soon g;iess him,) sent my Poems to one of 
the first iihift)so|)lier-, one of the most emi- 
nent liter.iry characters, as well as one of the 
most impor.ant in the political world, that the 
present age can boast of. Now perhaps your 
conjecturing fieulties are puzzled, and you 
begin to ask " who, where, and what is he? 
speak out, for I am all imp alienee." I will 
not say a word more: llu' lelter in which he 
returns his thanks for the present shall speak 
for liim.t 

We may now treat the critics as the arch- 
bishop of Toledo tre:ited Gil Bias, when he 
found fiuU with one of his sermons. His 
grace gave him a kick and said, '■ Begone for 
a jackairipes, and furnish yonr»elf with a 
butter taste, if you know where to find it." 

We are gl id th;it you are safe at home 
again. Could we see at one glance of the 
eye wli:it is passing every day upon all the 
roid-i in the kingdom, how many are terrified 
and hurt, how many plundered and abused, 
we sliouhl indeed liiul reason enough to be 
thuiklnl for journeys performed in safety, 
and for deliverance i'rom d:iiigers we .-ire not 
perhaps even permitted to see. When, in 
some of the high southern latitudes, and in a 
dark tempestuous night, a fi;ish of lightning 
discovered to ('aptain Cook a vessel, which j 
glanced along close by his side, and which 
but for the lightning he must have run foul | 

* Jiihn Tliiirnlon, I-lsq. 

t lltTu eViwpi-r traiisorilied thi- loUcr wriUen from 
Pa.'v>4y, hy, tlie AiutTicou ambu.<»ador, Fnuikliii, in prui»! 
uf liid buok. 



of, both the danger and the transient light 

tli.it showed it were undoubtedly designed to 
convey to him this wholesome inslrnction, 
that a pirlicular Providence .;ittended him, 
and tluit he w;is not only preserved from evds 
of which he had notice, but from many more 
of which he had mi information, or even the 
least suspicion. What unlikely contingencies 
may nevertheless take place! How improb- 
able that two ships should <l:ish against each 
other, in the midst of the v:ist Pacific Oce:ui, 
and that, steering contrary courses from parts 
of the world so immensely distant from each 
o.her, they should yet move so exactly in a 
line as to clash, fill, and gi to the holtoin, in 
a sea, where all the ships in the world might 
be so dispersed as that none should see 
another! Vet this must have happened hut 
for the remarkable interference which he has 
recorded. The same Providence indeed might 
as easily have conducted them so wide of 
each other that they should never have met 
at all, but then this lesson would have been 
lost; at le;ist, the heroic voyager would have 
encompissed the globe, without having had 
occasion to relate an incident that so naturally 
suggests it. 

I am no more delighted with the season 
than you are. The absence of the sun, which 
has graced the spring with much less of his 
presence than he vouchsafed to the winter, 
lias a very uncomfortable effect i\\ion my 
frame; I feel an invincible aversion to em- 
ployment, which I am yet constrained to fly 
to as my only remedy against something 
worse. If I do nothing I am dejected, if I do 
anything I am we:ny, and that weariness is 
bfst described by the word 1 issilude, win'ch of 
all weiu'iness in the world is the most op- 
pressive. But enough of myself and the 
wetUher. 

The blow we h:ive struck in the West In- 
dies* will, I suppose, be decisive, at least for 
the pre -ent year, and so far as that part of 
our possessions is concerned in the present 
conflict. But the new.s-writers and their cor- 
respondents disgust ine and make me sick. 
One victory, after such a long series of ad- 
verse occurrences, has filled them with self- 
conceit and impertinent boasting: and, while 
Rodney is almost accounted a .Methodist for 

* This nlliidcs lo llie ci^Iobmlcd victory ijaim'd by .Sir 
<;<'uri;(? Ilodiicy over CiuiiU du Crassc, April 1'2, 178'J. 
On Uiis omusioii, ci','lit snil of tin* line wort' captured 
Iroin th(! Frtaicli. throe roiiiulorcd at w:i, two wcro for- 
ever disabled, and llie I'rencli Admiral was taken in the 
Villc de P.iris, wliirh had l)eeii presented by tin; city of 
I'aris to liOiiis ,\V. Lord Ilot)urt Manners fell in this 
eri'^'iuienient. It was the Ihst itistiince where the attt'inpt 
was ever made of brculiin:< Mie line, a system adopti'd 
afterwards wath t;ri!:it success by Lord Nelson. Lord 
Itodney. on rcceivini: the thanks of Parliament on this 
oeca-^ion, addressed ii letter of aeknowledirinent to the 
speaker, ci>nv4'yed in the lollowint; terms. "To liillll," 
he observed, "the wishes, and execute the commands of 
my Soverei;,'!!, was my duty. To comm.ind a licet .so 
well iippointed, both in oOlcers anil men, was my t^ood 
fortune; an by their imdaunted spirit and valor, under 
Divino IVuvidoncti, ttie glory of that day wiut acquired." 



131 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ascribing his success to Providence,* men 

wlio have renounced all dependence upon 
sue!) ;i friend, without whose assistance 
Doihinir e:in be done, threaten to drive the 
Frencli out of the sea, liugli at the ISp.miards, 
sneer at ihe Dutch, and are to carry the world 
bcfoVe thcni. Our enemies are apt to bray, 
and we deride them lor it ; but we can sing 
as Iiuid as they can, in the same key : and no 
doiib:, wherever our papers go, shall be de- 
rided in our turn. An Englishman's true 
glory should be, to do his business well and 
say little about it ; but he disgraces himself 
when he putt's his prowess, as if he had fin- 
ished his task, when he has but just begun it. 
Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WaLLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, June 12, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — Every extraordinary oc- 
currence in our lives affords us an oppor.u- 
nity to learn, if we will, something more of our 
own hearts and tempers than we were before 
aware of It is easy to promise ourselves 
beforehand that our conduct shall be wise, or 
moderate, or resolute, on any given occasion. 
But when that occasion occurs, we do not 
always find it easy to make good the promise : 
such a ditt'erence there is between theory and 
practice. Perhaps this is no new remark : 
but it is not a whit the worse for being old, 
if it be true. 

Before I had published, I said to myself — 
vou and I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern our- 
selves much about what the critics may say 
of our book. But, having once .sent my wits 
for a venture, I soon became an.xious about 
the issue, and found that I could not be satis- 
fied with a warm place in my own good 
graces, unless my friends were pleased with 
me as much as I pleased myself Meeting 
with Iheir approbation, I began to feel the 
workings of ambition. It is well, said I, that 
my friends are pleased : but friends are some- 
times partial, and mine, I have reason to think, 
arc not altogetlier free from bias. Methinks 
I should like to hear a stranger or two speak 
well of me. I was presently gralificd by the 
apprcibation of the " London Magazine" and 
the " Gentleman's," particularly by that of 
the former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Fr.mk- 
lin. By the way, magazines are publications 
we have but little respect for till we ourselves 
are chronicled in them, and then they assume 
an importance in our esteem which before we 
could not allow them. But the " Monthly 
Review," the most formidable of all my 
judges, is still behind. What will that criti- 

* Lord RodlicyV dcspnlclies cninineiici-d in ItK- fotluw- 
ins: words: "It tias plinisi'd God, out olliis Divini" Pruvi- 
donce, to grant to his Miijesty'a arms," &c. Tliis w;is 
mori^ r'^ligions llinn Uie nation at tlial liniu could tolerate. 
Lord Neli-on attcrwnrds was tlie first llrilisti Admiral 
tliat adopted lliu same lanijuage. 



cal Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering 
genius shall appear before liim .' Still he 
keeps me in hoi water, and I must wait an- 
other month for his award. Alas ! when I 
wish for ;i f.ivorable sentence from that (|Har- 
ter (to confess a weakness that I should not 
confess to all,) I feel myself not a little in- 
fluenced by a teiuler regard to my reputation 
here, even among my neighbors at Olney. 
Here are watchmakers, who themselves arc 
wits, and who at present, perhaps think me 
one. Here is a carpenter, and a baker, and 
not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. 

, whose smile is fame. All tlie-e rc:.d 

the "Monthly Review,'' and all these will 
sot me down for a dunce, if those terrible 
critics should show them the exam])le. But 
oh ! wherever else 1 atn accounted dull, dear 
Mr. Griliith, let me pass for a genius at 
Olney. 

We are sorry for little William's illnes.s. 
It is, however, the privilege of inf;incy to re- 
cover almost immediately what it has lost 

by sickness. We are sorry too for i\lr. 's 

dangerous condition. But he that is well 
prepared for the great journey cannot enter 
on it too soon for himself, though his friends 
will weep at his departure. 

Yours, W. C. 

The immediate success of his first volume 
was very far from being equal to its extraor- 
dinary merit. For some time it teemed to 
be neglected by the public, although the first 
poem in the collection contains such a pow- 
erful image of its author as might be thought 
sufficient not only to e.xcite attention but to 
secure attachment : for Cowper had unde- 
signedly executed a masterly portrait of him- 
self in describing the true poet ; we allude to 
the following verses in " Tabic Talk." 

Nature, exerting an unwearied power, 
Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower; 
Spreads the I'reshvcrdure of the field, and leads 
Tlic dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads ; 
She fills proluse ten thousand little throats 
With music, modulating all their notes ; [known, 
And charms the woodland scenes and wilds un- 
Wilh artless airs and concerts of her own ; 
Bur seldom (as if I'cari'ul of expense) 
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 
Fervency, I'rcedojii, fluency oj' thought, 
Harmony strength words exquisitely sought : 
Fancy, that from the how that sp.ins the sky 
Brings colors dipt in heaven that never die ; 
A soul exalted al>ove earth a mind 
Skill'd in tlic characters that form mankind; 
And as the sun in rising Ixauty drest 
Looks from the dappled orient io the west, 
Aiid marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
Ere yet his race hegins, its glorious close — 
An eye like his to catch the distant goal — 
Or ere the whe -Is of verse begin to roll, 
Like his to shed illuminating rays 
On every scene and subject it surveys ; 
Thus grac'd the man asserts a poet's name, 
And the world cheeri'ully admits the claim. 



The concludinj^ lines mny be considered | 
as an omen of thai celebriiy whioh such a 
\\ ri.iT, ill ihe process of lime, could not fail 
lo oljtain. How just a subject of surprise 
and admiration is it, to behold an author 
suirting under such a load of disadvantages, 
and displaying on the sudden such a variety 
of excellence: For, negleca'd as it was for 
n few ve.ir-, the first volume of Cowpi^r exhib- 
its such a divcrsiiy of poeiical powers as have 
very rardy indeed been known to be united 
ill ihe sjtme individual. He is not only great 
in p.iisages of puhos and sublimity, but he 
is cquiliy admirable in wit and humor. Af- 
ter de can i.ig most copiously on sacri^d sub- 
jects, with the animation of a prophet and 
the simplicity of an aposlle, he paints the 
ludicrous characters of common life with Ihe 
comic force of a Jloliere, particul.irly in his 
poem on Conversation, and his exquisite por- 
tr.ut of a fretful iemper: a piece of moral 
painting so highly finished and so hapjiily cal- 
culated to promote good humor, that a tran- 



scr'pt of the verses cannot but interest the 

re ;der. 

Son- frrlful tc-nip.Ts wince nt every touch; 
Vou always do too little or too mu.'h : 
Vou sp^rak with life, in hop'S to entertain ; 
^'our elcvateti voice i^ocs through the brain: 
Vou I'lil at one.: into a low.T key ; 
That's wors,! llie ilrone-p p- of an hunilil; bsc ! 
The southern s:is!i ad. nits too stroti'^ a lii^ht; 
Vou risL: and drop the curtain : — now it's nitjht. 
He shakes with cold ; — you stir tlie fire and strive 
To make a blaze: — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him with ven'son and he ciioos;,"S fi^h ; 
With sole that's just the sort he would not 

wish. 
He takes what he at first profess'd to loath ; 
And in due time teeds heartily on both; 
Vet still o'er.douded witli a constant frown, 
He ilues not sw;illow liut he ijulp.; it down. 
Vour hop ■ to please hi;n vain on every plan, 
Hiinsell" should work th.it wonder if he can. 
.Alas! his ciTorls double his distress; 
He likes yours little and his own still less. 
Thus, always teazint; others always teaz'd, 
His only pleasure is — to be displeas'd. 



PART THE SECOND. 



i\[R. Bull, to whom the following poetical ] 
epistle is addressed, has already been mention- j 
ed as the ]>erson who sugge ted to Cowper 
the transhition of Madime Gnion's Hymns. 
Cowper used to say of him, tlmt be was the 
rn:i.ster of a fine imigin:ilion, or, r.ither, that 
be was not master of it. | 

TO THE nr.V. WILLIAM BULL.* 

I 
Oliiey, June '-"J, 17S3. 

l[y dear Friend, 

If rcadin;; verse be your delijht. 
'Tis mine as much or more to write ; 
Hut what we wouM so weak is man, 
Lies ot\ reaiote I'roai what we can. 
For inst;inef, at this very tiaie, 
I feel a wish hv cheerful rhyme. 
To sootlie my friend and Ii:mI 1 power, 
To cheat hiaiof an anxious hour; 
Not m-aninj 'for I must contcss, 
It were lint folly to suppress ) 
His pleasure or his jrond alone. 
Hut s(iuintin:i p irtly at my own. 
Rut thou ;li tie; sun is 11 unio'; liiijh 
r t!i' centre of yon ar.-h the sky, 
.And he had once (and w!io but hel) 
The n i:ne lor setting genius free; 
Vet whether poets oi" past days 
Viel.Ied him undeserved praise, 
And he hv no unco:naion lot 
Was l''a:iied i'or virtues he had not; 
Or wliethcr which is like enough. 
His Highness may have taken huff, 
■ Private correspondence. 



So seldoTi sought with invocation. 

Since it has been the reigning t'ashion 

To tlisregaril his inspiration 

I seem no brighter in mv wits, 

For all the ra:lian;e he emits. 

Than it' 1 s:nv through midnight vapor 

The glimm'rin; of a t'arlhing taper. 

O I'or a suecedaneuai then. 

T' accelerate a cr.ep'ng p-n, 

O lor a ready succedancu.n, 

Quo.l caput cerebrum ct cranium 

Ponden- lili'ret i xoso 

Ft morho j:i n c;iliginoso! 

"Pis here: this oval box well fill'd 

With b -st toll iceo fin dy mill'd, 

Heats all .Antieyra's jireteu'es 

To disengage the cncu.nher'd senses. 

O Nymph of Transatlantic fame, 
\Vhf're'er ttiiio- h:innt vvli;i(e'er thy name, 
Whether reposing on the side 
Of Oroonoipio's sp leious tide, 
Or list'ning with delight not s:nall 
To Ni.igara's distant .all 
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed 
The pung-'nt no.se-retreshing weed, 
Which whether pulverized it gain 
A sp 'edy p issage to the Itr tin 
Or, wliither toueh'd with fire, it rise 
In circling eddies to t!ie skies. 
Does thought more quicken and refine 
Than all the breath of all the Nine- 
Forgive the H;ird if Haril In- he. 
Who once too w:intonly made tree 
To touch with a s:itiric wipe 
That symbol of thy power, the pipe; 



So may no blight infest thy plains, 

Ami no unseasonable rains 

Antl so ni.iy s.inhn^ Peuce once more 

Visit Am -rK-a s s;ul shore ; 

Anil thou sei-ui'o iro.n all alarms 

Oi timnJ riuij .Irums anJ glitt'ring arms, 

Rove unconlined beneath the sliadv; 

Thy w.de-expaniled leaves have made; 

So may thy votaries insrease. 

And iu.ingata>n never cease. 

Jlay Newton with renew'd delights, 

Peribrm thine odorii* rous rites 

While clou. Is oi' incense hall' divine 

Inxolve thy disappearing shrine; 

Aiui so may smok.--.nlialinir Bull 

Be always lllliu'r never lull. 

w. c. 



TO THE I;EV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Oirie.v, July 10, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — Though some people 
pretend to be clever in the way of prophe.i- 
cal foree.ast, and lo liave a peculiar lalent of 
sagacity, by which they can divine the meaning 
of a providential dispeiisiition while its conse- 
quence.s are yet in embryo, I do not. There 
is at this time to be found, I suppcse, in the 
cabinet, and in boh hou-es, a gre.iter as.seni- 
blage of able men, bo:h as speakers and 
counsellors, than ever were contemporary in 
the same land. A man not accustomed to 
trace the workings of Providence, as record- 
ed ill Scrip. ure, and that has given no atten- 
tion to this particular subject, while employed 
in the study of |)rofine history, would as.sert 
boldly, that it is a token for good, that mncli 
may be e.xpected from them, and that the 
country, though heavily afHic:ed, is not yet 
to be despaired of, distinguished as she is by 
so many characters of the highest class. Thus 
he would say, and I do not deny that the 
event might justify his skill in prognostics. 
God works by means: and, in a case of gre;it 
national perplexity and distress, wisdom and 
political ability seem to be the only natural 
means of duliver.ince. Jiut a mind more re- 
ligiously inclined, and perhaps a Utile tinc- 
tured with melancholy, might with equal prol)- 
ability of success hazard a conjecture di- 
rectly opposite. Alas 1 what is the wisdom 
of man, especially when he trusts in it as the 
only god of his conhdence I When I con- 
sider the general contempt (hat is poured 
upon all things sacred, the profusion, the di.s- 
sipation, the knavish cunning, of some, the 
rapacity of other-, and the inipenilenee of all, 
1 am rather inclined to fear that God, who 
honors himself by bringing human glory to 
shame, and by di appointing the expectations 
of those whose trust is in ereature.s, has sig- 
nalized the present day as a day of much hu- 
man suthcicncy and .strength, has brought 
together from all quiirters of the land the 
most illustrious men to be fmind in it, only 
that he may prove the vanity of idols, and 



that, when a great empire is falling, and he 
has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it, 
the inhabitants, be they weak or strong, wise 
or foolish, must fall wiili it. I am rather con- 
tirnied in this per uasion by observing that 
the.r,e luniiiiarics of the state h;id lu) sooner 
fixed themselves in the i)olitical heaven, than 
the fall of the brightest of them shook all 
the rest. The arch of their power was no 
sooner struck than the key-stone sbjipcd out 
of its place, those that were clo?esi in con- 
nexion with it followed, and the whole build- 
ing, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. 
If a man should hold this l.inguage, who 
could convict him of absurdity '. '1 lie Mar- 
quis of Rockingham Is minister — all the world 
rejoices, an.ieipating sncecss in war and a 
glorious peace. The Marquis of Rocking- 
ham is dead — all the world is atliicted, and 
relapses into its former despondence. What 
does this |)rove, but that the Marquis was 
their Almighty, and that, now he is gone, they 
know no other J But let us wail a li.tle, 
they will tind another. Perhaps the Dnke of 

Por.land, or perhaps the unpopular , 

whom they now represent as a devil, may ob- 
tain that honor. Thus God is forgot, and 
when he is, his judgments are generally bis 
remembrancers. 

How sh .11 I comfort you upon the subject 
of your present distress? Pardon me that I 
find myself obliged to smile at it, bccau.se, 
who but yourself would be distressed upon 
such an occ.ision' Vou have behaved po- 
litely, and, like a gentleman, you have hos- 
pitably otfered your bouse to a stranger, who 
could not. in your neighborhood at least, have 
been conifonably accoininodaled anywhere 
else. lie, by neither refusing nor accepting 
an ofl'er that did him too much honor, has 
disgraced himself but not you. I think for 
the future you must be more cautious of lay- 
ing yourself open to a stranger, and never 
again expose yourself to incivilities from an 
archdeacon you are not acquainted with. 

Though I did not mention it, I felt with 
you what you suft'ered by the loss of Miss 
; I was only silent because I could min- 
ister no consola;ion to you on such a subject, 
but what I knew yonr mind to be already 
stored with. Indeed, the application of com- 
fort in such cases is a nice business, and per- 
haps when best inan.aged might as well be 
let alone. I remember reading many years 
ago a long treatise on the subject of conso- 
lation, written in French, the author's name I 
forgot, but I wrote the.-e words in the mar- 
gin. Special consolation ! at least for a 
Frenchman, who is a creature the most easily 
comforted of any in the world! 

We are as happy in Lady Austen, and she 
in us, as ever — having a lively imagination, 
and being passionately desirous of consolida- 
ting all into one family (for she has taken 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



137 



her leave of London), she has just sprung a 
pi-ojt'cl which tserves al U;;isl to amuse iis and 
lo ni.iUi' us liuf^'h; il is to hire iMr. SniiiUs 
house, on the top of Clif.on-hill, which is 
l.nx'c, commodious, niul handsome, will liold 
us conveniently, and any friends who m ly 
occ:ision:dly favor us with a visit; the house 
is furnished, hnt, if it e:in be hired without 
the furniture, will let for a triHe — your sen- 
timents if yiui pleise upon thh ilem trche ! 

I send you luy list frank — our best love 
attends you individually and all toffether. I 
give von joy of a h:ippy change in the season, 
and niy»elf also. 1 have Idled four sides in 
le-s time than two would have cost nie a 
week ago; such is the etVcct of sunshine 
upon such a bntterlly as I am. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Oliicy, Aui;. 3, 178-2. 

My dear Friend,— Entertaining some hope 
that .Mr. Newton's next letter would furnish 
me will) the means of satisfying your in<)uiry 
on the subject of Dr. Johnson's opinion, 1 
have till now delayed my answer lo your 
last; but the infornia'ion is not yet come, 
Mr. Newton having intermitted a week more 
than usu.d, since liis last writing. When I 
receive it, favorable or not, it shall be com- 
municated to you; but 1 am not over-san- 
g line In my e.vpectations from that quarter. 
Very lewned and very critical heads are hard 
to pleuse. He may perhaps treat me with 
leniiv for the sake of the subject and design, 
but the coinposilion, 1 think, will hardly es- 
cipe his censure. But though all doctors 
may not be of the same mind, there is one 
doctoral le.Lst, whom I have lately discovered, 
my prcd'es.sed admirer.* He too. like John- 
son, w.is with dillicnlty per-uaded to read, 
having an aversion to all poetry, e.vcepL the 
•' .Night Thoughts," which, on a certain occa- 
sion, wlien being eonlined on board a slii|> 
he had no other employment, he got by hear;. 
He was however prevailed upon, and read me 
.sever.d times over, so that if my volume had 
sailed with him iiistcad of Dr. Young's, I 
peril ips miglit have oecnpii d that shelf in his 
memory which he then alio. ted to the Doctor. 

It is .1 sort of pir.idox, but it is true: we 
are never more in d inger than when we think 
ourselves most secure, nor in reality more 
secure than when we seem lo be most in 
danger, lioth sides of this apparent eontr.i- 
diction were lately verilied in my experience ; 
passing from the greenhouse to the bu'ii, I 
s.iw three kittens (for we h ivc so m my in 
our retinue) looking with fixed attention on 
something whidi lay on the threshold of a 
door iLiiled up. I took but little notice of 
* L).-. Franklin. 



them at first, but a loud hiss engaged mc lo 
attend more closely, Nvhen behold — a viper! 
the largest that 1 remember to have seen, 
rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and 
ejacnl.iting the aforesaid hiss at the nose Of a 
kitten, almost in contact with his lips. 1 ran 
into the hall for a hoe with a long handle, 
with which I intended to assail him, and re- 
turning in a. few seconds, missed him : he 
was gone, and I feared had escaped me. Si ill, 
however, the kitt(Mi sat w itchini; immoveably 
on the same spot. I concluded, tlicrefore, that 
sliding between the door and the threshold, 
he had found his way out of the garden into 
! the yard. I went round immediately, and 
] there found him in do e conversation with 
the old cat, whose curiosity being excited by 
[ so novel an apjiearance, inclined her to pat 
bis head repeatedly witii her fore foot, with 
I her claws however sheathed, and not in anger, 
I but in the way of philosophic iiKpiiry and ex- 
' amination. To prevent her falling a victim 
to so laudable an exercise of her talent.s, I 
interposed in a moment with the hoe, and 
jierformed upon him an act of decapitation, 
which, though not immediately mortal, proved 
so in tlic end. Had he slid into the p.issages, 
1 wliere il is dark, or had he, when in the yard, 
met with no interriipiion from the cat, and 
' secreted himself in any of the out-house-, it 
is hardly possible but that some of the fimily 
must have been bitten; he might have been 
trodden upon without being peri-eived, and 
have slipped away before the sntferer could 
have distinguished what foe had wounded 
' him. Three years ago we discovered one in 
■ the same place, which the barber slew with 
a trowel. 

Our proposed removal lo Mr. Small's was, 
J as you in ly suppose, a jest, or rather a joeo- 
serious matter. We never looked ujion it as 
entirely feasible, yet we saw in it soniethiug 
so like pr ictic.,ibility thai we did not e-ieem 
il altogether unworthy of our atteniion. . It 
! was one of those projects which people of 
! lively imaginations play with and admire for 
a few diy.s, and then break in pieces. Lady 
j Au.-.ten returned on Thursday from London, 
1 where she spent the last for:nighl, and 
whither she was called by an unexpected op- 
portunity lo dispose of the remainder of her 
lease. She has therefore no longer any con- 
nexion with the greil city, and no house but 
al Olney. Her abode is lo be at the vicarage, 
where she h is hired as much room as she 
wa:its. which she will embellish with her own 
furniture, and which she will occupy as soon 
as the minister's wife his produced ano:her 
child, which is e.xpecled to make its entry in 
October. 

Mr. Hull, a dissenting minister of New- 
port, a learned, ingenious, good-natured, pious 
friend of ours who sometimes visits us, and 
whom we visited bust week, put into my 



138 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



!i:inds three volumes of French poeiry, com- 
posed by Mad.iiiie Gnioii — .i quiet.sf, say 
you. :ii!d a t'aii:itic, 1 will have notliing io do 
Willi her. — "Pis very well, yon are weleoine 
to have notliiiii,' to do wi;h her, hut, in ilie 
nieautime, her verse is the only Freiieli vere 
1 ever read ihat I found agree.ible ; there is a 
iie.itncss ill it equal to that whieh we applaud, 
with so mueli reason, in the eomposilions of 
Prior. I have transhited several of ihein, 
and shall proeeed in my translations till I 
have filled a LilHputiaii paper-hook I happen 
to have by me, which, when (died, I shall pre- 
sent to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate ad- 
mirer; rode twenty miles to see her pieture 
ill the house of a stranger, whieh str.mger 
politely insisted on his aeeeptanee of it, and 
it nou' hangs over his chimney. It is a sink- 
ing por.rait, loo charae;eristie not to be a 
s: roug reseud)lance. and, were it encompassed 
with a glory, instead of being dressed in a 
nun's hood, might pass, for the face of an 
iingel. 

Yours, W. C. 

To this letter we annex a very lively lii!:us 
pn^'iwus from the pen of Oowper, on the sub- 
ject mentioned in ihe former part of the pre- 
ceding letter. 

TlIK COLUBRIAD. 

Close by the threshold of a door nnil'd fast, 

Three kittens sat; each kittt^n look'd aghast. 

I i)assing svvi.t anJ inattentive by, 

.■\t the tiiree kittens cast a careless eye; [therR- 

Not luUL'h concerned to know what they did 

Not dt;eminn; kittens worth a poet's care. 

But presently a loud auil I'urious hiss 

(^aus'il ulp to stop and toe.x.-fiiai ■ What's this?" 

When, io ! upon t!ic threshold in"t my view, 

Witli licacl erect and eyes ot' ii'-ry hu:::, 

,V viper lon2 as Count dc Grasse's queue. 

Kortii fro.Mi his head his Ibrked tontrue he throws 

Darting it lull against a kitten's nose; 

VV lio having never seen in tii^ld or house, 

The like sat still and silent as a mouse: 

Only projectin'; with attention due, [youV 

H.r whisker il lace, she askd him, " Who are 

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, 

IJut swi.l as lighlnin^r. ibr a lon;^' Dutch ho?: 

With which well ann'd I hastened to the spot, 

To linil the viper, hut I I'ounil him not. 

.\nil turnini; up the leaves anJ shrubs around, 

Found only — that he was not to be found. 

But still tile kittens, sitting as belbre, 

,Sat w.itchioir ('lose the botto.n ot' the door. 

' I hop- " said 1, ' tlii' villian I would kill 

Has siipt between the door and the door's sill; 

And if I make desp itcli and follow hard 

JVo doulit hut I sludl lind hi;n in the vard :"' 

!''or King en- now it should have been rehearsed, 

'I'was in the jj:irden that I Ibund him first. 

I'-v'n there 1 lound him there the I'ull-grown cat 

His head with viivrt paw diil ijcnllv pat: 

.As curious as the kittens erst had bren 

'I'o f-arn wh;it this plieno;iienon might mean. 

Fill'd with heroic ardjr at the sight. 

And fearing every ino.iient he would bite, 



And rob our household of our only cat, 
That was of ivjf; to combat with a rat ; 
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, 
-And taught him nkvkr to co.mi-; tiikrk no iviore. 

L:idy Austen bee:ime a tenant of the vi- 
carage at Olney. When Mr. Newton occu- 
pied th:it p:irsoiiage, he had opened a door in 
the garden-wall, v\ Inch admit.ed him in the 
most eominodious manner to visit the se- 
questered poet, who resided in the next 
house. Lady Austen had the advautnge of 
litis e:isy intercolir.-e : .ind so e; ptivatiiig w:is 
her society, both to C'ow])er and to Mrs. 
Unwin, that these intimate neighbors miglii 
be almost said to make one family, as it he- 
came their custom to dine always together, 
alternately in the houses of the two ladies. 

The luusieal talents of L:;dy Austen i;:- 
duced Cowper to wri.e a few songs of poe-.i- 
liar sweetness and pathos, to suit parlieiil; r 
airs th:it she was accustomed to pliy on tiie 
harpsichord. We in.sert three of these, as 
proofs that, even in his hours of soei:d 
amusement, the poet loved to dwell on ideas 
of tender devotion and pathetic solemnity. 

SONG WRITTEN tN THE SUMMER OF 1783, AT TIIE 
REaUE.ST OF LADY AUSTE.N. 

Air — " Ml/ fond shepherds of latc,^' &c. 

No longer I follow a sound ; 
No longer a dream I pursue; 

happiness! not to he ibund, 
Un;ittainable treasure adieu! 

w 

1 have souiiht thee in splendor and dress, 

In the regions of pleasure and t:iste : 

I have sought thee and seem'd to possess 

But have proved thee a vision at last. 

An hu;iible ambition and hope 

The voice ol" true wiiilom inspires ! 

'Tis sufficient i,' peace be the scope 
And the su:n;iiit oi" all our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind 
That seeks it in meekness and love; 

But rapture and bliss arc confined 
To the glorified spirits above ! 



Air—" The lass of Patties mill." 

When all within is peace, 

How nature seems to smile I 
Delights that never cease 

The live-long day beguile. 
Froai morn to dewy eve. 

With open hand she showers 
Fresh blcssintrs to deceive 

And soothe the silent hours. 

It is content of heart 

Gives Nature power to please ; 
The mind that I'ecis no smart 

F.nlivens all it sees; 
Can make a wint'rv sky 

Seem hrii;ht as smiling May, 
And eveninixs closing eye 

As peep of early day. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



139 



The vast majestic globe, 

So lienutiously urniy'J 
In Naturi's various ro!ie 

With won I'rous skill display 'd, 
Is to a iiiaurn?r's iu'iipt 

A ilreiiry wild at best; 
It flutters to dc-pirt 

And longs to be at rest. 

The folloH'aijr song, ad p ed to the in;ircli 
in Sci|)'o, (ib:aini'd loo ffiva a cclelirily not 
to merit insertion in tliis pi ce. It rehiies to 
llie lo-s of the Royal George, the flagship 
of Adniir.l Kenipeiifelt, which went down 
wi.li nine luindred persons on bo.ird, (among 
wiiom wa^ Kear-Admiral Keinpenfelt,) at 
Sjiithejid. August 29, 1782. The song was 
a favorite produe,i(jn of .h.' poet's; so iniieh 
so, that he anuised himself by ir.m-lating it 
into Latin verse. We lake the version from 
one of his subsequent letters, for the sake of 
annexing it to the original. 

SO.VG. OV THK LOSS OP THK ROYAL GEORGE. 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more I 
All sunk beneath the wave. 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eij;ht hundrcil of the brave, 
Who-se courage well was tried, 

Had mad^' the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 

A lanil-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew co.uplete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Kctnp^ntelt is ^onc; 
His last s a fiijht is fought ; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No teiiip.-st gave the shock; 
She sprang no latal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His swrird was in its shenth; 

His lingers hel I the pjn 
When Keaip'nfelt went down 

With twice lour hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that iMigland owes. 

Her tiaibers yet are sound. 

And she nitiy float again 
Full-chargid with K.nghind's thunder, 

Aiu\ plough the distant main.** 

But Kemp-nfelt is gone. 

His victories are o'er ; 
And he and his eiglit hundred 

Shall plough the wave no more. 

* Atlcmpl-s tiave recently been m;ide lo recover this 
vessel ; and some nf the i{nnt} have beo;i raised, and 
found lo be in excellent order. 



I.\ SUBMEUSI0.\E.\1 N.U'lGIl, Cl,'I GBOKGIUS, REG.VLE 
NOME.N, INDITU.VI. 

Plangimus fortes. Pcrierc fortes, 
Putriuai propt.T p;'riere httus 
Bis quatjr ccntii ii ; subito sub alto 
.'Equore mcrsi. 

Navis, innitens lateri. jacebat, 
Malus ad suaiinas trepidabat undas, 
Ciiai levis I'unts quatiens ad iaium 
Di pulit aur.i. 

Plangimus fortes. Niniis, hcu, caducam 
Fortibus vitain voluerc p ir're. 
Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos rccentes 
Neclere laurus. 

Magne. qui nomen licet incanorum, 
Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! 
At luos olim memorabit ffivum 
O.une triuaiphos. 

Non hyems illos t'uribunda mersit, 
Non mart in (dauso seopuli latentcs, 
Fissa non riaiis abics nee atrox 
Abslulit ensis. 

NavitiT sed tu:n nimiuai jocosi 
Voce fallebant Iiilari laborem, 
Et quiesoebat cahunoque dextram im- 
plevcrat herns. 

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
Huaiiflu.n ex alto spoliu.n Icvate, 
Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos 
* Redditc amicis ! 

Hi quidem (sic iliis pla '.uit'l fucre : 
Sed ratis nonduai putris ire possit 
Rursiis in bellu.n liritonu.uquc noaien 
Tolli:re ad astra. 

Let tlic reader, wlio wishes to impress on 
his mind a just idea of the varii'ty and ex- 
tent of Cowper's poetic :1 powers, contrast 
this heroic b.illad of e.vrpiisite pathos with 
his diverting history of John Gilpinl 

That admirable and highly popular piece 
of pleasantry was eoi'nposeil at llie period of 
which we are now speaking. An elegant 
and judicious writer, who has favored the 
public with three intere-ting volumes relating 
to the early poets of onr country,* conjec- 
tures, that a jioem, written by the celebr.ited 
Sir Thoniis .More in his ymith, (the merry 
jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have 
suggested to Cowper his tale of John (iilpin ; 
but this singularly amusing ballad bad a dif- 
ferent origin: and it is a very remarkable 
f let, that, full of giyety and humor as this 
favorite of the public has abund.iirly proved 
itself to be. it was re dly composed at a time 
when the spirit of the poet was very deeply 
tinged with his depressive malady. It hap- 
pened one afternoon, in those years when hi:; 
accomplished friend. Lady Ans'en, made a 
p.irt of his little evening circle, that she ob- 
served him sinking into increasing dejection. 

* See KtlisV "Specimens of the early Knijlish Poets, 
with an historical sketch of the rise and jjro^rcss of Eng- 
lish poetry and lan^ua^e.'* 



140 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



It was her custom on these occiiwons, to try 

all the rt'sources of her sjiriijhtly powers lor 
liis iijiiiieiliate rehef. Shu told him llic slory 
of Jolm Cjilpiii (wliifh h:i(l h( en ireamreil in 
her memory I'roiii her eliihlliood) to dissipate 
the gloom of the p.is ing hour. Its ctJ'eet on 
the t'.iney of Cowper li:,d llie air of eiiehant- 
inuiit : he informed her the next morning, 
ili.it lonvnlsions of huigh.er, brought on by 
his reeolhclion of her s;ory, had kept liini 
waking during the greatest part of the night, 
and that he had turned it into a ballad. — So 
aro>e the pleasant poem of John Gilpin. It 
was eagerly eopied, and, hnding its way rap- 
idly to the newspMpers, it was seized by the 
lively spirit of Hender.^on the comedian, a 
man, like the Yoriek described by Shakspeare, 
"of inlinite jest and most excellent fancy." 
By him it was selected as a pi-oper subject for 
the di-play of his own comic powers, and, by 
reciting it in his public readings, he gave un- 
conunon celebrity to the b:dlad, before the 
public suspected to what poet they were in- 
debted for the sudden burst of ludicrous 
amusement. Many readers were astonished 
when the poem made its first authentic ap- 
pearance in the second volume of Cowper. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Ohu'y, Sept. C, 17S-3. 

My dear Friend, — Yesterday, and not be- 
fore, I received your letter, dated the ll.h of 
.lune, from the hands of Jlr. Small. I should 
have been h ippy to have known him sooner; 
but whethei' being afraid of that horned hion- | 
sler, a Me'ihodisl, or whether from a principle i 
of delicacy, or deterred by a Hood, which has | 
rolled for some weeks between Clifton and i 
OIney, I know not, — he has favored me only j 
with a taste of his company, and will leave [ 
me on Saturday evening, to regret that our 
acquaintance, so lately begun, must be so 
soon suspended. He will dine with us that 
day, which I reckon a fortunate circumstance, 
as I shall have an opportunity to introduce 
him to the liveliest and most entertaining 
woman in the country.]- I have seen him 
but for Inilf an hour, yet, wilhout boasting of 
mucli di>ccrnment, 1 .see that he is polite, easy, 
cheerful, and sensible. An old man thus 
(pialitied. cannot fail lo charm the lady in ques- 
tion. As lo his religion, I leave it — 1 am 
neither his bishop nor his confessor. A man 
of his chir.ieler, and recom[nended by you, 
would be welcome here, were he a Centoo 
or a Mahometan. 

I learn from him that certain friends of 
nunc, whom I have been afr.iid to inquire 
about by letter, are alive and well. The cur- 
rent of twenty years has swept away so many 
whom I once knew, that I doubted whether 



* Privjito correspondence, 
t Liidy Austeu. 



it might be advis.able to send my love to your 
mother and your sisters. They may have 
thought my silence strange, but they have 
here ihe re.'ison of it. Assure them of my 
atl'ectionate remembrance, and that nothing 
would make me happier tluui to receive you 
all in my greenhou.^e, your own Mrs. Hill 
included. It is fronted with myrlles, and 
lined with mats, and would just hold us, for 
Mr. Small informs me your dimensions are 
much the same as usual. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Oliicy, Nov. 4, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — Y'ou are too modest; 
though your 1, 1st consisted of three sides only, 
I am cerlainly a letter in your debt. It i.s 
possible that this present writing may prove 
as short. Yet, short as it may be, it will be 
a letter, and make me creditor, and you my 
deb'.or. A letter, indeed, ought not to be 
estimated by the length of it, but by the con- 
tents, and how can the contents of any letter 
be more agreeable than your last. 

You tell me that John Gilpin made you 
laugh tears, and that the ladies at court arc 
delighted with my poems. Much good may 
they do them ! May they beccmie as wise as 
the writer wishes them, and they will be 
much happier than he! I know tliere is in 
the book that wisdom which cometh from 
above, becau.se it was from above that 1 re- 
ceived it. May they receive it tool For, 
whether they drink it out of the cistern, or 
whether it falls upon them immedi.ately from 
the clouds, as it did on me, it is all one. It 
is the water of life, which who.-oeverdrinketh 
shall thirst no more. As to the famous horse- 
man above mentioned, he and his feats are an 
inexhaustible source of merriment. At least 
we find him so, and seldom meet wiihout re- 
freshing ourselves with the recollection of 
them. You are perfectly at liberty to deal 
with them as you please. Aiicl(,re tmUiim 
anony7no, imjirimanlur ; and when printed 
send me a copy. 

I congratulate you on the discharge of your 
duly and your conscience by the pains you 
have taken for the relief of the prisoners. — 
You proceeded wisely, yet courageously, and 
deserved better success. Your labors, how- 
ever, will be remembered elsewhere, when 
you shall be forgotten licre ; and, if the poor 
folk-; at Chelmsford should never receive the 
benefit of them, you will yourself receive it 
in heaven. It is pity that men of fortune 
should be determined to acts of benclience, 
sometimes l)y popular whim or prejudicc,and 
someiimes by motives still nun-e unworlhy. 
The liberal subscription, rai.sed in behalf of 
the widows of seamen lost in the Royal 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



141 



GeorgL' w^is an instaiiec. of Uie fonner. At 
Ilmsi ;i pl.im, sliort ami sensible li'l.iT in tliu 
newsi)a(jur, coiivniced me al lUe lime tlnit it 
was ail uiiiiecessiry anil injudicious collec- 
tion: ami ilie dnliciiLy you loumi in otiecu- 
aiinj,' yoai' be.ievoleiiL iiuen.ions on tins occ;i- 
sioii, conntr.iins iiie to tliiiiK ilial, had it been 
an allairol' more noione.y ilian ineivly to I'ui'- 
niili a lew poor fellows wuli a lidle fuel to 
preserve llieir e.xireiiiuies from Uie frosi, you 
wonKI have siieeeeded beaer. iMeii really 
p.ous deliif.il 111 doinij jjood by ste.ilih. liuL 
iio.li.iig le.is than an o.->.eiit,uious display of 
bouiiiy Will satisfy mankind in yeiier..l. 1 
feel myself di.->po=ed to lurnish you with an 
ojiliortunuy to snine in secret. We do what 
we can. liin thai can is liitle. Vou have 
rich friends, are eloiiuent on all occasions, 
and know how to be pallietic on a proper one. 
'I'he wiiiier will be severely fell ai Uliiey by 
many, whose ^obl•iety, industry, and honesty, 
iveoniinended them to ehirit.ible nonce ; ami 
we think we could tell such per.-.ons as .Mr. 

, or .\lr. , half a dozen tales of di.s- 

tress. that would hiid their way into liearls as 
fettling as theirs. Vou wUl do as you .see 
{,'ood ; and we in the nieanlime shall remain 
convinced that you will do your best. Lady 
Ausien will, no doubt, do sonieihiny, for she 
has great sensib.hty audcompassion. 

Yours, my dear Uiiwin, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 

OIney, Nov. 5, 1782. 
Ctiarissimc Tauroruin — 

Uuot sunt, vl'I lucrunt, vcl posthac aliis erunt in 
annis, 

We shall rejoice to see you, and I just write 
to tell you so. Whatever else 1 want, 1 
have, at le.isl, this (pi.ility in common with 
publicans and .sinners, that 1 love tliose that 
love me, and for tli.it re.ison, you in p.iriicular. 
Voiirwarm and all'ectioiiatc nianiier demands 
it of me. And, tliouyli I consider your love 
ns growing out of a misiaken expeclation that 
you shall see me a .sjiirilual man hereafter, 1 
do not love you much the le.ss for it. I only 
regret that I did not know you intimately in 
those lia|)pier day.s, when the frame of my 
heart and mind w.is such as miglit have made 
II eoiine.\ioii wiili me not allogeiher unworiliy 
of you. 

1 add only Mrs. Unwin's remembrances, 
and that I am glad you believe me to be, 
what I truly am. 

Your faiihful and alTectionate, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ES'J.* 

Olnoy, Nov. 11, 1782. 
My dear Friend, — Your shocking pcr.twl, 
• Private cori'Mpondcnce. 



as you term it, was however a very weleomo 
one. The eliar.ieter indeed has not quite Ihe 
neatness and beauty of an engr.iving; but 
if it co.st ine some pains to decipher it. they 
were well reivarded by the minute informa- 
tion it conveyed. I am gl.id your lieal.h is 
such that you have nothing more locompl.iin 
of than m.iy be expee.ed on the down-hill 
side of life. If mine is heller than ymirs, it 
is to bo attributed, I suppose, principally to 
the constant enjoyment of country air and 
retirement; tlie most jierfect regularity in 
matters of eating, dgnkiiig, and sleeping ; and 
a happy emai;cii)ation from everything that 
wears the face of busines.s. I lead the life 1 
always wished for, and, the single eirenm- 
-stance of dependence cvcepted, (which, be- 
tween ourselves, is very contrary to my pre- 
dominant humor and dispo.sition.) have no 
want left broad enough for another wish to 
stand upon. 

Yon may not, perliaps, live to see yonr 
trees attain to the dignity of timber : I never- 
theless approve of yonr pl.inting, and the dis- 
interested spirit that prompts you to it. Few 
people plant when they are young: a thou- 
sand o'.lier less profitable amusemeiits divert 
their attention; and most people, when the 
date of youth is once expired, think it too late 
to begin. I can tell you, however, for your 
comfort and encouragement, that when a 
grove which Jlajor Cowjier had planted was 
of eighteen years' growth, it was no siinill 
ornament to his ground.s, and atVorded as 
complete a shade as could be desired. Were 
I as old as yirur mother, in whose longevity 
I rejoice, and Ihe more because I consider it 
as in some sort a pledge and assur.in<-e of 
yours, and should come to the possession of 
land worth planting, I would begin to-mor- 
row, and even without previously insisting 
upon a bond from Providence that I should 
live live years longer. 

I saw last week a gcntlem.an wlio was 
lately at Hastings. I asked him where he 
lodged. He replied at P 's. I next in- 
quired after the poor man's ■wifcj whether 
alive ordead. He answered, dead. So then, 
said I, she has scolded her last; and a sensi- 
ble old man will go down to his grave in 

pe:ice. Mr. P , to be sure, is of no great 

consequence either to you or to me; but, 
having so fair an opporlnnity to inform my- 
self about him, 1 could not neglect it. It 
gives me pleasure to learn smnewhat of a 
man 1 knew a little of so many years since, 
and for that reason merely I mention the cir- 
cumstance to you. 

I lind a single expression in your letter 
which needs correction. You say I carefully 
avoid paying yon a visit at Wargrave. Not 
so ; but connected as I happily am, and rooted 
where I am, and not having travelled liicsc 
twenty year.s — being hcsidea of an indolent 



142 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



teniptT, nnd linving ppirits that cannot bear a 
bustle — all these ;ire so many InsKjierables in 
the way. They are not however in yours; 
and if you and Mrs. Hill will make the e.\- 
perimcnt, you shall find your.-elves as wel- 
come here, both to me and lo Mrs. Unwin, as 
it is possible you can be anywhere. 

Yours atteetionately, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Nov., JTf-i. 

Jly dear Friend, — I am to thank you for a 
very line cod, wiiich came most opportunely 
to make a figure on our table, on an occa- 
sion that ma<le him singularly welcome. I 
write, and you send me a fish. This is very 
well, but not altogether what I want. I 
wish to hear from you, because the fish, 
though he serves to convince me that you 
have me still in remembrance, .says not a 
word of those that sent him ; and, with re- 
spect to your and Mrs. Hill's health, pros- 
perity, and happiness, leaves me as much in 
file dark as before. You are aware, like- 
wise, that where there is an exchange of let- 
ters it is much easier to write. But I know 
the multiplicity of your afVairs, and therefore 
perform my pait of the correspondence as 
well as I can, convinced that you would not 
omit yours, if you could help it. 

Three days since I received a note from 
old Mr. Small, which was more than civil — 
it was warm and friendly. The good vet- 
eran e.\cuses himself for not calling upon 
me, on account of the feeble state in which 
a tit of the gout had left him. He tells me 
however that he has seen Mrs. Hill, and 
your improvements at VVargrave, which will 
soon become an ornament to the place. Jlay 
Ihey, and may you both live long to enjoy 
them! I shall' be sensibly mortilied if the 
season and his gout together should deprive 
nie of the pleasure of receiving him here ; 
for he is a man much to my taste, and (juitc 
an unique in this country. 

My eyes are in general better than I re- 
member ihem to have been since I firs' opened 
them upon this sublunary stage, which is 
now a little more than half a century ago. 
We are growing old ; but this is between 
ourselves: the world knows nothing of the 
matter. Mr. Small tells me you look much 
as you did ; and as for me, being grown rather 
plump, the ladies tell me I am as young as 
ever. Yours ever, VV. C. 



TO THE EEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Oliioy, Nov. 18, 178i 

Jly dear William,— On tli-e part of the 
poor, and on our part, be pleased lo make 
* Private correspondence. 



acknowledgements, such as the occan'on calls 

for, to our beneficent friend, Mr. . I 

call liiin ours, because, having experienced 
his kindness to myself, in a former instance, 
and in the present his disinterest ed re;.diness 
to succor the distressed, my ambition will 
be sati.-^fied with no.hing less. He may de- 
pend upon the stric.est secrecy: no creature 
shall hear him mentioned, either now or 
hereafter, as the ])erson from whom we have 
received this boiaity. Bui when 1 speak of 
him, or hear him spoken of by oilicr-N which 
sometimes happens, I shall not forget what 
is due to so rare ti clu.racter. I uish, and 
your mother wishes too, that he eould some- 
times take us in his way lo : he will 

find us happy to receive a person whom we 
must needs account it an honor to know. 
We shall exercise our best discretion in the 
disposal of the money ; but in this town, 
where the gospel has been preached so nniny 
years, w'here the people have been favored 
so long with laborious ai;d conscientious 
ministers, it is not an easy thing to find 
those who make no profession of religion at 
all, and are yet proper objects of cliarit)'. 
The profane are so profane, j-o drunken, dis- 
solute, and in every resi)ect worthless, that 
to make them partakers of his bounty would 
be lo abuse it. We promise, however, ihat 
none shall touch ii, but such as are miserably 
poor, yet at the same time industrious and 
honest, two characters frequently united here, 
where the most watchful and unremiiting 
labor will hardly procure Ihem bread. We 
make none but the cheapest laces, and the 
price of them is fallen almost to nothing. 
Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and 
are hereby a.ccordingly rendered, for waiving 
your claim in behalf of your ov>n pari.-^hion- 
er.s. You are always wi.h them, and they 
are always, at least some of them, the better 
for your residence among them. Olney is a 
]iopulous place, inhahi.ed cliielly by the half- 
starved and the ragged of the e. r. h, and it is 
not possible for our small jiarty and small 
ability to extend their operations so far;.s to 
be much felt among such numbers. Accept, 
therefore, your share of their gr.itilude, and 
be convinced that, when they pray for a 
blessing upon tho.se who relieved ilieir wants, 
he that answers that prayer, and when he 
answers it, will remember his servant at 
Stock. 

I little thouglit when I was wriling the 
history of .loliu (iilpin, that he would appear 
in print — I intended to laugh, and to make 
two or three others laugh, of whom you 
were one. But now all the world laugh, at 
least if they have the same relish for a tale 
ridiculous in it.sclf, and quaintly told, as we 
have. Well, they do not always laugh so 
innocently, and at so small an expense, for, 
in a world like this, .abounding with subjects 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



143 



for s;itiro, and \vi;h satirionl wits to mark 
I hem, ;i 1 mi^'i iliit liui't< iiobo.ly lias at least 
the ijiMci- ot novelty lo rt'i'oinincnd it. Swift's 
il.rl II,' mot o WIS, Vicr It b igaldte ! a good 
Willi for a |)!iilo<o|)!K'r of Ins complexion, 
llie gro.iler pirt of wlio^e wisdom, wlicnee- 
soever it ivinie, most eei\ainly eame not from 
above. La bJira:i-lh li is no enemy in me, 
lliouirli it li IS neitlier so warm a friend nor 
'^i> alile a one m it liail in liiiii. If 1 trille, 
and merely trille, il is lieeimse 1 am rednced 
to it liy neeessity — a inelanelioly that notli- 
injr else so ell't'ctu.lly disjierses enf,'aj(es nie 
sometimes in the arduous task of beinjj mer- 
ry by force. And, Sir.ns^e as it may seein, 
the most ludicrous lines 1 ever wrote have 
be^n written in the s idde>t mood, and but 
for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never 
been written at .all. 

I hear from Mr i. Newton that some great 
persons have sj)olieu with groat approbation 
of a cerlain book — who they are, and what 
they have said, I am to be told in a future 
let.cr. The Monthly Reviewers, in the mean- 
time, have .s.atistied nie well enough. 
Your.s, my dear William, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

My dear William, — Dr. Be.ittie is a rc- 
spjctable character.* I account him a man 
of .sense, a philosopher, a scholar, a person 
of distinguished genius, and a good wriler. 
I believe him too a ("hristiaii; with a pro- 
fouud reverence for the scripture, with great 
zeal and ability to enforce the belief of it. 
boih which he exeris with the candor and 
good manners of a gentlemiri: he seems 
well entitled to that allowance; and to deny 
it him, would imiieach one's right to the ap- 
pillition. With all these good things to 
recommend him, there can be no dearth of 
su!licient reasons to read his writings. You 
f.ivored me some years since with one of his 
volumes; by which I was both pleased and 
instructed: and I beg you will send me 
the new one, when you can conveniently 
spire it, or r.ither bring it yourself, while 
the swallows are yet upou the wing: for the 
summer is going down apico. 

Vou tell me yon have been asked, if I am 
intent upon anolher volume '. I reply, not 
at pri'sent, not being convinced tli:it l have 
met with sullicieut encouragement. I ac- 
count myself happy in having pleased a few-, 
l)ut am not rich enougli to despise the many. 
I do not know what sort of market my com- 
modity has found, but, if a slack one, I must 
beware how I m ike a second attempt. My 
book idler will not be willing to incur a cer- 
tain loss; and I can as little atford it. Not- 
withstanding w hat I have said, 1 write, and 
• The wcU-known aiillior of •* Tht' MiiistrcL" 



am even now writing, for the press. I told 
you that I had translated several of the 
poems of .Mad. Line Gniou. I told you too, 
or I am mistaken, that IMi". Hull designed to 
jirint them. 'I'hat gentleman is gone to the 
si'a-side with .\rrs. Wilberl'orce, and will be 
absent si.\ weeks. i\ly intention is to sur- 
prise him at his retnrii with the add.tion of 
:is much more translation as 1 have already 
given him. This, however, is s.ill less likely 
to be a popular work than my former. Men 
that have no religion w duld despise it; and 
men that li:ive no religious ex[ierience would 
not understand it. But the strain of simple 
and unati'ected piety in the original is sweet 
beyond expression. She sings bke an angel, 
and for that very reason has found but few 
admirers. Other things 1 write too, as you 
will see on the other side, but these merely 
for my amusement.* 



TO MRS. NEWTON.f 

Oliicy, Nov. 23, 1782. 

My dear .Madam, — .Accept my thanks for 
the trouble you take in vending my poems, 
and still more for the interest you take in 
their success. My authorship is undoubt- 
edly pleased, when I- hear that they are ap- 
proved either by the great or the small ; but 
to be approved by the gre:it, as Horace ob- 
served many years ago, is fame indeed. Hav- 
ing met with encouragement, I consequently 
wish to write again ; but wishes are u very 
small part of the qualjticalioiis necessary for 
such a purpose. M.my a man, who has suc- 
ceeded tolerably well in his fir.st attempt, 
has spoiled all by the second. But it just 
occurs to me that 1 told you so once before, 
and. if my memory had served me with the 
intelligence a minute sooner, I would not 
have repeated the observation now. 

The winter sets in with great sevoritv. 
The rigor of the season, and tlie .ailvanced 
price of grain, are very threatening to the 
poor. It is well with those that can feed 
upon a promise, and wnip themselves up 
warm in the robe of salvation. A good fire- 
side and a well-spre:id table are but very in- 
dilferent substitutes for these better aceoin- 
modations ; so very indift'ereiit, that I would 
gladly exchange them both for the rags and 
the unsatisfied hunger of the poorest crea- 
ture that looks forward witJi hope to a bet- 
ter world, and weeps fears of joy in the 
midst of penury and distress. What a world 
is this! How mysteriously governed, and in 
appearance left to itselfl One man, having 
siinandered tliou.sands at a gaming-table, 
finds it convenient to travel ; gives his estate 
to somebody to manage for him ; amuses 

* Tills loiter I'Inscd with the Eimtish ami I.:itiii verses 
on 111** Ikss III" Ihf Roy;il (ioorge , ilLserteJ belore. 
t I'rivule correspondence. 



144 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



himself a few years in France and Italy ; re- 
turns, perhaps, wiser than he went, having 
iieqiiiri'd know Knige which, but for his follies, i 
he would never have acquired: aijiin makes 
a splendid figure at home, shines m the sen- 
ate, governs his country asi its minister, is 
admired for his abili;ies, and, if successful, 
adored at least by a p-irty. When he dies 
he is praised as a demi-god, and his monu- 
ment records every. hing but his vices. The 
e.xaet contrast of such a picture is to be 
found in many cottages at Olney. I have 
no need to describe them; you know the 
char.icters I mean. They love God, they 
trust him, tliey pray to liini in secret, and, 
tliougli he means to reward them openly, 
the d.iy of recompense is delayed. In the 
meantime they sutler everything that infirmi- 
ty and poveriy can intlicl. upon them. Who 
would suspect, that has not a spiritual eye 
to di.^icern it, that the fine gentleman was 
one whom his Maker had in abhorrence, and 
the wretch last-mentioned dear to him as the 
apple of his eye! Jt is no wonder that the 
world, who are not in the ,'ecret, find them- 
selves obliged, some of them, to doubt a 
Providence, and others ab-olutely to deny it, 
when almost all the real virtue there is in it 
is to be found living and dying in a state of 
neglected obscurity, and all the vices of 
others cannot exclude them from the privi- 
lege of worship and honor ! But behind the 
curtain the matter is e.xpbiined; very little, 
however, to the satisfaction of the gre.vt. 

If yon ask me why I have written thus, and 
to you especially, to whom there was no need 
to write thus, I caironly reply, ihit, having a 
letter to write, and no news to communicate, 
I picked up the first subject I found, and pur- 
sued it as far as was convenient for my 
purpose. 

iMr. Newton .and I are of one mind on the 
suLiject of patriotism. Our dispute was no 
sooner begun than it ended. It would be well, 
perhaps, if, when two disputants begin to en- 
gage, their friends would hurry each into a 
separate chaise, and order them to opposite 
points of the compass. Let one travel twenty 
miles east, the other as many west; tlien let 
them write their opinions by the post. Much 
altercation and chafing of the spirit would be 
prevented ; they would sooner come to a 
right understanding, and running away from 
each olher, would carry on the combat more 
judiciously, in exact proportion to the dis- 
tance. 

iMy love to that gentleman, if you please; 
and tell him that, like him, though I love iny 
country, I hate its follies and its sins, and had 
rather see it scourged in mercy than judi- 
cially hardened hy pros])erity. 
Yours, dear Madam, as ever, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Oliiey, Dec. 7, 1782. 

My dear Friend, — At seven o'clock this 
evening, being the seventh of December, I 
imagine 1 see y(ni in your bo.x at the colleo- 
house. No doubt the waiter, as ingenious 
and adroit as his predecessors were before 
him, raises the tea-pot to the ceiling with his 
right hand, while in his left the te;t-cup de- 
scending almost to the floor, receives a hnii)id 
stream ; limpid in its de cent, but no sooner 
has it readied its des.ination, than frothing 
and foanrngto the view, it becomes a roaring 
.syllabub. This is the nineteenth winter sii;ce 
I saw you in this situation ; and if nineteen 
more p.iss over me before I die, I shall sidl 
remember a circumstance we have often 
lauglicd at. 

How dirt'erent is the complexion of your 
evenings and mine! — yours, spent amid the 
ceaseless hum lb it proceeds from the inside of 
fifty noisy and busy periwigs; mine, by a do- 
mestic fire-side, in a retreat as silent as retire- 
ment can make it, where no noise is made but 
whai we make for our own amusement. For 
instance, here are two rustics and your hum- 
ble servant in company. One of the l.idies 
has been playing on the harp-ichord, while 1 
wii lithe oilier have been pl.iying at battledore 
and shnlllecock. A lit, le dog, in the mean- 
time, howling under the chair of the former, 
performed in the vocal way to admiration. 
This enleilaininent over, I Ix'gan my letter, 
and, having nothing more important to com- 
municate, have given you an account of it. I 
know you love dearly to be idle, when you 
can find an opportunity to be so ; but. as such 
opportunities are rare with you, I thought it 
possible that a short deserip.ion of the idle- 
ne-ss I enjoy might give you pleasure. The 
happiness we cannot call our own we yet 
seem to possess, v\'hile we sympathize with 
our friends who can. 

The pipers tell me that peace is at hand, 
and that it is at a great distance : that the 
siege of Gibralter is abandoned, and that it is 
to be still continued. It is liajipy for mc, 
that, though I love my country, I have but 
little curiosity. There was a time when 
these contradictions would have distressed 
me; but I have learned by experience that it 
is best for little people like myself to be pa- 
tient, and to wait till time aft'ords the intelli- 
gence which no speculations of theirs can 
ever furnish. 

I thank you for a fine cod with oysters, 
and hope that ere long I slndl have to thank 
you for procuring me Elliott's medicines. 
Every time I feel the least uneasiness in 
either eye, I tremble lesl, my iEsculapius be- 
ing departed, my infallible remedy should be 
lost forever. Adieu. My respects to Mrs. 
Hill. Yours, faithfully, W. C. 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



145 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWI!J. 

Olmy, Jiiii. 19, 1783. 

My dear William, — Not to retaliate, but for 
want of (ipporliinic)-, I have delayed writiii£f. 
From a sorno of most unintcmipU'd retire- 
men', we li:.ve passed at once in.o a state of 
constant entj.ip^enient, not ili:it our society is 
iiiiuli multiplied. The addition of an indi- 
vidual lias made all tins diflVreiice. L.ady 
Austen and we pass our days alternately at 
each other's chateau. In the moriiinir I walk 
with one or other of the ladies, and in the 
af.ernoon wind thread. Thus did Hercules 
and Sampson, and thus do I ; and, were both 
those heroes living,! sliould not fear to chal- 
len^'e ihem to a triaj of skill in that business, 
or doubt to beat them both. As to killing 
lions, and other anuisements of thiit kind, 
with which lliey were so delighted, I should 
be their humble servant, and beg to be ex- 
cused. 

Having no frank, I cannot send you Mr. 
's two letters, as I intended. We corre- 
sponded as long as the occasion required, and 
then ceased. Charmed with his good sense, 
politeness, and liberality to the poor, I was in- 
deed ambitious of continuing a correspond- 
ence with him, and told him so. Perhaps I 
had (lone more prudent ly had I never propo.sed 
it. but warm hearts are not famous for wis- 
dom, and mine was too warm to be very con- 
siderate on such an occasion. I have not 
heard from him since, and have long given up 
all expectation of it. I know he is too busy 
a man to have leisure for me. and I ought to 
have recollected it sooner. He found time to 
do much good, and to employ us, as his agents, 
in doing it, and that might have satisfied me. 
Though laid under the strictest injunctions of 
secrecy, both by him and by you on his be- 
half, I consider myself as under no obligation 
to conceal from ytpu the remittances he made. 
Only, in my turn, I beg leave to request se- 
crecy on your jiart, because, intimate as you 
arc with him, and highly as he values you, I 
cannot yet be sure, that the communication 
would please him, his delicacies on this sub- 
ject being as singular as his benevolence. He 
sent forty pounds, twenty at a time. Olney 
has not had such a friend as this many a day ; 
nor lias there been an instance, at any time, 
of a few families so effectually relieved, or so 
completely encouraged to the pursuit of thSit 
honest industry, by which, their debts being 
piid, and the parents and children comforta- 
bly clothed, they are now enabled to maintain 
themselves. Their labor was almost in vain 
betore ; but now it an.swtrs : it e.irns them 
bread, and all their other wants are plentiful- 
ly supplied.* 

I wish that, by Jlr. 's assistance, your 

purpose in behalf of the prisoners may be 

* The benovolcnt character here alluded to la John 
Tboruiuu, Esq. , 



effectuated. A pen so formidable as his 
might do much good, if properly directed. 
The dread of a bcdd censure is ten times 
more moving than the most eloipient persua- 
sion. They Ih it cannot feel for others are 
the persons of all the world who feel most 
sensibly for themselves. 

Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Jan. 28, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — It is reported among per- 
sons of the best intelligence at Olney — the 
barber, the schoolmaster, .and the drummer of 
a corps quartered at this place— that the bel- 
ligerent powers are at Last reconciled, the ar- 
ticles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is 
at the door.f I saw this morning, at nine 
o'clock, a group of about twelve figures, very 
closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, 
upon the same subject. The scene of con- 
sultation was a blacksmith's shed, very com- 
fortably screened from the wind, and directly 
opposed to the morning sun. Some held 
their hands behind them, some had them 
folded atM-oss their bosom, and others had 
thrust them into their breeches pockets. 
Every man's posture bespoke a ))acilic turn 
of mind ; but, the distance being too great for 
their words to reach me, nothing transpired. 
I am willing, however, to hope tliit the secret 
will not be a secret long, and that you and 
I, equally interested in the event, though not 
perhaps equally well informed, shall soon have 
an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of 
it. The jjouers of Europe ha^•e clashed with 
each other to a line purpo.se :t that the Amer- 
icans, at length declared independent, may 
keep themselves so, if they can ; and that 
what the parties, who have thought proper to 
dispute upon that point have wrested frcun 
each other in ^he cour.se of the conllict may 
be, in the issue of it, restored to tlie proper 
owner. Nations may be guilty of a conduct 
that would render an individual infamous for- 
ever; and yet carry tlieir heads high, t.alk 
of their glory, and despise their neighbors. 
Your opinions and mine, I mean our political 
ones, are not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot 
think otherwise upon this subject than I h.ave 
always done. Eiigliit'd-inore perhaps through 
the fault of her generals than her councils, 
has. in some instances, acted with a spirit of 
cruel animosity she was never chargeable with 
till now. But this is the worst that can be 
said. On the other hand, the Americ.an.s, wlio, 
if they had contented themselves with a strug- 
gle for lawful liberty, would have deserved 

* Private corre^pomlence. 

t Pri'liiiiiiiHries uf j)caee witti America end Franco 
were aliened al Ver-ailles, .Ian. '20lh. 17ri3. 

X Fraiire, Spain, aiul IloIhilKl, all ufwhum united with 
America aguiii:it Kn^Ian<l. 

10 



146 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



appliiuse, seem to me to have incurred the 
guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, 
iiy m:iking her ruin their favorite object, and 
by associating themselves with her worst en- 
emy for the accomplishment of their purpose. 
France, and of course Spain, have acted a 
treacherous, a thievish part. They have sto- 
h'li America from England: and, whether they 
are able to possess themselves of that jewel or 
not hereafter, it was doubtless what they in- 
tended. Holland appears to me in a meaner 
liirht than any of them. They quarrelh'd with 
a friend for an enemy's sake. The French 
led them by the nose, and the English have 
thrashed them for suffering it. My views of 
the contest being, and having been always, 
such, I have consequently brighter hopes for 
England than her situation some time since 
seemed to justify. She is the only injured 
party. America may perhaps call her the ag- 
gressor; but, if she were so, America has not 
only repelled the injury, but done a greater. 
As to the rest, if perfidy, treacliery, avarice, 
and ambition, can prove their cause to liave 
been a rotten one, those proofs are found 
upon them. I think, therefore, that, what- 
ever scourge may be prepared for England on 
some future day, her ruin is not yet to be 
expected. 

Acknowledge now that I am worthy of a 
place imder the shed I described, and that I 
sliould make no small figure among the quiiL 
mines of Olney. 

I wish the society you have formed may 
prosper. Your subjects will be of greater 
importance, and discussed with more sufii- 
ciency.* The earth is a grain of sand, but 
the spiritual interests of man are commensu- 
rate with the heavens. 

Yours, my dear friend, as ever, 

W. C. 

The humor of the following letter in refer- 
ence to the peace, is ingenious and amusing. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.f 

Olney, Feb. 2, 1783. 
I give you joy of the restoration of that 
sincere and firm friendship between the kings 
of England and France, that has been so long 
interrupted. It is a great pity when hearts 
so cordially united are divided by trifles. 
Thirteen pitiful colonies, which the king of 
England chose to keep, and the king of 
France to obtain, if he could, h.ave disturbed 
that harmony which would else no doubt 
have subsisted between those illustrious per- 
sonages to this moment. If the king of 
France, whose greatness of mind is only 

* This passage alludes to the formation of what was 
called "the Eclectic Society," consisting of several pious 
ministers, who statedly met for the purpose of mutual 
edification. It consisted of Newton, ticott, Cecil, Foster, 
&c. It is still in existence. 

t Private correspondence. 



equalled by that of his queen, had regarded 
them, unworthy of his notice as they were, 
with an eye of suitable inditt'erence ; or, had 
he thought it a matter deserving in any de- 
gree his princely attention, that they were in 
reality the property of his good friend the 
king of England ; or, had the latter been less 
obstinately determined to hold fast his inter- 
est in them, and could he with that civility 
and politeness in wliich monarchs are ex- 
pected to excel, have entreated his majesty 
of France to accept a bagatelle, for which he 
seemed to have conceived so strong a predi- 
lection, all this mischief had been prevented. 
But monarchs, alas ! crowned and sceptred 
as they are, are yet but men ; they fall out, 
and are reconciled, just like the meanest of 
their subjects. I cannot, however, sutticient- 
ly admire the moderation and magnanimity 
of the king of England. His dear friend on 
the other side of the Channel has not indeed 
taken actual possession of the colonies in 
question, but he has effectually wrested them 
out of the hands of their original owner, who 
nevertheless, letting fall the extinguisher of 
patience upon the flame of his resentment, 
and glowing with no other flame than that of 
the sincerest affection, embraces tlie king of 
France again, gives him Senegal and Goree 
in Africa, gives him the islands lie had taken 
from him in the West, gives him his con- 
quered territories in the East, gives him a 
flshery upon the banks of Newfoundland; 
and, as if all this were too little, merely be- 
cause he knows that Louis has a partiality 
for the king of Spain, gives to the latter an 
island in the Jlediterranean, whicli tliousands 
of English had purchased with their lives; 
and in America all that he wanted, at least 
all that he could ask. No doubt there will 
be great cordiality between this royal trio for 
the future : and, though uars may perhaps be 
kindled between their posterity some ages 
hence, the present generation siiall never be 
witnesses of such a calamity again. I ex- 
pect soon to hear that the queen of France, 
who just before this rupture happened, made 
the queen of England a present of a watch, 
has, in acknowledgment of all these acts of 
kindness, sent her also a seal wherewith to 
ratify the treaty. Surely she can do no less. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Feb. 8, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — When I consider the 
peace as the work of our ministers, and re- 
flect tliat, with more wisdom, or more spirit, 
they might perhaps have procured a better, I 
confess it does not please me.f Such ano- 

* Private correspondence. 

t Lord Shelbunie, who made this peace, was taunted 
in the House of Commons by Mr. Fox with having been 
previously averse to it, and even of having said that. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



147 



other peace would ruin us, I suppose, as ef- 
fectually as a war protracted to the cxtreinest 
inch (if our ability to hear it. I do not think 
it just that Iho Kri'iu-h slioiiM phiiuier us and 
l)c paid fordoinj; it ; nor docs it appear to nic 
Iliat there was al)solute necessity for sucli 
tanieness on our part as we discover in the 
present treaty. We give away all tliat is 
demanded, and receive notliiui,' but what was 
our own before. So far as this stain upon 
our national honor, and this diniiiuUion of 
our national properly, are a judi^nnent upon 
our iuiipiities, 1 submit, and have no doubt 
but tliat ultimately it will be found to be 
judgnieut mixed with mercy. But so fur as 
1 see it to be the eflect of French knavery 
and British despondency, I feel it as a dis- 
grace, and grumble at it as a wrong. I dis- 
like it the more, because the peacemaker has 
been so immoderately praised tor liis per- 
formance, which is, in my oiiinion, a con- 
temptible otu- enougli. Had lie made the 
French smart for their baseness, I would liave 
praised liim too ; a minister should have 
shown his wisdom by securing some points, 
at least for the benefit of his country. A 
st^hoolboy might have made concessions. 
After all jierliaps the worse consequence of 
this awkward business will be dissension in 
tlic two Houses, and dissatisfaction through- 
out the kingdom. They that love their 
country will be grieved to see her trampled 
upon ; and they that love mischief will have 
a fair opportunity of making it. Were I a 
member of the Commons, even with the 
.same religious sentiments as impress me 
now, I should think it my duty to condemn it. 

You will suppose me a politician ; but in 
truth 1 am notliing less. These are the 
thoughts that occur to me while I read the 
newspaper : and, when I have laid it d<iwn, 
1 feel myself more interested in the .success 
of my early cucumbers than in any part of 
this greiit and important subject. If I see 
them droop a little, 1 forget that we fnive 
been many years at war : that we have made 
a humiliating peace; that we are deeply in 
debt, and unable to pay. All these rellec- 
lions are absorbed at once in the anxiety 1 
feel for a plant, tho fruit of which I cannot 
eat when I have procured it. How wise, 
how consistent, how respectable a creature is 
man ! 

.Mrs. Unwin thanks Mrs. Newton for her 
kind letter, and for executing her commis- 

ichen the indeprndfnee of Jtmerica ahould be granted^ the 
sun of Britain levuld have set ; and that the retitfrnitian 
of its indrpendence drserr^ed to be stained leith the htood of 
the: minister who shotiid sijrn it. II was in iillnsioli to 
this circumstance t(mt .Mr. Fox applied to tiim Hit* fulluw- 
iii'j; ludicrous dislicti : 

You'vp drmt* a. ncible deed, ill Naturc'H spite, 
Tlio' you tliink you are wroiiR, yet I'm sure you are rij?ht. 
l/ird Shelburne's defence vfuA, that he wiuj compelled to 
the mea.^ure, and not so much the author lu* the instru- 
ment of iU See Parliamentary Debates of that lime. 



sions. Wc truly love you both, think of you 
often, and one of us prays for you ; — the 
other will, when he can pray for himself 

w. c. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

DIney, Feb. 13, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — In writing to you I 
never want a subject. Self is always at 
hand, and self with its concerns, is always 
interesting to a friend. 

You may think perhaps that, having com- 
menced poet by profession, I am always writ- 
ing verses. Not so ; I have written luitliing, 
at least finished nothing, since I published, 
except a certain facetious history of John 
Gilpin, which Mrs. Unwin would send to the 
" Public Advertiser," perhaps you might read 
it without suspecting the author. 

My book procures me favors, which my 
modesty will not permit me to specify, ex- 
cept one, which, modest as 1 am, 1 cannot 
sujipress, a very handsome letter from Dr. 
Franklin at Passy. These fruits it has 
brought me. 

I have been refreshing myself witli a walk 
in the garden, where I tind that January (who 
according to Chaucer was the husband of 
^lay) being dead, February has married the 
widow. 

Y'ours, &c.. W. C. 



TO JOSEPH lULL, ESQ. 

Olney, Feb. 20, 1783. 
Suspecting that I should not have hinted 
at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other 
influence than that of vanity, I was several 
times on the point of burning my letter for 
that very reason. But, not having time to 
write another by the same post, and believing 
that you would have the grace to pardon a 
little self-complacency in an author on so 
trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin n.at^ 
ur.illy leads to another and a greater, and thus 
it happens now, for I have no way to gratify 
your curiosity, lint by transcriliing the letter 
in (luestion. It is addressed, by the way, not 
to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who 
had transmitted the volume to him without 
my knowledge. 

" PaMy,* May P, 1782. 

" Sir, I received tlie letter you did mi^ the 
honor of writing to me, and am much obliged 
by your kind present of a book. The relish 
for re.-iding of poetry had long since left me, 
but there is something so new in the m.an- 
ner, so easy, and yet so corrtrct in the lan- 
guage, so clear in the expres.sion, yet concise, 

* A beautiful village near Paris, on the road to Ver- 
sailles. 



148 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



nnd so just in the sentiments, that I have read 
the wiiole with great pleasure, and some of 
tlie pieces more tiian once. I beg you to ac- 
cept my thanliful acknowledgments, and to 
present my respects to tlie author. 

" Your most obedient humble servant, 
" B. Fkanklin." 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, — Great revolutions happen 
in this ants' nest of ours. One emmet of il- 
lustrious character and great abilities pushes 
out another ; parties are formed, they range 
themselves in formidable opposition, they 
threaten each other's ruin, they cross over and 
are mingled together,* and like the corusca- 
tions of tlie Northern Aurora amuse tlie spec- 
tator, at tlie same time that by some they are 
supposed to be forerunners of a general dis- 
solution. 

There are political earthquakes as well as 
natural ones, the former less shocking to the 
eye, but not always less fatal in their iiiHu- 
ence than the latter. The image which Ne- 
buchadnezzar saw in his dream was made 
up of heterogeneous and incompatible ma- 
terials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is 
so formed must expect a like catastrophe. 

I have an etching of the late Chancellor 
hanging over the parlor chimney. I often 
contemplate it, and call to mind the day when 
I was intimate with the original. It is very 
like him, but he is disguised by his hat, 
wliicli, though fashionable, is awkward ; by 
his gTC.at wig, the tie of which is hardly dis- 
cernible in profile, and by his band and gown, 
which give him an appearance cUimsily sacer- 
dotal. Our friendship is dead and buried ; 
yours is the only surviving one of all with 
which I was once honored. 

Adieu. W. C. 

Tlie sarcasm conveyed in the close of this 
letter, and evidently pointed at Lord Thur- 
low, is severe, and yet seems to be merited. 
It will be remembered, that Lord Thurlow 
and Cowper were on terms of great intimacy 
when at Westminster school, though separ- 
ated in after life ; that Cowper subsequently 
presented him with a copy of his poems, ac- 
companied by a letter, reminding him of their 
former friendship ; and tliat his lordship 
treated him with forge tfulness and neglect. 
It is due, however, to the memory of Lord 
Thurlow, to stale that instances are not want- 
ing to prove the benevolence of his character. 
When the south of Europe was recommended 
to Dr. Johnson, to renovate his declining 
strength, he generously offered to advance the 
sum of five hundred pounds for that purpose.f 

* This oxpri'^sion, as w<?H &* ttie allusion to Nebucliad- 
iiL'Zzar'^ iiiirt.'i;, n'tors to tlif famous coalition ministry, 
UH'tKi- l.uni North iiiij Mr. Fo.K. 

t Sue Muii>hj"i Lile of Johnson. 



Nor ought we to forgot Lord Thurlow's 
treatment of the poet C'rabbe. The latter 
presented to him one of his poems. " I have 
no time,"' said Lord Thurlow, " to read verses ; 
my avocations do not permit it." " There was 
a time," retorted the poet, " when the encour- 
agement of literature was considered to be a 
duty appertaining to the illustrious station 
wliicli your lordship holds." Lord Thurlow 
frankly acknowledged his error, and nobly 
redeemed it. ''I ought," he observed, "to 
have noticed your poem, and I heartily for- 
give your rebuke :" and in proof of his sin- 
cerity he generously transmitted the sum of 
one hundred pounds, and subsequently gave 
him preferment in the church. 



TO THE REV. JOHN XEWTON.''- 

Olney, Feb. 24, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — A weakness in one of 
my eyes may possibly shorten my letter, but 
I mean to make it as long as my present 
materials, and my ability to write, can suffice 
for. 

I am almost sorry to say tliat I am recon- 
ciled to the peace, being reconciled to it not 
upon principles of approbation but necessity. 
The deplorable condition of the country, in- 
sisted on by the friends of administration, 
and not denied by their adversaries, convinces 
me that our only refuge under Heaven was 
in the treaty with which I quarrelled. The 
treaty itself I find less objectionable than I 
did. Lord Shelburne having given a color to 
some of the articles that makes them less 
painful in the contemplation. But my opinion 
upon the whole aff.iir is, that now is the time 
(if indeed there is salvation for the country) 
for Providence to interpose to save it. A 
peace witli the greatest political advantages 
would not have healed us ; a jieacc with none 
may procrastinate our ruin for a season, but 
cannot ultimately prevent it. Tlie prospect 
may make all tremble who ha\'e no trust in 
God, and even tliey that trust ni.'iy tremble. 
The peace will probably be of short duration ; 
and in the ordinary course of things another 
war must end us. A great country in ruins 
will not be beheld with eyes of indiflerence, 
even by those who h;ne a better country to 
look to. But with them all will be well at 
last. 

As to the Americans, perhaps I do not 
fingive tliera as I ought ; perhaps I shall 
always think of thein with some resentment, 
as tlie destroyer,s, intentionally the destroyers, 
of this country. They have pushed that point 
farther than the house of Bourbon could have 
carried it in half a century. I may be preju- 
diced against them, but I do not think them 
equal to the task of establishing an empire. 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



149 



Groat men are necessary for sucli a purpose : 
ami tlieir threat men, I believe, are yet un- 
born.* Tliey l;ave had passion and obstinacy 
enoiigli lo do us nuicli miscliiel'; but wlietlier 
the event will be s;;lut:iry to themselves or 
not, must wait i'or proof. I ajjrec with you 
that it is possible America may become a land 
of extraordinary evan;;elical lio'ht.t but at the 
s;ime time, I cannot discover anythinij in their 
new sitnation peculiarly favorable to such a 
supposition. They cannot have more liberty 
of conscience than they had; at least, if that 
liberty was under any restraint, it was a re- 
straint of their own makinir. Perhaps a new 
settlement in church and state may leave 
them less. — Well — all will be over soon. The 
time is at hand when an empire will be es- 
tablished that shall fill the earth. Neither 
statesmen nor generals will lay the founda- 
tion of it, but it shall rise at the sound of the 
trumpet. 

I am well in body, but with a mind that 
would wear out a frame of adamant ; yet, 
upon mij frame, which is not very robust, its 
ett'ects are not discernable. Mrs. Unvvin is in 
health. Accept our unalienable love to you 
both. 

Yonr.s, my dear friend, truly, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.J 

OIncy, March 7, 17K!. 
My dear Friend,— When will you come and 
tell us what you think of the peace ? Is it a 
good peace in itself, or a good peace only in 
reference to the ruinous condition of our 
country ? I quarrelled most bitterly with it at 
first, finding nothing in the terms of it but 
disgrace and destruction to Great Britain. 
But, liaving learned since th.at we are already 
destroyed and disgraced, as nnicli .as we can 
be, I like it better, and think myself deeply 
indebted to the King of France for treating 
us with so much lenity. The olive-branch 
indeed has neither leaf nor fruit, but it is still 

• This anticipation has not been fiillllled. America 
Ita.a prmliicoil inatoriiils for national ijrcatnc^^, that have 
laid llii- ItiiHKlation of a nii?1it.v cnipirt- ; and both Gen- 
eral Wasliiir^ton and Franlilin were jjireat men. 

t 'I'hereisa remarliable piissase in Herbert's Sacred 
Poems expre!«^ive of this expiTtation, and indicating the 
probable period oriui fiillilnient. 

" Relii^ion stands on tiptoe in onr land, 
Ready to pjuss to tlte American strand. 
When Iiciijrhl of malice, and prodiiriotis lusts, 
fmpudent siniiin:;. witchcrafts, and distrnstts. 
The marks of future liaiie, shall UlI our cup 
Unto tlie Iirirn, and inalv<' our me.xsure up ; 
When .Seiii"' shall swallow Tiber, and the Thames, 
Hv letliie.; in th.'in t>oth, pollute htT streams; 
Wlien Italy of us shall have her will, 
And all her C4ili>ndar of sins fulHI ; 
Then shall Rcllsnou to America Itee ; 
They have their times of ilospel cv'n as we." 

Herbert concludes by prediclini? that Christianity shall 
then Cornpleli- its circuit by returnin'/ once more' to the 
Kast, the oriu'inal S4»urce of Kmpire, of the Arts, and of 
Reti:^ion, and so prepare the way for the final consumma- 
tion of nil thim.'s. 

} Private correspondence. 



an olive-branch. Mr. Newton and I have e.v- 
changed se\eral letters on the subject ; some- 
times considering, like grave politicians as we 
are, the state of Europe at large ; sometimes 
the state of England in liarticular: sometimes 
the conduct of the house of Bourbon ; some- 
times that of the Uutkh; but most especially 
that of the Americans. We have not ditVered 
perhaps very widely, nor even so w'idely as 
we seemed to do ; but still we have differed. 
We have however managed onr dispute with 
temper, and brought it to a peaceable conclu- 
sion. So far at least we have given proof of 
a wisdom which abler politicians than myself 
would do well to imitate. 

How do you like your northern mountain- 
eers ?* Can a man be a gooti Christian that 
goes without breeches ? You are better quali- 
ried to solve me this question than any man I 
know, having, as I am informed, preacheil lo 
many of them, and conversed, no doubt, with 
some. You must know I love a Highlander, 
and think I lan see in them what Englishmen 
once were, but never will be again. Huch have 
been the ell'ects of lu.vtiry ! 

You know that I kept two bares. I have 
written nothing since 1 saw you but .an epi- 
taph on one of them, which died last week. 
I send you i\ia first impression of it. 

Here lies, &,c.f 

Believe me, my dear friend, afl'eclionately 
yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEVVTON.J 

Olney, .March 7, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Were my letters com- 
posed of materials worthy of your iicoeplance, 
they should be longer. There is a subject 
upon which they who know themselves inter- 
ested in it are never weary of writing. That 
subject is not within my reach ; and there are 
few others that do not soon fatigue me. 
Upon these, however, I might possibly be 
more diffuse, could I forget that I am writing 
to you, to whom I think it just as improper 
and absurd to send a sheet full of trillcs, as 
it would be to allow myself that liberty, were 
I writing to one of the four evangelists. But, 
since you measure m; with so much exact- 
ness, give me leave to requite yon in your own 
way. Your manuscrijit indeed is dose, and 
I do not reckon mina very la.v. You make 
no margin, it is true ; if you did, you would 
have need of their l.illipntian arl. who can 
enclose the creed within the circle of a shil- 
ling ; for, upon the nicest comparison, I find 
your paper an inch sni iller every way than 
mine. Were my writing therefore as com- 
pact as yours, my letters willi a margin would 

• Scotch Ili'.,'lil:uider3, quartered at Newport Pagnelt 
where Mr. Hull llv.-d 

t \'iil,' (Vovpi-r's Poems, 
t Private correspondence. 



150 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



be ns lo'.ijf :is yours without one. Lot this 
consideration, added to tliat of their futility, 
prevail with you to think them, if not long, 
yet long enough. 

\'esterday a body of Highlanders i)assed 
through Olney. They are part of that regi- 
ment whieh lately mutfnied at Portsmouth. 

Con\iueed to a man that General had 

sold them to the East India Company, they 
breatlie nothing but vengeance, and .swear 
they will pull down his house in Scotland, 
as soon as they arrive liere. The rest of 
them are quartered at Dunstable, Woburn, 
and Newport; in all eleven hundred. A 
party of them, it is said, are to continue 
some days at Olney. None of their principal 
officers are with them; either conscious of 
guilt, or at least knowing themselves to be 
suspected as privy to and partners in the in- 
iquitous bargain, they fear the resentment of 
the corp.s. The design of government seems 
to be to break them into small divisions, that 
they may find themselves, when they reach 
Scotland, too weak to do much mischief. — 
Forty of them attended Mr. Bull, who found 
himself singularly happy in an t)pportnnity to 
address himself to a Hock bred upon the 
Caledonian mountains. He told them he 
would walk to John O'Groat's house to hear 
a soldier pray. They are in general so far 
religious that they will hear none but evan- 
gelical preaching ; and many of them are said 

to be truly so. Nevertheless, General 's 

skull was in some danger among them ; for 
he was twiced felled to the ground with the 
butt end of a musket. The sergeant-major 
rescued him, or he would have been forever 
rendered incapable of selling Highlanders to 
the India Company. I am obliged to you 
for your extract from Mr. Bowman's letter. 
I feel myself sensibly pleased by the a])pro- 
bation of men of taste and learning ; but that 
my vanity may not get too much to windward, 
my spirits are kept under by a total inability 
to renew my enterprises in the poetical way. 

We are tolerably well, and love yon both. 
Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April 5, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — When one has a letter 
to write, there is notliing more useful than 
to make a beginning. In the first place, be- 
cause unless it be begun, there is no good 
reason to hope it will ever be ended ; and 
secondly, because the beginning is half the 
business, it being much more difficult to put 
the pen in motion at first, than to continue 
the progress of it when once moved. 

Mrs. C 's illness, likely to prove mortal, 

and seizing her at such a time, has e.xcited 
much compassion in my breast, and in Mrs. 
Unwin's, both for ber and her daughter. To 



have parted with a child she loves so much, 
ijitending soon to follow her; to find herself 
arrested before she c(ndd set out, and at so 
great a distance from her most valued rela- 
tions ; her daughter's life too threatened by 
a disorder not often curable, are circumstan- 
ces truly afl'ecting. She lias indeed much 
natural fortitude, and, to make her condition 
still more tolerable, a good Christian hope 
for her support. But so it is, that the dis- 
tresses of those v\'ho least need our pity ex- 
cite it most ; the amiableness of the character 
engages our sympathy, and we mourn for 
persons for whom perhaps we might more 
reasonably rejoice. There is still however a 
possibility that she may recover ; an event 
we must wish for, though for her to depart 
would be far better. Thus we w-ould ahvays 
withhold from the skies those who alone can 
reach them, at least till we are ready to bear 
them company. 

Present our love, if you please, to Miss 
C .* I saw in the " Gentleman's Maga- 
zine," for last month, an account of a physi- 
cian who has discovered a new method of 
treating consumptive cases, which has suc- 
ceeded wonderfully in the trial. He finds 
the seat of the distemper in the stomach, 
and cures it principally by emetics. The 
old method of encountering the disorder has 
proved so unequal to the task, th.at 1 should 
be much inclined to any new practice that 
comes well recommended. He is spoken of 
as a sensible and judicious man, but his name 
I have forgot. 

Our love to all under your roof, and in 
pai'ticular to Miss Catlett, if she is with you. 
Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Olney, April 91, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — My device was intended 
to represent, not my own heart, but tlie 
heart of a Christian, mourning and yet re- 
joicing, pierced with thorns, yet wreathed 
about with roses. I have the thorn without 
the rose. My briar is a wintry one ; the 
flowers are withered, but the thorn remains. 
My days are spent in vanity, and it is impossi- 
ble for me to spend them otherwise. No 
man upon earth is more sensible of the un- 
profitableness of a life like mine than I am, 
or groans more heavily under the burden. 
The time when I seem to be most rationally 
employed is when I am reading. My studies 
however are very much confined, and of little 
use, because I have no books but what I bor- 
row, and nobody will lend me a memory. 
My own is almost worn out. I read the Bi- 
ographia and the Review. If all the readers 
of the former had memories like mine, the 

* Miss Cunningham. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



151 



compilers of tliiit work would in vain have 
labored to rescue the jfreat names of past 
ages from oblivion, for wlial I read to day I 
forfjet to-morrow. A by-stander niijflit say, 
Tills is rather an advantage, the book is 
always new; — but 1 beg the by-stander's par- 
don ; 1 can reeollect, though I cannot remem- 
ber, and with the book in my hand I recog- 
nize those passages which, without the book, 
I should never have thought of morct. The 
Review pleases me most, because, if the eon- 
tents escape me, I regret them less, being 
a very supercilious reader of most modern 
writers. Either I dislike the subject, or the 
manner of treating it; the style is ali'ected, or 
the matter is disgusting. 

I see (though he was a learned man, and 

sometimes wrote like a wise one,) laboring 
under invincible prejudices against the truth 
and its professors; heterodox in his opinions 
upon some religious subjects, and reasoning 
most weakly in support of them. How has 
he toiled to prove that the perdition of the 
wicked is not eternal, that tliere may be re- 
pentance in hell, and that the devils may be 
saved at last : thus establishing, as far as in 
him lies, the belief of a purgatory. When I 
ihink of him, I think too of some who shall 
say hereafter, " Have we not projihesied in 
thy name, and in thy name done many won- 
drous works ! Then shall he say unto them, 
I)e]iart from me, for I never knew you." 
Rut perhaps he might be enlightened in his 
last moments, and saved in the very article 
of dissolution. It is much to be wished, and 
indeed hoped, that he was. Such a man 
reprobated in the great day would be the 
most melancholy spectacle of all that shall 
stand at the left hand hereafter. But I do 
not think that riin/uj, or indeed a;ii/, will be 
found there, who in their lives were sober, 
virtuous, and sincere, truly pious in the use 
of their little light, and, though ignorant of 
fiod, in comparison with some others, yet, suf- 
liciently informed to know that He is to be 
feared, loved, and trusted. An operation is 
often performed within the curtains of a dy- 
ing bed, in behalf of such men. that the nurse 
and the doctor (I mean the doctor and the 
nurse) have no suspicion of. The soul 
makes but one ste]) out of darkness into 
light, and makes th.at step without a witness. 
My brother's case has made me very charita- 
ble in my opinion about the future state of 
such men. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Muy 5, I7H:). 

You m.ay suppose that I did not hear AFr. 
preach, but I heard of him. How dif- 
ferent is that plainness of speech whieii a 



spiritual theme requires, from that vulgar di- 
alect which this gentleman has mistaken for 
it! Atfectation of every sort is odious, es- 
pecially in a minister, and more especially an 
atl'ectalion that betrays him into expressions 
lit only for the mouths of the illiterate. 
Truth indeed needs no ornament, neither 
does a beautiful person; but to clothe it 
therefore in rags, when a decent habit was at 
hand, would be e.steemed preposterous and 
absurd. The best-proportioned figure may 
be made otVensive by beggary and tilth, and 
even truths, which came down from heaven, 
thotigb they cannot forego their nature, may 
be di.sguised and disgraced by unsuitable lan- 
guage. It is strange that a pupil of yours 
should blunder thus. You may be consoled 
however by reflecting, that he could not have 
erred so grossly if lie had not totally and 
wilfully de]iarted both from your instruction 
and example. Were I to describe your style 
in two words, I should call it plain and neat, 
simplicrm mundilih, and I do not know how 
I could give it juster praise, or pay it a greater 
compliment. He that speaks to be under- 
stood by a congregation of rustics, and yet 
in terms that would not ofi'end academical 
ears, has found the happy medium. This is 
certainly practicable to men of taste and 
judgment, and the practice of a few proves 
it. Hactenus de concionando. 

Wc are truly glad to hear that Miss Cat- 
lett is better, and heartily wish you more 
promising accounts from Scotland. Debe- 
mnr morti 7ios nnstraque. Wo all acknowl- 
edge the debt, but are seldom pleased when 
those we love are required to pay it. The 
demand will find you prepared for it. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 12, 1783. 
Jly dear Friend, — A letter written from 
such a place as this is a creation ; and crea- 
tion is a work for which mere mortal man is 
very indittcrently qualified. Ex nihilo nihil 
fit, is a maxim that applies itself in every 
case, where Deity is not concerned. With 
this view of the matter, I should charge my- 
self with extreme folly for pretending to 
work wilhcnit materials, did I not know that 
although nothing could be the result, even 
that nothing will be welcome. If I can tell 
you no news, 1 can tell you at least that I 
esteem you highly; that my friendship with 
you and yours is the only balm of my life; a 
comfort sutlicient to reconcile me to an ex- 
istence destitute of any other. This is not 
the language of to-day, only the eft'ect of a 
transient cloud suddenly brought over me, 
and suddenly to be removed, but punctually 
expressive of my habitual frame of mind, 
such as it hiis been these ten years. 



152 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In the " Review" of last month, I met with 
an account of a sermon preached by Mr. 
Palcy, at tlie consecraiion of his friend, 
Itishop Li.* The critic admires and exlols the 
preacher, and devoutly prays the Lord of the 
harvest to send forth more such laborers 
into his vineyard. I rather diti'er from iiim 
in opinion, not being able to conjecture in 
what respect the vineyard will be Ijenefitcd 
by such a measure. He is certaiidy in- 
genious, and has stretched his ingenuity to 
the uttermost, in order to e.\hibit the church 
established, consisting of bishops priests, and 
deacons, in the most favorable point of view. 
I l.ay it down for a rule tlial when much in- 
genuity is necessary to gain an argument 
credit, that argument is nusound at bottom. 
So is his, and so are all the petty devices by 
wliich he seeks to enforce it. He says first, 
" that tlie appointment of various orders in 
the church is attended with this good con- 
sequence, that each class of people is sup- 
plied with a clergy of their own level and 
description, with whom tliey may live and 
associate on terms of equality." But, in 
order to effect this good purpose, there 
ought to be .at least three parsons in every 
parish, one for the gentry, one for traders 
and mechanics, and one for the lowest of tlie 
vulgar. Neither is it easy to lind many par- 
ishes, where the laity at large have any so- 
ciety with their minister at all. This there- 
fore is fanciful, and a mere invention : in the 
ne.xt place lie says it gives a dignity to the 
ministry itself, and the clergy share in tlie 
respect paid to their superiors. Much good 
may such participation do them ! They 
themselves know how little it amounts to. 
The dignity a [larson derives from the lawn 
sleeves and square cap of his diocesan will 
never endanger his humility. 

Pope says truly — 

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, 
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 

Again — " Rich and splendid situations in 
the cliurch have been justly regarded as 
prizes, held out to invite persons of good 
hopes and ingenuous attainments." Agreed. 
But the prize held out in the Scripture is of 
a very different kind ; and our ecclesia.stical 
baits are too often snapped by the worthless, 
and persons of no attainments at all. They 
are indeed incentives to avarice and ambition, 
but not to those acquirements, by which only 
the ministerial function can be adorned — zeal 
for the salvation of men, humility, and self- 
denial. Mr. Paley and I therefore cannot 
agree. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

We think Cnuper has treated Paley, as 
well as his subject, with no small portion of 
* Dr. Law, Bishop of Carlisle. 



severity. What Paley's arguments may have 
been, m establishing his first position, we 
know not, but we should have expected that 
the jioet would have admitted the principle, 
however he might have disapproved of the 
comment. There was a time when the proper 
constitution of a Chrivtian Church funii.-hed 
a subject of inquiry that engaged the coun- 
cils of princes, convulsEd this empire to its 
Ijasis, and left the traces of an awful desola- 
tion behind. We allude to the times of 
Charles the First, and to the momentous 
events that characterized that period. In the 
present age, the matters in dispute are greatly 
changed. The important question now agita- 
ted is the lawfulness of the union of churcli 
and state, so tar as that lawfulness is decided 
by an appeal to the authority of Scripture, 
tfpon this subject it is not our intention to 
enter. For able and masterly argument, in 
defence of establishments, we beg to refer to 
the work of Dr. Chalmers,* and to the two 
Inst Visitation Cliarges of Chancellor Dealtry. 
We trust, however, that we may be allowed 
to express onr deep conviction that the timely 
removal of abuses is not only essential to 
the efficiency and preservation of the church 
of England, but also imperatively due to our 
own honor and credit, to the glory of God, 
and to the advancement of true religion. 

Ill the meantime we would appeal to every 
intelligent observer, whether there has ever 
been a period in the annals of our church, 
more characterized by an acknowledged in- 
crease of true piety than in the era in which 
we are now writing? — whether there is not a 
perceptible revival of sound doctrine in our 
pulpits, and of devotedness and zeal in the 
lives of the clergy ? Appealing then to these 
facts, which he that runneth may read, may 
we not, though in the .spirit of profound hu- 
miliation, exclaim with the wife of Manoah, 
" If the Lord were pleased to kill us, he would 
not have received a bnrnt-ofi'ering and a meat- 
offering at our hands : neither would he have 
showed us all these things; nor would, as at 
this time, have told us such things as these."f 

Let, then, the sacred edifice be suffered to 
remain, built as it is on the foundation of the 
apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself 
being the chief corner-stone ; but let what 
time li.ath impaired, or infirmity hath dis- 
figured, he restored and amended. And let 
this be the languaffe of her friends, as well as 
of every honorable and conscentious oppo- 
nent, which was once expressed by tlie cele- 
brated Beza : " If now the reformed churches 
of Kngland, administered by the raitliority of 
bisho[)s and archbishops, do hold on, as this 
hath happened to that church in our memory, 
that she hath had men of that calling, not 
only most notable martyrs of God, but al.-o 

* See Dr. ClinJmers on Establislimenls. 
t Judges xiii. 2.1. 



LIFE OF COWFER. 



153 



excellent pastors and doctors; let lier, in 
God's n;ime, enjoy tliis Mnjfiil.ir bounty of 
God, wliicli I wish she ni.iy iiold forever.'* 



TO JOSEl'lI HILL, ESQ. 

Oliicy, .May M, 1783. 

I feel for my uncle, and do not wonder 
that hi.s loss atflicts him. A connexion that 
has subsisted so many years, could not be 
rent asunder without threat pain to the sur- 
vivor. I hoi)e, iiowever, and doubt not, but 
wlien he has had a little more time for recol- 
lection, he will tiiid that consolation in his 
own f.iniily, which it is not the lot of every 
father to be bles-ed wi:h. It seldom liappens 
that married persons live tOfjether sojonjf, or 
-so happily ; but this, which one feels one's 
self re.idy to suifi.;est as matter of alleviation, 
is llie very circumstance that ajjyravates his 
distress : therefore he misses her the more 
and feels that he can but ill spare her. It is, 
however, a necessary ta.\, wliich all who live 
loiiir must pay for their longevity, to lose 
many whom they would be ^lad to detain 
(perhaps those in whom all their happiness 
is centred), and to see them step into the 
fjrave betbre them. In one respect, at lea.st, 
this is a merciful api>ointinent. When life 
lias lost that to which it owed its principal 
relish, we may ourselves the more cheerfully 
resign it. I beg you would present him with 
my most affectionate remembvance, and tell 
him, if you thinli fit, how much I wish that 
the evening of his long day may be serene 
and happy. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Oliiey, .Miiy 31, 171=3. 

We rather rejoice than mourn with you on 

the occasion of Mrs C 's death. !ii the 

case of believers, death has lost his sling, not 
only with respect to those he takes away, but 
with respect to survivors also. Nature in- 
deed will always suggest some causes of sor- 
row, when an amiable and Christian friend 
departs, but the Scripture so many more and 
so much more important reasons to rejoice, 
that, on such occasions, perhaps more re- 
markably than on any other, sorrow is turned 
into joy. The law of our land is affronted if 
we say the king dies, and insists on it that he 
only demises. This, which is a liction where 
a monarch only is in question, in the ca.se of 
a Christian is reality and truth. He o.nly lavs 
aside a body which it is his privilege to Le 
encumbered with no longer; and instead of 
(lying, in that moment he begins to live. 
But this ihe world does not understand, there- 
fore the kings of it must go on demising to 
the end of the chapter. W. C. 

* '^ Frujitiir sane istlfk sin'^titari Dei bcneHcontiii, qn» 
lUiiiiiin ill) «il purprtiiii." — /f :t. Hup. ait .V.ir:jw. p. 111. 
t Aihlify ('uwpcr, Esq., whu Imd rfeciilty tost his wife. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM IWLL.* 

Olncy, Juno 3, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — My greenhouse fronted 
with myrtles, and where 1 hear nothing but 
the p.ittering of a fine .shower and the sound 
of distant thunder, wants only the fumes of 
your |)ipe to m.ike it perfectly delightful. 
Tobacco was not known in the golden age. 
So much t\n: worse for the golden age. This 
age of iron or h'.id would be insupportable 
without it; and, tiierefore, we may reasonably 
suppose, that the hajipiness of those better 
days would have been much improved by the 
use of it. We hope that you and your son 
are perfectly recovered. The season h;is 
been most unfavorable to animal life ; and I, 
who am merely animal, have suffered much 
by it. 

Though I shinild be glid to write, I write 
little or nothing. The time for such fruit is 
not yet come ; liut I expect it, and I wish for 
it. I want amusement, and, deprived of that, 
have nothing to sui)ply the place of it. I 
send you, however, according to my promise 
to send you everything, two stanzas, com- 
posed at tlie re(piest of Lady Austen. 8he 
wanted words to a tune she much admired, 
and 1 wrote her the following, — 

OM PEACE. 

No longer I follow a sound, &«.-f 

Vours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, June 8, 1783. 

My dear William, — Our severest winter, 
commonly called the spring, is now over, and 
I lind myself seated in my favorite recess, the 
greenhouse. In such a situation, so silent, 
so shady, where no human foot is heard, and 
where only my myrtles presume to peep in 
at the window, you may suppose I have no 
interruption to complain of, and that my 
thoughts are perfectly at my command. But 
the beauties of the spot are themselves an 
interruption, my attention being called upon 
by those very myrtles, by a double row of 
grass pinks, just beginning to blossom, and 
by a beil of beans already in bloom ; and you 
are to consider it, if you please, as no small 
proof of my regard, that, though you have so 
many powerful rivals, I disengage myself 
from them all, and devote this hour entirely 
to you. 

You are nof acquainted with the Rev. Mr. 
Bull of Newport — perhaps it is as well for 
you that you are not. Vou would regret 
still more than you do, that there are so 
many miles interposed between us. He 
spends part of the day with us to-morrow. 

• Pri vat*' correspondence. 
t Viile I'oenis. 



154 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A dissenter, but a liberal one ; a man of let- 
ters, and of genius; master of a fine imagi- 
nation, or rather not master of it — an imagi- 
nation whieli, wlien he finds himself in the 
eonipany lie loves, and can confide in, runs 
away with him into such fields of speculation, 
as amuse and enliven every other imagination 
that has the happiness to be of the party ! 
at other times he has a tender and delicate 
sort of melancholy in his disposition, not less 
ag'rceable in its way. No men are better 
ciualiiied for companions in such a world as 
this than men of such a temperament. Every 
scene of life has two sides, a dark and a 
bright one, and the mind that has an equal 
mi.\ture of melancholy and vivacity is best of 
all qualified for the contemplation of either. 
He can be lively without levjty, and pensive 
without dejection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. 
But — he smokes tobacco — nothing is per- 
fect 

Nihil est ab omni 
Parte beatum. 

On the other side I send you a something, 
a song if you please, composed last Thurs- 
day : the incident happened the day before.* 
Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIney, June 13, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for your 
Dutch communications. Tlie suffrage of 
such respectable men must have given you 
much pleasure, a pleasure only to be ex- 
ceeded by the consciousness you had before 
of having published truth, and of having 
served a good master by doing so. 

I have always regretted that your ecclesi- 
astical history went no further: I never saw 
a work that I tliought more likely to serve 
the cause of truth, nor history applied to so 
good a purpose.! The facts incontestable, 
the grand observation upon tliem all irrefra- 
gable, and the style, in my judgment, incom- 
parably better than that of Robertson or 
Gibbon. I would give you my reasons for 
thinking so, if I had not a very urgent one 
for declining it. You have no ear for such 
music, whoever may be the performer. What 
you added, but never printed, is quite equal 
to. wliat has appeared, which I think might 
have encouraged you to proceed, though you 

• Here followed his song of " The Rose." 
t Newton's '' Review of Ecclesiastical History," so far 
as it proceeded, Wiis much esteemed ,but was incomplete. 
It had the merit, however, of suggesting to the Rev. 
Joseph Milufi' Ilif lir^t idea of liis own more enlarged 
and valual)li' uriitrit;ikin^, on the same subject. In this 
f work tlu- excellent author pursued the design executed 
in part by Newton. Instead of exhibiting liu- histnry of 
Christianity as a mere record of facts and events, he 
traced the rise and progress of true rehgion, and its nii'- 
servaliiiii llniMigli successive ages; and tlnis alTordea an 
inconli-slablr evidence of the superintending power and 
faithfulness of CJud. 



missed that freedom in writing which you 
found before. While you were at Oluey, 
this was at least possible; in a state of re- 
tirement you had leisure, without which I 
suppose Paul himself could not hiivc written 
his epistles. But those days are Hed, and 
every hope of a continuation is fled with 
them. 

The day of judgment is spoken of not 
only as a surprise, but a snare, a snare upon 
all the inhabitants of the earth. A differ- 
ence indeed will obtain in favor of the godly, 
which is, that though a snare, a sudden, in 
some sense an une.vpected, and in every sense 
an awful, event, yet it will find litem preptired 
to meet it. But, the day being thus charac- 
terized, a wide field is consequently open to 
conjecture ; some will look for it at one pe- 
riod, and some at another : we shall most of 
us prove at hist to have been mistaken, aiu! 
if iiny should prove to have guessed aright, 
they will reap no advantage, the felicity of 
their conjecture being incapable of proof, till 
the day itself shall prove it. My own senti- 
ments upon the subject appear to me per- 
fectly scriptural, though I have no doubt that 
they differ totally from those of all who have 
ever thought about it, being however so sin- 
gular, and of no importance to the happiness 
of maidiind, and being moreover difficult to 
swallow just ill proportion as they are pecu- 
liar, I keep them to my.self. 

I am and always have been a great ob- 
server of natural appearances, but I think not 
a superstitious one. The fallibility of those 
speculations which lead men of fitnciful minds 
to interpret scripture by the contingencies of 
the day, is evident from this consideration, 
that what the God of the scriptures has seen 
fit to conceal lie will not as the God of nature 
publish. He is one and the same in both ca- 
psicities, and consistent with himself and his 
purpose, if he designs a secret impenetrable 
in whatever way we attempt to open it. It 
is impossible however for an observer of nat- 
ural phenomena not to be struck with the 
singularity of the present season. The fogs 
I mentioned in my last still continue, though 
till yesterday the earth was as dry as intense 
heat could make it. The sun continues to 
rise and set without his rays, and hardly 
shines at noon, even in a cloudless sky. At 
eleven last night the moon was a dull red : 
she was nearly at her highest elevation, and 
had the color of heated brick. She would 
naturally, I know, have such an appearance 
looking through a misty atmosphere, but that 
such an atmosphere should obtain for so long 
a time, in a country where it has not liap- 
jiencd in my remembrance, even in winter, 
is rather reniarkable. We have had more 
thunder-storms than have consisted well with 
the peace of the fearful maidens in OIney, 
though not so many as have happened in 



LIFE OF COWPER 



155 



places at no great distance, nor so violent. 

Vosterdny mornini:^ howeviT, at seven oVlock, 
two tirt'-balls hurst t-ither on the steeple or 
elose to il. William Andrews saw them 
meet at that point, and innncdiately after saw 
sueli a smoke issue from the apertures in the 
steeple, as soon rendered it invisible; the 
noise of the explosion surpassed all the 
noises I ever heard : yon would have thoutrht 
that a thousand sledf^e-hammers were batter- 
in<r (Treat stones to powder, all in the same 
instant. The weather is still as hot, and the 
air is full of vapor, as if there had been 
neither ruin nor thunder all the summer. 

There was onee a periodical paper pub- 
lislied, called Mist's Journal : a name well 
adapted to the sheet before you. Misty how- 
ever as I am, I do not mean to be mystical, 
but to be understood, like an almanac-maker, 
accfirdinjj to the letter. As a poet neverthe- 
less, i claim, if any wonderful event should 
follow, a riijht to apply all and every such 
post-prognostic to the purposes of the tra<rie 
muse. 

Yours, W. C. 

It is worthy of being recorded that these 
.sinjTular appearances presented by the atmo- 
sphere and heavens, with accompanyin<r thun- 
der-storms, were prevalent in many parts of 
En^dand. At Dover, the fog was of sueli 
long continuance, that the opposite shore 
could not be discerned for three weeks. In 
other places the storms of thunder and light- 
ning were awful, and destructive both to life 
and property. But this plienomenon was 
not confined to England only : it extended to 
France, Italy, Germany, Hungary, Spain, and 
even to some parts of Africa. In I'aris, the 
appearanres were so portentous, and the 
alarm so considerable, that the great astron- 
omer Lidande addressed a letter to one of 
the journals, m order to compose the public 
mind. We subjoin it in a note for the grati- 
fication of the reader, and as illustrating his 
views on the subject.* In the preceding Feb- 

• " It is known to yoii that for aoine days piist ppople 
have been inccssanlly inqtiiriiie what is iJio occ;u*iun of 
th« thick dry foji which aJmust constantly covers thu 
ht-avfiis? And. n.«* thi^ (nn'siion is particularly put to 
iLstrnnniner^, I think ni>sclf uhlj^'rd to say a fuw words 
on Ihf subject, more rspfcmlh i^iricc a kind of terror 
bi'yiiis to oprcad in socit'ty. Il i^ aaid by some, that the 
di.-';u-t'T:< in ruliibria w.'rti preci-dL-d l)y similar weather; 
and by others, that a danLtcrou.-* cornel ruitfns at prestMit. 
In I77:( 1 expi.'ri<'nci-d huw last conjectures of tins kind, 
whirh b(".;in amongst the iifiiorant, even in the most en- 
liiihimed aces proceed from mouth to mouth, till they 
reach the best t^ocieiies, and llnd their way even to the 
public printji. The inultitiid.'. therefore, may eiLsily be 
supp(>:*ed to draw slranu'e rniicbi-'iuns, when llu'y si-e the 
Bun of a I>Io<m1 color, whed a niehtncholy light, and cause 
a most j*uUry heat. 

"This, however, is nothini? more than a very natural 
clTect from a hot sifn, after a lonif succession of heavy 
rain. The first impression of heat has necessarily and 
suddenly rarefied a superabundance of watery particles 
with which the earth was deeply iinpreiniated, and (fiven 
them. iLH they rose, a dimiu'ss and rarefaction not usual 
lo ciunmon logs. '* De La Laxdb." 

The danger to which men of philosophical minds seem 



ruary occurred the calamitous earthquakes in 
Calabria and Sicily ;* by which solemn catas- 
trophe the city of Messina was overthrown, 
and the greater portion of its population, 
consisting of thirty thousand souls, wholly 
destroyed. This awtul event was prei*eded 
by an horizon full of black intense fog, the 
earthquake next followed, witli two suceesive 
shocks, and subsequently a whirlpool of fire 
issued from the earth, which completed the 
entire destruction of the noble and great ed- 
ifices that still remained. We refer tlie 
reader for the terrible details of this afflicting 
calamity to the narrative of Sir William 
Hamilton, which cannot be read without 
alarm and terror. Nor can we omit the fol- 
lowing just and impressive mural from the 
pen of Cowper. 

What then ! were they the wicked above all, 
Ami we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isle 
Mov'd not while theirs was rock'd, like a Iiy;ht 

skiff. 
The sport of every wave 1 No: none are clear, 
An(J mme than we more guilty. But, where all 
Stand charjreahlc with guilt, and to the shales 
Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark; 
May punish, if he please, the less, to warn 
The more nuilijrnant. If he spar'd not them, 
Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, 
Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee. 
Taek, book ii. 

to be peculiarly exposed is the habit of accounting for 
the phenomena of nature too exclusivt^ly by the opery- 
lion of mere secondary causes; while the supreme 
agency of a first (Ireat Cause is too much overlooked. 
The universality of Ihe-^e appearances occurring at the 
same time in En'/Iand, France, Italy, and so many other 
countries, awakens reilrciinus nf a more solemn cast, in a 
mind imbued wiUi riiri<ti;in principle**. He who roads 
I'rofessor Barruel's woik. and the concurrin-,' le^iimony 
lulduced by Robinson, a.s to the extent uf intidelity and 
even atheism, tfatherini< at that time in ih-- <iiltereut 
stiites of Kurope, mif^ht, we think, see in tlie.'e si^ns in 
the moon, and in the stars, and in the heavens, some in- 
timations of impondini; judi^ments. which followed 80 
shortly after; and evidences of the p(»wer and existence 
of that (iod, which many so impiously questioned and 
defied. 

* Cowper has selected this awful catastrophe for the 
exercise of his poetic powers. His mind seems to have 
been impregnated with the grandeur of the theme, 
which he has presented to the imatfinalion of the readcjr 
with all the accuracy of historic detail. Wo quote the 
following extracts. 

"■ Ahis for Sicily I rude rraerraenU now 
Lie .HcatterM, where the shapely column stood. 
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
The voice of 8in;,'int: and the sprightly chord 
Are silent. .... 

The rocks fall headlong, and th(^ valleys rise — 
The sylvan scene 
Migrates uplifted; and with all its soil 
Alii(htinij: in far disljint llelds, finds out 
A new possessor, and survives (he change. 
Ocean h)is caught the fn-nzy, and. npwrought 
To an enormous and o'erbi-aring heiis'lil. 
Not by a ruit;hty wind, but by that voice 
Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore 
Ilesij'tiess. Never such a sudden lloo<l, 
Upridtf'd so high, and sent on such a cliarge, 
Posses.sed an inland scene. Where now the throng 
That nressM the beach, and, hiusty to depart, 
I.ook,d to the sea for safety? — They are gone, 
Gone with the refiueut wave into the deep — 
A prince with half his people !" 

Tiuk^ book ii. 



156 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIney. Juno 17, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Your letter reached Mr. 

S wliile Mr. was with him : whether 

it wrought any change in his opinion of that 
gcntklnan, as a preacher, ! know not; but for 
niy own part I give you full credit for the 
.soundness and rectitude of yours. No man 
was ever scolded out of his sins. Tlie hear; , 
corrupt as it is, and because it is so, grows 
angry if it be not treated with some manage- 
ment and good manners, and scolds again. 
A surly mastiff will bear perhaps to be 
stroked, though he will growl even under 
that operation, but, if you touch him rough- 
ly, he will bite. There is no grace that the 
spirit of self can counterfeit with more suc- 
cess than a religious zeal. A man thinks he 
is fighting- for Christ, and he is fighting for 
his own notions. He thinks that he is skil- 
fully searching the hearts of others, when he 
is only gratifying the malignity of his own, 
and charitably supposes his hearers destitute 
of all grace, that lie may shine the more in 
his own eyes by comparison. When he has 
performed this no.able task, he wonders 
that they are not converted, '■ he has given it 
them soundly," and if they do not tremble 
and confess that God is in him of a truth, he 
gives them up as reprobate, incorrigible, and 
lost forever. But a man that loves me, if he 
sees me in an error, will pity me, and endeav- 
or calmly to convince me of it, and persuade 
me to forsake it. If he has great and good 
news to tell me, he will not do it angrily, and 
in much heat and discomposure of spirit. It 
is not therefore easy to conceive on what 
ground a minister can justify a conduct which 
only proves that he does not understand his 
errand. The absurdity of it would cer- 
tainly strike him, if he were not himself de- 
luded. 

A people will always love a minister, if a 
minister seems to love his people. The old 
ma.vim, >Sim(7s agit in simile, is in no case 
more exactly verified ; therefore you were 
beloved at Olney, and, if you preached to 
the Chicksaws and Chactaws, would be 
enually beloved by them. 

W. C. 

Tenderness in a minister is a very impor- 
tant qualification, and indispensable to his 
success. The duty of it is enjoined in an 
apostolical precept, and the wisdom of it in- 
culcated in another passage of scripture. 
".Speaking the truth in love." "He that 
winneth souls is wise." We have often 
thought that one reason why a larger portion 
of divine blessing fails to accompany the 
ministrations of tlie sanctiuiry, is the want 
of more affectionate expostulation, more 
earnest entreaty, and more tenderness and 
sympathy in the preacher. The heart that is 



unmoved by «ur reproof may perhaps yield 
to the per.suasiveness of our appeal. We 
fully admit that it is divine grace alone that 
can subdue the power of sin in the soul ; but 
in the whole economy of grace, as well as of 
Pro\ idence, there is always perceptible a wise 
adaptation of means to the end. Who is 
not impressed by the tenderness and earnest 
solicitations of yt. Paul? Who can contem- 
[ilate the .Saviour weeping over Jerusalem, 
without emotions of the profoundest admi- 
ration ? And who does not know that the 
spectacle of man's miseiy and guilt first sug- 
gested the great plan of redemption, and that 
the scheme of mercy which divine love de- 
vised in heaven dying love accomplished on 
earth ? 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIney, Juno 19, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — The translation of your 
letters* into Dutch was news that pleased me 
Diiich. I intended plain prose, but a rhyme 
obtruded itself, and I became poetical when 
I least expected it. Wlien you wrote those 
letters, yoii did not dream th.at you were de- 
signed for an apostle to the Dutch. Yet, so 
it proves, and such among many others are 
the advantages we derive from the art of 
printing — an art in which indisputably man 
was instructed by the same great Teacher, 
who taught him to embroider for the service 
of the .sanctuary, and which amounts almost 
to as great a blessing as the gift of tongues. 

The summer is passing away, and liitlierto 
has hardly been either seen or felt. Perpetual 
clouds intercept the influence of the sun, and 
fur the most part there is an autumnal cold- 
ness in the weather, though we are almost 
upon the eve of the longest day. 

We are well, and always mindful of you : 
be mindful of us, and assured that we love 
you. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Ohioy, July 27, 1783. 

My dear Friend. — You cannot have more 
pleasure in receiving a letter from me than I 
should find in writing it, were it not almost 
impossible in such a place to find a subject. 

I live in a world abounding with incidents, 
upon which many grave and perhaps some 
profitable observations might be made : but, 
those incidents never reaching my unfortu- 
nate ears, both the entertaining narrative, and 
the refieetion it might suggest, are to me an- 
nihilated and lost. I look back to the past 
week and say, what did it produce ? I ask 

* Newton's " Cardiplionia," a work of groat merit and 
interest, und full of etliliciiliou. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



157 



the same question of the week preceding, 
and duly receive tlie same answer from both 
— nolhiiigl A siiuation like this, in whieh I 
am as unknown to the world a< I am ifriui- 
raril of all tluit pisses in it, in whieh 1 have 
nothing to do hut to thiiik, would exactly suit 
n\i', were my subject of meditation :is agree- 
able as my leisure is uninterrupted : my pas. 
siou for retirement is not at all abated, after 
so many years spent in the most sequestered 
state, but rather increased. A circumstance 
1 should esteem wonderful to a degree not to 
beaeeounU'd for, considering the condition of 
my mind, did I not know that we Ih nk as we 
are lua.le to ihink, and of cour-e approve and 
prefer as Providence, who appoiiUs the bounds 
of our habitation, chooses for us. Thus 1 
am both free and a prisoner at the same time. 
The winld is before me ; I am not shut up 
in the Bastile ; there are no moats about my 
castle, no locks upon my gates, of which 1 
have not the key — but an invisible, uncon- 
trollable aifency. a local attachment, an incli- 
nation more forcible than 1 ever felt, even to 
the [)laee of my birth, serves mo for prison- 
walls, and for bounds which 1 cannot pass. 
In former years I have known sorrow, and 
before I had ever tasted of spiritual trouble. 
Tiie etTect was an abhorrence of the scene in 
whieh I had suH'ered so much, and a weari- 
ue-s of those objects which I had so long 
looked at with an eye of despoiulency and 
dejection. IJut it is otherwise with me now. 
The same cause subsisting, and in a much 
more powerful degree, fails to produce its 
natural ett'ect. The very stones in the gar- 
d,m-walls are my intim.ite acquaintance. I 
should miss almost the minutest object, and 
be disagreCLibly afl'ectcd by its I'cmoval, and 
am ])ersu;ided that, were it possible 1 could 
leave this incommodious nook for a twelve- 
month, I should return to it again with rap- 
lure, and be transported wiih the sight of ob- 
jects, which to all the world beside would be 
at least indifferent; some of them, perhaps, 
such as the ragged thatch and the tottering 
walls of the neighboring cottages, disgusting. 
But so it is, and it is so, because here is to be 
my abode, and because such is the appoint- 
ment of Hhn that placed me in it. 

Isle Icrraruno mihi prsetcr omnes 
Angulus ridet. 

It is the place of all the world I love the 
most, not for any happiness it alfords me, but 
because here I can be miserable with most 
convenience to myself, and with the least dis- 
turbance to others. 

You wonder, and (I d.ire say) unfeignedly, 
because you do not think yourself entitled 
to such i)r.iise, that ( prefer your style, as an 
historian, to that of the two most renowned 
writers of history the present d ly Ins seen. 
'I'liat you may not suspect me of having said 



more than my real opinion will warrant, I 
will tell you wliy. In your style I .sih; nn 
idfcetation, in every line of theirs I see noth- 
ing else. Thi^y di>gust me always; Robert- 
son with his i)omi) and his strut, and (iil)l)on 
with his finical and French manners. Vou 
are as correct as they. Vcni express your- 
self with as much precision. \ our words 
are ranged with as much propriety, but you 
do not set your periods to a tune. 'J'liey dis- 
cover a pcu'petnal desire to exhibit Ihcniselves 
to advantage, whereas your subject engrosses 
you. They sing, and you say ; whieh, as his- 
tory is a tiling to be said and not sung, is in 
my judgment very niueli to your advantage.' 
A writer that de.-pi.scs their tricks, and is yel 
neither inelegant nor inharmonious, jiroves 
himself, by timt single circnmstance, a man 
of superior judgment and aliility to tliein 
both. Vou have my reasons. 1 honor a 
manly character, in which good sense and a 
desire of doing good are the predominant 
features — but ali'eetation is an emetic. 

vv. c. 

It is impossible to read the former part of 
the preceding letter without emotion. Who 
lias not felt the force of local associations, 
and their power of presenting aji'ecting reeol- 
leelions to the mind ! 

'■ I could not bear," says Pope, in one of his 
letters, " to have even an old post removed 
out of the way with which my eyes had been 
familiar from my youth." 

Among the Swiss, the force of as<oei.ation 
is so strong, that it is known by the appella- 
tion of the '•nialadie du pays;" and it is re- 
corded that on hearing one of their national 
airs in a foreign land, so overpowering was 
the effect tha", though engaged in warfare at 
the time, they threw down their arms and re- 
turned to their own country. The emotions 
awakened by some of the Swiss airs, such as 
the '■ Rantz des Vaches," and the affecting 
pathos of '• l,a Suissesse an bord du hie,' 
when heard on their nati\'e lakes, are always 
remembered by the traveller with delight. 
The feelings of a still higher kind connected 
with local associations are expressed with 
so much grace and eloquence in Dr. Joliii- 
Sdii's eelebr.ited allusion to this subject, that 
we close our remarks by inserting the pas- 
sage,— 

'■ VVe were now treading that illu.strious 
island, which was once the luminary of the 
Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and 
roving barbarians derived the benefits of 
knowledge and the blessings of religion. To 
abstract the mind from all local emotion 
would be impossible, if it were endeavored, 
and would be fooli.sh if it were possible. 
Whatever withdraws us from the power of 
our senses, whatever mikes the pa.st, the 
distant, or the future, predominate over the 



158 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



present, advances us in the dignity of think- 
ing beings. Far from me and far from my 
friends be such frigid philosophy, as may 
conduct us indiflerent and unmoved over 
any ground which lias been dignified by wis- 
dom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little 
to be envied, whose patriotism would not 
g:iin force upon the plain of Marathon, or 
whose piety would not gi'ow warmer among 
the ruins of lona."* 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Aug. 4, 1783. 

My dear William, — I feel myself sensibly 
obliged by the interest you take in the suc- 
cess of my productions. Your feelings upon 
the subject are such as I should have my- 
self, had I an opportunity of calling Johnson 
aside to make the inquiry you propose. But 
I am pretty %\ell prepared for the worst, and 
so long as I have the opinion of a few capa- 
ble judges in my fiivor, and am thereby con- 
vinced that I have neither disgraced myself 
nor my subject, shall not feel myself dis- 
posed to any extreme anxiety about the sale. 
To aim, with success, at the spiritual good 
of mankind, and to become popular by writ- 
ing on scriptural subjects, w'ere an unreason- 
able ambition, even for a poet to entertain in 
days like these. Verse may have many 
charms, but has none powerful enough to con- 
quer tlie aversion of a dissipated age to such 
instruction. Ask the question therefore bold- 
ly, and be not mortified, e\en though he 
should shake his head, and drop his chin ; 
for it is no more than we have reason to ex- 
pect. We will lay the fault upon the vice 
of the times, and we will acquit the poet. 

I am glad you were pleased w'ith my Latin 
ode, and indeed with my English dirge as 
much as I was myself. The tune laid me 
under a disadvantage, obliging me to write 
in Alexandrines; which, 1 suppose, would 
suit no e.ar but a French one ; neither did I 
intend anything more than that the subject 
and the words should be sufficiently accom- 
modated to the music. Tlie ballad is a spe- 
cies of poetry, I believe, peculiar to this 
country, equally adapted to the drollest and 
the most tragical subjects. Simplicity and 
ease are its proper characteristics. Our fore- 
fathers excelled in it ; but we moderns have 
lost the art. It is observed, that we have 
few good English odes. But, to make amends, 
we have many excellent ballads, not inferior, 
jjcrhaps, in trne poetical merit to some of 
the very best odes that the Greek or Latin 
languages have to boast of It is a sort of 
composition I was ever fond of, and, if graver 
matters had not called me another way, 
should have addicted myself to it more than 
10 any other. I inherit a taste for it from 
* See his journey to the Western Islands. 



my father, who succeeded well -in it himself, 
and who lived at a time when the best pieces 
in that way were produced. What can be 
prettier than Gay's ballad, or rallier Swift's, 
Arbutlinot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What 
do ye call it — " 'Twas when the seas were 
roaring." I have been well informed that 
they all contributed, and that the most cele- 
brated association of clever fellows this coun- 
try ever saw, did not think it beneath them 
to unite their strength and abilities in the 
composition of a song. The success, how- 
ever, answered their w'ishes. The ballads 
that Bourne has translated, beautiful in them- 
selves, are still more beautiful in his version 
of them, infinitely surpassing in my judg- 
ment all that Ovid or Tibullus have left be- 
hind them. They are quite as elegant, and 
far more touching and pathetic, than the 
tenderest strokes of either. 

So much for ballads and ballad-writers. — 
"A worthy subject," you will say, "for a 
man whose head might be filled with better 
things ;" — and it is hllcd with better things, 
but to so ill a purpose, that I thrust into it 
all manner of topics that ni.ay prove more 
amusing ; as, for instance, I have two gold- 
finches, which in the summer occupy the 
greenhouse. A few days since, being em- 
ployed in cleaning out their cages, I placed 
that which I had in hand upon the table, 
while the other hung against the wall : the 
windows and the doors stood wide open. I 
went to fill the fountain at the pump, and, 
on my retiu'n, was not a little surprised to 
find a goldfinch sitting on the top of the 
cage I had been cleaning, and singing to and 
kissing the goldfinch within. I approached 
him, and he discovered no fear; still nearer, 
and he discovered none. I advanced my 
hand towards him, and he took no notice of 
it. I seized him, and supposed 1 had caught 
a new bird, but, casting my eye upon the 
other cage, perceived my mistake. Its in- 
habitant, during my absence, had contrived 
to find an opening, where the wire had been 
a little bent, and made no other use of the 
escape it afforded him than to salute his 
friend, and to converse with him more inti- 
mately than he had done before. I returned 
him to his proper mansion, but in vain. In 
less tlian a minute, he had thrust his little 
person through the aperture again, and again 
perched upon his neighbor's cage, kissing 
him, as at the first, and singing, as if trans- 
ported with the fortunate .adventure. 1 could 
not but respect such friendship, as for the 
sake of its gratification, had twice declined 
an opportunity to be free, and ccuisenting to 
their union, resolved that for the future one 
cage should hold them both. I ain glad of 
such incidents. For at a pinch, and when I 
r.eed entertainment, the versification of them 
serves to divert me. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



159 



I transcribe for you .1 piece of Madam 
Guioii, not as tlie best, but as beini^ sliorier 
than many, and as (rood as most of tliem. 
Yours ever, W. C 

The followinn; letter contains a judicious 
and cxcclK'nt critique on the writiuffs of 
Madame Guion, and on the school of mys- 
tics to whidi she behjuged. The defect at- 
tributed to tliat school is too much famil- 
iarity of address, and a warmth of devotional 
fervor in their approach to the Deity, ex- 
ceeding the bounds of just propriety. There 
is, however, much to quicken piety, and to 
elevate the ati'ections of the heart. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UITOTN. 

Olney, Sept. 7, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — So long a silence needs 
an apology. I have been liindcred by a 
three-weeks' visit from our Iloxton friends,* 
and by a cold and feverish complaint which 
are but just removed. 

The French poetess is cert.ainly charge- 
able with the fault you mention, though I 
tliought it not. so glaring in the piece I sent 
you. I have endeavored indeed, in all the 
translations I have made, to cure her of that 
evil, either by the suppression of passages 
exceptionable upon that account, or by a 
more sober and respectful manner of expres- 
sion, ytill, however, she will be found to 
have conversed familiarly witli God, but I 
hope not fulsomely, nor so as to give rea- 
.sonable disgust to a religious reader. That 
God should deal familiarly with man, or, 
which is the same thing, that he should per- 
mit man to deal familiarly with him, seems 
not very difficult to conceive, or presump- 
tuous to suppose, when some tilings are 
taken into consideration. Woe to the sin- 
ner, that shall dare to take a liberty with 
him that is not warranted by his word, or to 
which he himself has not encouraged him. 
When he assumed man's nature, he revealed 
himself as the friend of man, as the brother 
of every soul that loves him. He conversed 
freely with m.an while he was on earth, and 
as freely with him after his resurrection. I 
doubt not, therefore, that it is possible to 
enjoy an .access to him even now, uuinciini- 
bered with ceremonious awe, easv, delightful, 
and without constraint. This, however, can 
only be the lot of those who make it the 
business of their lives to please him. and to 
cultivate communion with him. And then I 
presume there eim be no danger of olFcnce, 
because such a habit of the soul is of his 
own creation, and, near as we come, we 
come no nearer to' him than he is pleased to 
draw us. If we address him as children, it is 
because he tells us he is our father. If we 
• Mr. and Mrs. Newton. 



unbosom ourselves to him as to a friend, it is 
because he calls us friends, and if we speak to 
him in the language of love, it is because he 
first used it, thereby teaching us that it is the 
language he delights to hear from his peo- 
ple. But I confess that, through the weak- 
ness, the folly, and corruption of human 
nature, this privilege, like all other Cliristiaii 
privileges, is liable to abuse. There is a 
mixture of evil in everything we do ; indul- 
gence encourages us to encroach : and, while 
we exercise the rights of children, we be- 
come childish. Here I think is the point in 
which my authoress failed, and here it is that 
I have particularly guarded my translation, 
not afraid of representing her as dealing with 
God familiarly, but foolishly, irreverently, 
and without due attention to his majesty, of 
which she is somewhat guilty. A wonderful 
fault for such a woman to fall into, who 
spent her life in the contemplation of his 
glory, who seeras to have been alway im- 
pressed with a sense of it, and sometimes 
quite absorbed by the views she had of it. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Sept. 8, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Mrs. Ui)win would have 
answered your kind note from Bedford, had 
not a pain in her side prevented her. 1, 
who am her secretary upon such occasions, 
should certainly have answered it for her, 
but was hindered by illness, having been 
myself seized with a fever immediately after 
your departure. The account of your re- 
covery gave us great pleasure, and I am i)er- 
suaded that you will feel yourself repaid by 
the information that I give you of mine. 
The reveries your head was filled with, while 
your disorder was most prevalent, though 
they were but reveries, and the offspring of 
a heated imagination, .afforded you yet a 
comfortable evidence of the predominant bias 
of your heart and mind to the best subjects. 
I had none such — indeed I was in no degree 
di'lirioiis, nor has anything less than a fever 
really dangerous ever made me so. In this 
respect, if in no other, I may be said to have 
a strong head, and, perhaps, for the same 
reason that wine would never make me 
drunk, an ordinary degree of fever has no 
effect upon my understanding. The epi- 
demic begins to be more mortal as the au- 
tumn comes on, and in Bedfordshire it is 
reported, how truly I cannot say, to be 
nearly as fatal as the plague. I heard lately 
of a clerk in a jmblie office, whose chief em- 
ployment it-was for many years to admin- 
ister oaths, who being light-headed in a 
fever, of which he died, spent the last week 
of his life, in crying day and night — " So 
help you God — liiss the book — give mo a 



160 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



shilling." Wliat .1 wrctcli in comparison 
with you ! 

Mr. Scott hns been ill almost ever since 
you left us, and last Saturday, as on many 
(bregoing Saturdays, was obliged to clap on 
.1 blister by way of preparation for his Sun- 
day labors. He cannot draw breatli njion any 
o;lier terms. If holy orders were always 
conferrtul upon such conditions, I question 
but even bishoprics themselves would want 
an occupant. But he is easy and cheerful. 

I beg you will mention me kindly to Mr. 
Bacon, and make him sensible that if I did not 
write the paragraph he wished for, it was not 
owing to any want of respect for the desire he 
expressed, but to mere inability. If, in a 
state of mind that almost disqualifies me for 
society, I could possibly wish to form a new 
connexion, I should wish to know him ; but I 
never shall, and, things being as they arc, I 
do not regret it. You are my old friend, 
therefore 1 do not spare you ; having known 
you in better days, I make you pay for any 
pleasure I might then afford you by a com- 
munication of my present pains. But I have 
no claims of this sort upon Mr. Bacon. 

Be pleased to remember us both, with 
much atfeetion, to Mrs. Newton, and to her 

and your Eliza: to Miss C ,* likewise, if 

she is with you. Poor Eliza droops and lan- 
guishes; but in the land to which she is go- 
ing, she will hold up her head and droop no 
more. A sickness that leads the way to ev- 
erlasting life is better than the health of an 
antediluvian. Accept our united love. 
iMy dear friend, sincerely yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Oliiey, Sept. 15, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I have been lately more 
dejected and more distressed than usual ; 
more harassed by dreams in the night, and 
more deeply poisoned by them in the follow- 
ing day. I know not what is portended by 
an alteration for the worse after eleven years 
of misery _: but firmly believe that it is not 
designed as the introduction of a change for 
the better. You know not what I sulVered 
while you were here, nor was there any need 
you should. Your friendship for me would 
h.ave made you in some degree a partaker of 
my woes; and your share in them would 
have been increased by your in.ability to help 
me. Perhaps, indeed, they took a keeni?r 
edge from the con.sideration of your presence. 
The friend of ray heart, the person witli 
whom I had formerly taken sweet counsel, 
no longer useful to me as a minister, no lon- 
ger pleasant to me as a Christian, was a spec- 

* The yoiinj; laily here alludccl to is Misa Eliza Cvui- 
nin'.;lKi!n. a nii'ce of Mr. Newton's. 
t Private correspondence. 



tacle that must necessarily add the bitterness 
of mortification to the sadness of despair. I 
now see a long winter before me, and am to 
get through it as I can. I know the ground 
before I tread upon it. It is hollow ; it is 
agitated : it suffers .shocks in every direction ; 
it is like the soil of Calabria — all whirlpool 
and undulation. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Sept. 23, 1783. 

My dear Friend,-^ We are glad that, having 
been attacked by a fever, which has ofien 
proved fatal, and almost always leaves the 
suft'erer debilit.ated to the last degree, you 
find yourself so soon restored to health, and 
your strength recovered. Your heabh and 
strength are useful to others, and, in that 
view, important in hia account who dispenses 
both, and by your means a more precious gift 
than either. For my own part, though I ha\e 
not been laid up, I have never been |)erf'ectly 
well since you left us. A smart fever, which 
lasted indeed but a few hours, succeeded by 
lassitude and want of spirits tliat seemed still 
to indicate a feverish habit, has made for some 
time, and still makes me very unfit for my fa- 
vorite occupations, writing and reading; so 
that even a letter, and even a letter to you, is 
not without its burden. 

John has had the epidemic, and has it 

still, but grows better. When he was first 
seized witii it, he gave notice that he should 
die, but in this only instance of prophetic ex- 
ertion he seems to have been mistaken : ho 
has, however, been very near it. I should 
have told you that poor John has lieen very 
ready to depart, and much comforted througli 
his whole illness. He, you know, though a 
silent, has been a very steady professor. He 
indeed fights battles and gains victories, but 
makes no noise. Europe is not astonished at 
his feats, foreign academies do no't seek him 
for a member, he will never discover the art 
of flying, or send a globe of tafleta up to 
heaven. But he will go thither himself 

Since you went, we dined with Mr. . 

I had sent him notice of our visit a week be- 
fore, which, like a contemplative studious 
man as he is, he put in his pcickct and forgot. 
When we arrived, the parlor windows were 
shut, aiul the house had the appearance of be- 
ing uninhabited. Afier w.aiting some time, 
however, the maid opened the door, and the 
master presented himself It is hardly wor;h 
while to observe so repeatedly, th.it his gar- 
den seems a spot contrived oidy for the- 
growth of melancholy, but being always af- 
fected by it in the same ^way, I cannot help 
it. He showed me a nook, in which he had 
placed a bench, and where he said he found 
it very refreshing to smoke his pipe and me- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



161 



dilute. Here he sits with his hack against one 
briek wall and liis nose against another, which 
must, you know, be very refreshing, and 
greatly assist uicditation. He rejoices the 
more in this niche, because it is an acquisi- 
tion made at some expense, and with no small 
labcu' : several loads of earth were removed in 
(M-iler to make it, whicli loads of eartli, had 
1 the management of them, I sliould carry 
thillier again, and till up a place more tit in 
appearance to be a repository for the dead 
than the living. I would on no account put 
any man out of conceit with his innocent en- 
joyments, and therefore never tell him my 
thoughts upon this subject; but he is not 
seldom low-spirited, and I cannot but suspect 
that his situation helps to make him so. 

I shall be obliged to you for Hawkes- 
worth's Voyages when it can be sent conve- 
niently. The long evenings are begiiming, 
and nothing shortens them so efteetually as 
reading aloud. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLLVM UNW'IN. 

Olney, Sept. i!il, 1783. 

My dear William, — We are sorry that vou 
and your household partake so largely of the 
ill effects of this unhealthy season. You are 
liappy, however, in having hitherto escaped 
the epidemic fever which has prevailed much 
in this part of the kingdom, and carried many 
od'. Your mother and I are well. After 
more than a fortnight's indisposition, which 
slight appelhation is quite inadequate to the 
description of all I sutfered, 1 am at length 
restored by a grain or two of emetic tartar. 
It is a tax I generally pay in autumn. By 
this time, I hope, a purer ether than we have 
seen for months, and these brighter suus than 
the summer had to boast, have cheered your 
spirits, and made your existence more com- 
fortable. We are rational : but we are animal 
too; and therefore subject to the intiuences 
of the weather. The cattle in the fields show 
evident symptoms of lassitude and disgust in 
an unpleas,ant se.-ison ; and we, their lords 
and masters, are constrained to sympathize' 
with them: the only difference between us is. 
that they know not the cause of their dejec- 
tion, and we do, but, for our humiliation, are 
efjually at a loss to cure it. Upon this ac- 
count 1 l)ave somftimes wished myself a phi- 
losopher. How happy, in comparison with 
myself, does the .sagacious investigator of 
nature seem, whose fancy is ever emploved 
in the invention of hypnlhef^m:, and his reason 
in the support of them ! While he is account- 
ing for the origin of the winds, he has no 
leisure to attend to their influence upon him- 
self; nod, while he considers what the sun is 
made of, forgets that he has not shone for a 



month. One project, indeed, supplants an- 
other. The vorlicrs of Descartes gave way 
to the gravitation of Newton, and this again 
is threatened by the electrical (hiid of a mod- 
ern.* One generation blows bubbles, and 
the next breaks them. Hut in the meantime 
your philosopher is a hapjiy man. He es- 
capes a thousand incpiietudes to which the in- 
dolent are subject, and finds his occupation, 
whether it he the pursuit of a butterfly or a 
demonstration, the wholesomest exercise in 
the world. As he proceeds, he aiJi)lauds him- 
self His discoveries, though eventually per- 
haps they prove but dreams, are to him real- 
ities. The world gaze at him as he does at 
new phenomena in the heavens, and perhaps 
understand him as little. But tiiis does not 
l>revent their praises, nor at all disturb him in 
the enjoyment of that self-complacence, to 
which his imaginary success entitles him. 
He wears his honors while he lives, and, if 
another strips them off when he has been dead 
a century, it is no great matter: he can then 
make shift without them. 

I ha\-e said a. great deal upon this subject, 
and kiuiw not what it all amounts to. I did 
not intend a syllable of it when I began. 
But, currcnle calamo, I stumbled upon it. 
My end is to amuse myself and you. The 
former of these two points is secured. I .shall 
be happy if I do not miss the latter. 

By the way, what is your ojiinion of these 
air balloons? lam quite charmed with the 
discovery. Is it not possible (do you sup- 
pose?) to convey such a quantity of inflam- 
mable air into the stomach and abdomen, that 
the pliilosiipher. no longer gravitating to a 
centre, shall ascend by his own comparative 
levity, and never stop till he h.as re:iched the 
medium exactly in e(piilihrir) with himself? 
.May lu- not, by the help of a pasteboard rud- 
der attached to his posteriors, steer himself 
in that purer elenunit with ease, and again by 
a slow and gradual discharge of his aerial 
contents, recover his former tendency to the 
earth, and descend without tlie smallest dan- 
ger or inconvenience? The.se things are 
worth inquiry, and (I dare say) they will be 
impiired after as they deserve: the penme 
nnn hnmim datxc are likely to be less regret- 
ted than they were : and perhaps a flight of 
academicians and a covey of fii\e ladies may 
be no unconwnon spectacle in the next gen- 
eration. A letter which appeared in the pub- 
lic prints last week convinces me that the 
learned are not with<iut hopes of some such 
improvement upon tliis discovery. The au- 
thor is a sensible and ingenious man, and, 
under a reasonable apprehension that the ig- 
norant may feel themselves inclined to laugh 
upon a subject that affects himself with the 
utmost serionsnes:-, with much good manners 
and management bespeaks their patience, 

• Dr. Franliiln. 
11 



162 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



suggesting many good consequences that 
may result from a course ol experiments 
upon tliis macliine, and amongst others, that 
it maybe of use in ascertaining the sliapc of 
c-iiutinents and islands, and the face of wide- 
extended and far distant countries, an end 
not to be hoped for, unless by these means 
of extraordinary elevation, the human pros- 
])vct may be immensely enlarged, and the 
pliilosopher, exalted to the skies, attain a view 
of the whole liemisphere at once. But whe- 
tiicr he is to ascend by the mere inflation of 
his person, as liiated above, or wiiether in a 
sort of band-box, supported upon balloons, is 
not yet apparent, nor (I suppose) even in his 
own idea perfectly decided. 

Yours, my dear William, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Oliiey, Oct. 6, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — It is indeed a melancholy 
consideration, that the gospel, whose direct 
tendency is to promote the happiness of man- 
kind, in the present as well as in the life to 
come, and which so effectually answers the 
design of its author, whenever it is well under- 
stood and sincerely believed, should, through 
the ignorance, the bigotry, the superstition of 
its professors, and the ambition of popes, and 
princes, the tools of popes, have produci'd in- 
cidentally so much mischief; only furnishing 
the world with a plausible excuse to worry 
each other, while they sanctified tlie worst 
cause with the specious pretext of zeal for 
the furtherance of the best. 

Angels descend from heaven to publish 
peace between man and his Jlakcr — the Prince 
of Peace himself comes to confirm and estab- 
lish it, and war, hatred, and desolation, are 
the consequence. Thousands quarrel about 
the interpretation of a book which none of 
them understand. He that is slain dies firmly 
persuaded that the crown of martyrdom ex- 
pects him, and he that slew him is equally 
convinced that he has done God service.* In 
reality, they are both mistaken, and equally 
unentitled to the honor they arrogate to 
themselves. If a multitude of blind men 
should set out for a certain city, and dispute 
about the right road till a battle ensued be- 
tween them, the probable eflcct would be, 
that none of them would ever reacli it ; and 
such a fray, preposterous and shocking in tlie 

* The bitter dissensions of -professing Ctii-istiiins have 
lUwHya atforded ground for the ridicule imd scolT of the 
infidel. Voltaire parodied those well-kiinwii \vt)rds, "See 
how these Christians love one aiiullier," in Iho following 
sarcastic manner, — "See how Iliesr Chrisliinis hatr one 
another." It is related of Ch-irles the Filth, that, after 
his voluntary abdication of the throne, he amused him- 
self by the occupation of inakins watches; and, finding 
that he never conld, by any contrivance, make two 
watches to agi"ee together, he exclaimed against his own 
foUy, in having spent so large a portion of his life in en- 
deavoring to make men agree on the subject of religion. 



extreme, would exhibit a picture in some de- 
gree resembling the original of which we have 
been speaking. And why is not the world 
thus occupied at present? even because they 
liave exchanged a zeal that was no better than 
madness for an indifference equally pitiable 
and absurd. The Holy Scpnlchre has lost 
its importance in the eyes of n.ations called 
Christian, not because the light of true wis- 
dom has delivered them from a superstitious 
attachment to the spot, but because he that 
was buried in it is no longer regarded by them 
as the Savior of the w'orld. The exercise of 
reason, eidightened by philosophy, has cured 
them indeed of the misery of an abused under- 
standing ; but, together with the delusion, they 
have lost the substance, and, for the sake of 
the lies that were grafted upon it, have quar- 
relled with the truth itself. Here then we 
see the ne plus ultra of human wisdom, at least 
in affivirs of religion. It enlightens the mind 
with respect to non-essentials, but, with rc- 
s])ect to that in which the essence of Chri.s- 
tianity consists, leaves it perfectly in the dark. 
It can discover many errors that in ditlerent 
ages have disgraced tlie ttiith, but it is only to 
make way for the admission of one more fatal 
than them all, which represents that faith it- 
self as a delusion. Why tliose evils have 
been permitted shall be known iiereaftcr. 
One thing in the mean time is certain ; that 
the folly and frenzy of the professed disciples 
of the gospel have been more dangerous to 
its interests than all the avowed hostilities of 
its adversaries, and pcrha])s for this cause 
these mischiefs might be suffered to prevail 
for a season, that its divine original and na- 
ture might be the more illustrated, when it 
should appear that it was able to stand its 
ground for ages against that most formidable 
of all attacks, the indiscretion of its frieiid.s. 
The outrages th.at have followed this perver- 
sion of the truth have proved indeed a stum- 
bling-block to individuals ; the wise of this 
world, with all their wisdom, have not been 
able to distinguish between the blessing and 
abuse of it. Voltaire was offended, and Gib- 
bon has turned his back ; but the flock of 
Chfist is still nourished and still increases, 
notwithstanding the unbelief of a philosopher 
is able to convert bread into a stone and a 
fish into a serpent. 

I am much obliged to you ft>r the Voyages, 
which I received* and began to read last 
night. My imagination is %o captiv.ated upon 
these occasions, that I seem to partake with 
the navigators in all the dangers they encoun- 
tered.f I lose my anchor ; my main-sail is 

* llawkesworth's. 

t " He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 

Ascend his '.opmast, through his peering eyes 
Discover countries, with a kindred he.ort 
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; 
While fancy, like the finger of a clock. 
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home." 

Task, book iv. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



163 



rent into shreds ; I kill a shark, and hy sif^ns 
convorsi' with a Patiiironian.and all tliiswilti- 
out movinn; tVoni the liix'sido. Tlu' princ'ipal 
fruits of these eireuits that liave been made 
round tlui ijlohe sc.cni likoly to be the amuse- 
ment of ihose that stayed at home. Diseov- 
cries have been made, Imt sueh diseoveries as 
will hirdlv satisfy the expense of sueh under- 
takiuLjs. We bronf^ht away an Indian, and, 
liaviiii,' debanehed liini, we sent Iiiin lionie 
again to eoinmunieate the infeetion to his 
eountry — tine sport to be sure, but sueh as 
will not defray the eost. Nations that live 
upon bread-fruit, and have no mines to make 
them worthy of our aeipiaintanee, will be but 
little visited for the future. So nuieh the 
better for them ; their poverty is indeed their 
merey. 

Yours, my dear friend, \V. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olncy, Oct 10, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I have nothing to say on 
politieal subjeets, for two reasons ; first, be- 
(^■.luse I know none that at present would 
prove very amusinir, espeeially to you, who 
love your eountry; and, seeondly. beeause 
there are none that I have the vanity to think 
myself qualified to diseuss. I must beg leave. 
however, to rejoiee a little at the failure of 
the Caisse d'Eseomptes, because I think the 
Freneh have Hell deserved it ; and to mourn 
equally that the Royal George cannot be 
weighed; the rather, beenuse I wrote two 
poems, one Latin and one English, to cneour- 
age the atteinpt.f The former of these only 
liaving been ])ublished, whieh the sailors 
would understand but little of, m.ay be the 
reason, perhaps, why they have not succeeded. 
Believe me, my friend, 

Afl'eetionately yours, W. C. 

* Private corrcspornlfiice. 

t An b\vi^iinl iiioiituiifiit, efL'ctcd nbovc the jrravu of 
Diirty-niiu^ sailurs. who.^i- hodit'^ were su!)sei|Ueiitly 
:V..irul, wiis ercctinl in the chiirchyanl nf Purt.**!';!, to com- 
nii'morau- Ihe mclitlicholy loss of Uio Uoy;il Uoori^'f. \Vi- 
subjoin the iuUTeHtio'.? epitaph, which is inscribed on 
black marble, in gold letters 

'* RKAnKR, 

mTH SOr.KMS THOIMJIIT 

KUavrY Tins ORWK, 

ANP RKKLErT 

ON THE rNTlMKLY HEATH 

OF THY FELLOW MORTALS', 

ANO WHILST 

AS A HAN, A BRITON, AND A FATRIOT, 

THOU RKADEST 

TUB MELANCHOLY NARRATIVE, 

DROP A TEAR 

FOR THY country's 

LOBS." 

At the bottom of (he monument, in a compartment by 
itself. !iri' Ihc folhjwin^ lines, in allusion to the brave 
Admiral Kempeiifelt: 

'*"ris not this stone, ro:frrttcd chief, thy name. 
Thy worth and merit shall extentl to fame : 
Brilliant achievements have thy name imprest, 
In lusting character^ on Albion's breast'^ 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIney, Oct. K!, 17S3. 

I\Iy dear Friend. — I am nineh obliged to 
you for your .\nieriean anecdotes, and feel 
the obligation perhaps more sensibly, the la- 
bin" of transcribing being in particular that to 
which I myself have the greatest aversion. 
The loyalists are much to be pitied: driven 
from ail the comforls that depend upon, and 
are intimately connected with, a residence in 
their native land, and sent to cultivate a dis- 
tant one, without the means of doing it, 
abandoned too through a deplorable neces- 
sity, by the government to which they sacri- 
ficed all,* they e.vhibit a spectacle of distress, 
which one cannot view, even at this distance, 
without participating in what they feel. Why 
could not some of our useless wastes and 
forests have been allotted to thtyr support ! 
To liave built them houses indeed, and fur- 
nished them with implements of husbandry, 
would have put us to no small expense ; but 
I .suppose the increase of population and the 
improvement of the soil, would soon have 
been felt as a national advantage, and have 
indemnified the state if not enriched it. We 
are bountiful to foreigners, and neglect those 
of our own household. I remember that, 
eompassion.atiijg the miseries of the Portu- 
guese, at the time of the Lisbon earthquake,! 
we sent them a ship-load of tools to clear 
away the rubbish with, and to assist them in 
rebuilding the city. 1 remember too it was 
reported at the time that the court of Portu- 
gal accepted our wheelbarrows and spades 
with a very ill grace, and treated our bounty 
with contempt. An act like this in behalf of 
our brethren, carried only a little farther, 
might possibly have redeemed them from ruin, 
have resulted in emolument to ourselves, have 
been received with joy and repaiil with grati- 
tude. Such are my speculations upon the 
subject, who, not being a politician by profes- 
sion, and very seldom giving my attentien for 
a moment to such a matter, may not be aware 
of difficulties and objections, which they of 
the cabinet can discern with half an eye. 
Perli.aps to have taken under our protection 
a race of men proscribed by the Congress, 
might be thought dangerous to the interests 
we hope to have hereafter in their high and 
mighty regards and affection.s. It is ever the 
way of tho,se who rule the earth, to leave out 
of their reckoning llini who rules the uni- 
verse. They forget that the jjoor have a 
friend more powerful to avenge than they 
can be to oj)press, and that treachery and 
perfidy must therefore ])rove bad policy in the 
end. Tlie Americans themst^lves appear to 

* In Iho terms of pe.ice concluded wilh .Vmerirn, the 
loyalists, who adhered in their alleLriiiiiee to i;r.'iil Hrit- 
aiii. W(?re not siillicienlly remembered, cmi^itlerini: the 
sacrifices Ihey had made, and thus had Uie misfortune of 
beinii persectilcd by America, and neulected by Knglond. 

t This event occurred in the year 175(>. 



164 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me to be in a situation litle less pitiable than 
that of the desertod loyalists. Their fears 
of arbitrary imposition were certainly well 
founded. A struggle therefore might be ne- 
cessary, in order to prevent it, and this end 
might surely have been answered without a 
Venuneiation of dependence. But the ])as- 
sions of a whole people, once put in motion, 
are not soon quieted. Contests beget aver- 
sion, a little success inspires more ambitious 
hopes, and thus a slight qu;irrel terminates at 
last in a breach never to be healed, and per- 
haps in the ruin of both parties. It does not 
seem likely that a country so distinguished 
by the Creator witli everything that can make 
it desirable should be given up to desolation 
forever; and they possibly have reason on 
their side, who suppose that in time it will 
have the pre-eminence over all others ; but 
the day of such prosperity seems tar distant 
— Omnipotence indeed can hasten it, and it 
may dawn when it is least expected. But 
we govern ourselves in all our reasonings 
by present appearances. Persons at least 
no better informed than myself are con- 
strained to do so. 

I intended to have taken another subject 
when, I began, and I wish I had. No man 
living is less qualified to settle nations than I 
am ; but when I write to you, I talk, that is I 
write as fast as my pen can run, and on this 
occasion it ran away with me. I acknowledge 
myself in your debt for your last favor, but 
cannot pay you now, unless you will accept 
as payment, what I know you value more 
than all I can say beside, the most unfeigned 
assurances of my affection for you and yours. 
Yours, &c., W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, Oct. 20, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I have made a point of 
saying no fine things to Mr. Bacon.f upon an 
occasion that would well have justified tliem ; 
deterred by a ciireat he entered in his letter. 
Nothing can be more handsome tiian the ]ires- 
ent, nor more obliging than the maimer in 
which he has made it. I take it for granted 
that the plate is, line for line, and stroke for 
stroke, an exact representation of his per- 
formance, as nearly, at least, as light and 
shade can exhibit, upon a Hat surface, the ef- 
fect of a piece of statuary. I may be allo«'cd 
therefore to say that I admire it. My situa- 
tion aflxirds me no opportunity to cultivate 
the science of connoisseurship ; neither would 
there be much propriety in my speaking the 
language of one to you, who disclaim the 
cliaracter. But we both know when we are 

* Private correspondence. 

t The celebrated statuarj' who executed the noble 
monviment to the memory of Lord Chatham, in Weal- 
niiustcr Abbey. 



pleased. It occurs to me, however, that I 
ought to say what it is that pleases me, for a 
general commendation, where there are so 
many particular beauties, would be insipid 
and unjust. 

I think the figure of Lord Chatham singu- 
larly graceful, and his countenance full of the 
character that belongs to him. It speaks not 
only great ability and consummate skill, but 
a tender and heartfelt interest in the welfare 
of the charge committed to him. In the figure 
of the City, there is all tliat empressemejit, 
(pardon a French term, it expresses my idea 
better tlian any English one that occurs,) that 
the importance other errand calls for: and it 
is noble in its air, though in a posture of sup- 
plication. But the figure of Commerce is in- 
deed a perfect beauty. It is a literal truth, 
that I felt the tears flush into my eyes while 
I looked at her. The idea of so much elegance 
and grace having found so powerful a protec- 
tion, was iiTCsistible. There is a complacency 
and serenity in the air and countenance of 
Britannia, more suited to her dignity than 
that exultation and triumph which a less ju- 
dicious hand might have dressed her in. She 
seems happy to sit at the feet of her deliverer. 
I have most of the monuments in the Abbey 
by heart, but I recollect none that ever gave 
me so luucli pleasure. The faces are all ex- 
pressive, and the figures are all graceful. If 
you tliink the opinion of so unlearned a spec- 
tator worth communicating, and that I have 
not said more than j\Ir. Bacon's modesty can 
bear without oft'ence, you arc welcome to 
make liim privy to my sentiments. I know 
not why he should be hurt by just praise; 
his fine talent is a gift, and all the merit of it 
is His property who gave it. 
Believe me, my dear friend. 

Sincerely and affectionately yours, 
W. C. 

I am out of your debt. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olncy, Oct. 20, 1783. 

I should not have been thus long silent, 
had I known with certainty where a letter of 
mine miglit find you. Your summer excur- 
sions however are now at an end, and, ad- 
dressing a line to you in the centre of the 
busy scene, in which you spend your winter, 
I am pretty sure of my mark. 

I see the winter approaching without much 
concern, though a passionate lover of fine 
weather, and the pleasant scenes of summer; 
but the long evenings have their comforts too, 
and there is hardly to be found upon earth. I 
suppose, so snug a creature as an Englishman 
by his fire-side in the winter. I mean, how- 
ever, an Englishman that lives in the country, 
for in London it is not very easy to avoid in- 
trusion. I have two ladies to read to, some- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



165 



times more, but never less — at present we 
are cireuinnavigatinn^ the globe, and I find the 
old story witli Vliich I amused nivselt' some 
years since, throujfli the {jreat t'eliuity of a 
inoinorv not very retentive, almost now. I 
am however sadly at a loss for Cook's Voy- 
age — t'an you send it '. I sliall be f;l:id of 
Foster's loo. These together will make the 
winter pass merrily, and you will mueh oblige 
me. W. C. 

The last letter contains a slight sketch of 
those happy winter evenings, whieh the poet 
has painted so e.xquisitely in verse.* The two 
ladies whom he mentions as his constant 
auditors, were Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. 
The public, already indebted to the friendly 
and cheerful spirit of the latter, for the 
pleasant ballad of John Gilpin, had soon to 
thank her inspiring benevolence for a work 
jpf superior dignity, the masterpiece of Cow- 
per's rich and fertile imagination. 

This lady happened, as an admirer of Mil- 
ton, to be partial to blank verse, and often 
solicited her poetical friend to try his powers 
in that species of composition. After re- 
peated solicitation, he promised her, if she 
would furnish the subject, to comply with 
her request. " Oil !" she replied, " you can 
never be in want of a subject: — you can 
write upon any : write upon this sofa !" The 
poet obeyed her command, and from the 
lively repartee of fomiliar conversation arose 
a poem of many thousand verses, unexampled 
perhaps both in its origin and excellence — 
a poem of such infinite variety, tliat it seems 
to include every subject and every style with- 
out any violation of harmony and order ; 
which delineates nature, under her most at- 
tractive forms, and breathes a spirit of the 
purest and most exalted morality. 

A great part of the " Task" appears to have 
been composed in the winter — a circumstance 
the more remarkable, as the wintry months 
were generally unfavorable to the health of 
the poet. In the commencement of the poem, 
he m:irks both the season and the year, in the 
tender address to his companion. 

'■ Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
Fast lock'd in mine." 

Any circumstances whieh tend to illustrate 
the origin and progress of this poem deserve 
to be recorded with minute attention. We 
select a series of p:issages from Cowper's 
Letters to Mr. Bull, as affording this interest- 
ing information. 

August 3. 1783. — " Your se.a-side situ.ition, 
your beautiful prospects, your fine rides, and 
the sight of the palaces which yon have seen, 
we have not envied you : but we are glad that 
you have enjoyed them. VV'hy should we envy 
any man. Is not our greenhouse a cabinet 
* See Task, book iv. 



of perfumes ? It is at this moment fronted 
with carnations and balsams, with mignonette 
and roses, with jessamine and woodbine, and 
wants nothing but your pipe to make it truly 
Arabian : — a wilderness of sweets! The 'Sofa' 
is ended, but not tiiiished ; a paradox, which 
your natural acumen, sharpened by habits ipf 
logical attention, will enable you to reconcile 
in a moment. Do not imagine however that 
I lounge over it — on the contrary I find it 
severe exercise to mould and fashion it to my 
mind !" 

February 22, 1784. — '■ 1 congratulate you on 
the thaw : 1 suppose it is an universal bles- 
sing, and probably felt all over Europe. I 
myself am the better for it who wanted noth- 
ing that might make the frost support^ible : 
what reason, therefore, have they to rejoice, 
who, being in want of all things, were ex- 
posed to its utmost rigor? The ice in my 
ink however is not yet dissolved. It was 
long before the frost seized it, but it at last 
prevailed. The 'Sofa' has consequently re- 
ceived little or no addition since. It consists 
at present of four books and |)art of a fifth : 
when the sixth is finished, the work is accom- 
plished ; but, if I may judge by my present 
inability, that period is at a considerable dis- 
tance." 

The following extract, not only mentions 
the completion of his great work, but gives 
a particular account of his next production. 

November 8, 1784.— '"The Task,' as yon 
know, is gone to the press; since it went I 
have been employed in writing another poem, 
which I am now transcribing, and which in a 
short time I design shall follow. It is enti- 
tled ' Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools ;' 
the busiiu'.ss and purpose of it are to censure 
the want of discipline, and the scandalous 
inattention to morals, that obtain in them, es- 
pecially in the largest ; and to recommend 
private tuition as a mode of education prefer- 
able on all accounts; to call \ipon fathers to 
become tutors to their own sons, where that 
is prMcticable ; to take home a domestic tu- 
tor, where it is not; and, if neither can be 
done, to place them under the care of such 
a man as he to whom I am writing; some 
rural parson, whose attention is limited to a 
few." 

The re;id<'r will find the poet himself relat- 
ing, in more than one letter of the next year, 
some particulars of the time in which his 
great work, '' The Task," was composed. 
Writing to Mr. Newton, on the 20th of Oc- 
tober, 1784, Cowper says of his '-Task," 
then in the press. " I began it about this time 
twelvennuith." These words of hasty and 
imperfect recollection nnght give rise to a 
persuasion, that this extensive and admirable 
production was completed in a year. But, 
as it is proved by the first extract from the 
poet's letters to Jlr. Bull, that the first book 



1G6 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



(entitled the " Sofa") was ended on the 3rd 
of'Aii!;ust, 1783, we m:iy reasonably conclude 
that this interesting poem was begun in June 
or July. It was not imparted, as it advanced, 
to any of the poet's confidential friends, ex- 
cept to the two ladies with whom he lived at 
the time of its eorameneement, and to his 
kind and sympathizing neighbor, Mr. Bull, 
who had shown his benevolent zeal in en- 
couraging the spirit of Cowper to cheer and 
amuse itself in poetical studies. The final 
verses of " The Task" were probably written 
in September, 1784, as Cowper sent a tran- 
scrijit of the poem for the press to his favor- 
ite young friend, Mr. Unwin, e.arly in October. 
His modest reserve appears very remarkable 
in his not having communicated this compo- 
sition even to Mr. Unwin, till it was abso- 
lutely finished, and his tender delicacy of re- 
gard and attention to that young friend was 
amiably displayed in assigning to him the 
honorable otHce of revising and consigning 
to the press a work so important. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Nov. 3, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — My time is short, and 
ray opportunity not the most tiivorable. My 
letter will consequently be short likewi.se, 
and perhajjs not very intelligible. I find it 
no very easy matter to bring my mind into 
that degree of composure, which is necessary 
to the arrangement either of words or matter. 
You will naturally expect to receive some 
account of this confusion that I describe, 
some reason given for it. On Saturday night, 
at eleven o'clock, when I had not been in bed 
five minutes, I was alarmed by a cry of fire, 
announced by two or three shrill screams upon 
our staircase. Our servants, who were going 
to bed, saw it from tlieir windows; and, in 
appearance, so near, that they thought our 
house in danger. I immediately rose, and 
putting by the curtain, saw sheets of fire 
rising above the ridge of Mr. Palmer's hou.se, 
opposite to ours. The deception was such 
that I had no doubt it had begun uitli him, 
but soon found that it was rather farther otf. 
In fact, it was at three places. Having broke 
out in three different parts, it is supposed to 
have been maliciously kindled. A tar-barrel 
and a quantity of tallow made a most tre- 
mendous blaze : and the buildings it had 
seized upon being all thatched, the appear- 
ance became every moment more formidable. 
Providentially the night w.as perfectly calm, 
so calm that candles, without lanterns, of 
which tliere were multitudes in the street, 
burnt as steadily as in the house. By four 
in the morning it was so far reduced that all 
danger seemed to be over; but the confusion 
it had occasioned was almost infinite. Every 
* Private correspondence. 



man who supposed his dw^elling-house in 
jeopardy, emptied it as fast as he could, and 
conveyed his moveables to thchouse of some 
neighbor, supposed to be more secure. Ours, 
in the space of two hour.s, was so filled with 
all sorts of lumber, that we had not even 
room for a chair b)' the fire-side. George 
is the principal sufferer. He ga\ e eigh- 
teen guineas, or nearly that sum, to a woman, 
whom, in his hurry, he mistook for his wife; 
but the supposed wife walked off with the 
money, and he will probably never recover it. 
He has likewise lost forty pounds' worth of 
wool. London never exhibited a scene of 
greater depredation, drunkenness and riot. 
Everything was stolen that could be got at, 
and every drop of liquor drunk that was not 
guarded. Only one thief has yet been de- 
tected; a woman of the name of J , who 

was stopped by yonng Handscomb ^^■ith an 
apron full of plunder. He was forced to 
strike her down, before he could wrest iF 
from her. Could you visit the place, you 
would see a most striking proof of a Provi- 
dence interposing to stop the progress of the 
flames. They had almost reached, that is to 
say, within six yards of Daniel Raban's wood- 
pile, in which were fifty pounds' worth of 
faggots and furze ; and exactly there they 
were extinguished; otherwise, especially if 
a breath of air had happened to move, all that 
side of the town must probably have been 
consumed. After all this dreadful conflagra- 
tion, we find nothing burnt but the out- 
houses ; and the dwellings to which they be- 
longed have suft'ered only tlie damage of 
being unroofed on that side next the fire. 
No lives were lost, nor any limbs broken. 
Mrs. Unwin, whose spirits served her while 
the hubbub lasted, and the day after, begins 
to feel the effect of it now. But I hope she 
will be relieved from it soon, being better this 
evening than I expected. As for me, I am 
impregnable to all such assaults. I have 
nothing, however, but this sid>ject in my 
mind, and it is in vain that I invite any other 
into it. Having, therefore, exhausted this, I 
fini.sh, assuring you of our united love, and 
hoping to find myself in a frame of mind 
more suited to my employment wlicn I write 
next. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNAVIN. 

Olney, Nov. 10, 1783. 
My dear Friend, — I have lost and wasted 
almost all my writing time, in making an al- 
teration in the verses I either enclose or sub- 
join, for I know not which will be the case 
at present. If prose comes readily, I shall 
transcribe them on another sheet, otherwise 
on this. You will understand before you 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



167 



have read many of them, that they are not for 
the press. I lav voii under no other injunc- 
tions. The unliiiiil behavior of onr aeciuaint- 
anec, thought it is possible that in some in- 
stances it may not niueh affect our liappiiiess. 
nor cMijage many of our tlioughts, will some- 
times obirude iisolf upon us with a degree 
of imjKjrtunity not easily resisted, and then, 
perhaps, though almost insensible of it be- 
fore, we feel more than the occasion will 
justify. In such a moment it was that I con- 
ceived this poem, and gave loose to a degree 
of resentment which, perhaps. I ought not to 
have indulged, but which in a cooler hour I 
cannot altogether condemn. Jly former in- 
timacv with the two characters was such, that 
I could not hut feel myself provoked by the 
neglect with which they both treated me on 
a late occ;ision.* So much by way of pre- 
face. 

You ought not to have supposed that, if 
you had visited us last summer, the pleasure 
of the interview would have been all your 
own. By such an imagination you wrong 
both yourself and us. Do you suppose w'e 
do not love you '. Vou cannot suspect your 
mother of coldness, and as to me, assure 
yourself I have no friend in the world with 
whom I coninmnicate without the least re- 
serve, yourself excepted. Take hearl then, 
and when you find a favorable oppcirtunily 
to come, assure yourself of such a welcome 
from us both as you have a right to look for. 
•But I have observed in your two last letters 
sotlU'what of a dejection and melancholy, th.it 
I am afraid you do not sulhciently strive 
against. I suspect you of being too seden- 
tary. " You cannot walk.'' Why you can- 
not is best known to yourself. I am sure 
your legs .are long enough, and your person 
does not overload tliem. But I beseech you 
ride, and ride ofien. I think 1 have heard 
you .say you cannot even do th.at without an 
object. Is not health an object '. Is not a 
new prospect, which in most countries is 
gained at the end of every mile, an object? 
Assure yourself that easy chairs are no 
friends to cheerfulness, and that a long win- 
ter spent by the fireside is a prelude to an 
unhealthy spring. Everything I see in the 
fields is to me an object; and I can look at 
the same rivulet, or at a handsome tree, every 
day of my life with new pleasure. This in- 
deed is partly the effect of a natural taste for 
rural beauty, and partly the effect of habit, 
for I never in all my life have let slip the op- 
portunity of breathing fresh air, am) convers- 
ing with nature, when I could fiirly catch it. 
I earnestly recounnend a cultivation of the 
same taste. to you, sn.^pecting that you have 
neglected it, and suffer for doing so. 

LmhI Saturday se"nnight, the moment 1 had 

* I.<)rU Thurlow and Oilman, to M-tiom he presented 
his tirU vutumc, and received no ackuowloUgmcnt. 



composed myself in my bed, your mother 
too li.iving just got into hers, we were 
.■Uarmed by a cry of fire, on the staircase. I 
immediately rose, and .saw sheets of flame 
above the roof of Mr. Palmer's house, our 
opjiosite neighbor. The mischief, however, 
was not so near to him as it seemed to be, 
having begun at a butcher's yard, at a little 
distance!. We made all haste down stairs, 
and soon threw open the street door, for the 
ree<'ption of as much lumber, of all sorts, as 
our house would hold, brought into it by 
several who thought it necessary to move 
their furniture. In two hours' time we had 
so much that we could hold no more, even 
the uninhaliited part of our building bein;.' 
filled. Mot that we ourselves were entirely 
secure — an adjoining thatch, on which fell 
showers of sparks, being rather a dangerous 
neighbor. Providentially, however, the night 
was perfectly calm, and we escaped. By four 
in the morning it was extinguished, having 
consumed many oul^buildings, but no dwell- 
ing-house. Your mother sufi'ered a little in 
her health, from the fatigue and hustle of 
the night, but soon recovered ; as for me, it 
hurt me not. The slightest wind would have 
carried the fire to the very extremity of the 
town, there being multitudes of tluatchcd 
buildings, and faggot-piles so near to each 
other, that they must have proved infallible 
conductors. 

The balloons prosper: I congratulate you 
upon it. Thanks to Montgolfier, we shall fiy 
at last. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO TirE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

OInP.v, Nov. IT, 178.1. 
My dear Friend, — The country around us 
is much alarmed with apprehensiuns of fire, 
two have happened since that of Olney. One 
at Ilitchin, where the damage is said to 
amount to eleven thousand pounds, and an- 
other at a place not far from Hitchin, of 
which I h;ive not learned the name. Letters 
have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to 
burn the town; and the inhabitants have 
been so intimidated as to have placi'd a guard 
in many parts of it, several nights past. 
Since inu' conMagration here, we have sent 
two womeit and a lioy to the justice for dep- 
redation ; S R , for stealing a piece 

of beef, which, in her excuse she said she in- 
tended to take care of This lady, whom 
you well remember, escaped for want of evi- 
dence ; not that evidence was indeed want- 
ing, but our men of Gotham judged it 
unnecessary to send it. With her went the 
woman whom I mentioned before, who, it 
seems, has made .some sort of profession, but 

* Private correspondence. 



168 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude 
of conduct rather inconsistent with it, having 
tilled her apron witli wearing apparel, which 
she likewise intended to take care of. She 
would have gone to the county gaol, had 
William Rahan, the baker's son, who prosecu- 
ted, insisted upon it ; but he good-naturedly, 
though, I think, weakly, interposed in her 
favor, and begged lier off. The young gen- 
tleman wlio accompanied tliese fair ones is 
tile junior son of Molly Boswell. He had 
stolen some iron-work, the property of 
Griggs, the butclier. Being convicted, he was 
ordered to be wliipped, which operation he 
underwent at the cart's tail, from the stone- 
house to the high arch and back again. He 
seemed to show great fortitude, but it was 
all an imposition upon the public. The bea- 
dle, who performed it, had tilled his left hand 
with red ochre, tlu'ough wliich after every 
stroke he drew the lasli of his wliip, leaving 
the appearance of a wound upon the skin, 
but in reality not hurting him at all. This 

being perceived by Mr. Constable H , 

who followed the beadle, he applied his 
cane, without any such management or pre- 
caution, to the slioulders of the too merciful 
executioner. The scene immediately became 
more interesting. The beadle could by no 
means be prevailed upon to strike liard, 
which provoked the constable to strike 
h.arder; and this double flogging continued, 
till a lass of Silver-end, pitying the pitiful 
beadle thus suffering under the hands of the 
pitiless constable, joined the procession, and 
placing herself immediately behind the latter 
seized him by his capillary club, and pulling 
liim backwards by the same, slapped his face 
with a most Amazonian fury. This concate- 
nation of events has taken up more of my 
• paper than I intended it should, but I could 
not forbear to inform you how the beadle 
thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle, 
and tlie lady the constable, and how the thief 
was the only person concerned who suffered 
nothing. Mr. Tcedon has been here, and is 
gone again. He came to thank me for some 
left-off clothes. In answer to our inquiries 
after his health, he replied that he had a slow 
fever, which made him take all possible care 
not to inllame liis blood. I admitted his pru- 
dence, but in his particular instance could not 
very clearly discern the need of it. Pump 
water will not heat him much; and, to speak 
a little in his own style, more inebriating 
fluids are to liim, I fancy, not very attainalile. 
He brought us new.s, the truth of which, 
however, I do not vouch for, that the town 
of Bedford was actually on fire yesterday, 
and the flames not extinguished when the 
bearer of tlie tidings left it.* 



* A considerable fire occurred at tliis time in the town 
of Bedford, and ttiirty-nino houses were consumed, but 
it is said from accidental causes. 



Swift observes, when he is giving his rea- 
sons why the preacher is elevated always 
above his hearers, that, let the crowd be as 
great as it will below, there is always room 
enough overhead. If the French philoso- 
phers can carry their art of flying to the per- 
fection they desire, the observation may be 
reversed, the crowd will be overhead, and 
they will have most room who stay lielow. 
I can assure you, however, upon my own ex- 
perience, that this way of travelling is very 
delightful. I dreamt a night or two since, 
that I dro\'e myself through the upper re- 
gions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest 
ease and security. Having hnishcd the tour 
I intended, I made a short turn, and with one 
flourish of my whip descended ; my horses 
prancing and curvetting with an infinite share 
of .spirit, and witliout the least danger either 
to me or my vehicle. The time. \vc may sup- 
pose, is at hand, and seems to be prognosti- 
cated by my dream, when these airy excur- 
sions will be universal, when judges will fly 
the circuit and bishops tlieir visitations ; and 
when the tour of Europe will be performed 
vvitli much greater speed, and with equal ad- 
vantage, by all who travel merely for the 
sake of having it to say, that they have made 
t.* 

I beg you will accept for yourself and 
yours our unfeigned love, and remember me 
affectionately to Jlr. Bacon, when you see 
him. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f 

Olney, Nov. 23, 1T83. 
iMy dear Friend, — Your opinion of voyages 
and travels would spoil an appetite less keen 
than mine ; but being pretty much, perhaps 
more than any man who can be said to enjoy 
his liberty, confined to a spot, and being very 
desirous of knowing all that can be known 
of this same planet of ours while I have the 
honor to belong to if— and having, besides, 
no otlier nutans of information at my com- 
mand — I am constrained to be satisfied with 
narratives, not always, indeed, to be implicitly 
depended upon, but whicli, being subjected 
to the exercise of a little consideration, can- 
not materially decei\e us. Swiidjurn's is a 
book I had hxed upon, and determined if 
possible to procure, being pleased with some 
extracts from it which I found in the Review. 
I need hardly add, th.at I shall be much ob- 
liged to JMrs. Hill for a sight of it. I ac- 
count myself truly and much indebted to 
that lady for the trouble slie is ,so kind as to 
take upon my account, and shall esteem my- 

* The discovery of balloons h.id attracted the allention 
of the public at this period, and v.irious speculations 
were indulged ua to the probable result. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



169 



Sflf her debtor for all tlie aimisement I meet 
witli in thp soutlu'rii lieiiiisiiliLTO, should 1 be 
so I'ortiiiiate as to ^ot ihero. My reading is 
l)rc'll_v niiK'h i'ir(.'iiinsiTibi.'d both by want of 
liiioksaiid till,' inlliu'iici' id' particular ri'asons. 
I'ulitii's are my abhorrenee, being almost al- 
ways hypothetieal,IUietuating,and impraetioa- 
ble. Philosophy — I should have said natural 
])hilo-'opliy, matlu'matieally studied, does not 
suit nie; and sueh exhibitions of that subject 
as are ealeulated for less learned readers, I 
liave read in former days and remember in 
the present. Poetry, English poetry, 1 never 
toueli, being pretty much addicted to the 
writing of it, and knowing tliat much inter- 
course witli those gentlemen betrays us una- 
voidably into a habit cd' imitation, which I 
h;ite and despise most cordially. 

If /;;; be the happiest man who has least 
money in the funds, there are few upon 
earth whom I have any occasion to envy. I 
would consent, however, to have my pounds 
multiplied into thousands, even at the hazard 
of all 1 might feel from that tormenting pas- 
sion. I send nothing to the papers myself, 
but Onwin sometimes scuds for me. His rc- 
cci)tack' of my si|uibs is the l*ublic Adver- 
tiser ; but tliey are very few, and my present 
occupations are of a kind Ihat will still have 
a tendency to make them fewer. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 

The neglect which Cowper had experienced 
from a high quarter seems deeply to h.ave 
w'ounded his sensitive spirit, and to have dic- 
tated some of the remarks to be found in the 
following letter. 

TO THE REV. \\qi,I,IAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Nov. 24, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — An evening unexpect- 
edly retired, and which your motlier and I 
spend without company (an occurrence far 
from frequent), affords me a favorable op- 
porl unity to write by to-morrow's post, 
which else I could not have found. You are 
very good to consider my literary necessities 
with so much attcntiqn, and I feel propor- 
tionably gr.iteful. Blair's Lectures (tliough 
I suppose they must make a part of my pri- 
vate studies, not WinrraJcaplum ftrminnrum} 
will be ])erfcctly welcome. You say you felt 
my ver.ses: I assiire you that in this you fol- 
lowed my example, for 1 felt them lirst. A 
man's lordship is nolhing to me, any farther 
than in connexion with (lualities that entitle 
him to my respect. If he thinks himself 
privileged by it to treat me wilh neglect, I 
am his humble servant, and shall never be at 
a loss to render him an equivalent. I will 
not however belie my knowledge of maiddnd 
.so much as to seem surprised at a treatment 
which I had abundant reason to expect. To 



these men, with whom I was once intimate, 
and for many years, I am no longer neces- 
sury, no longer convenient, or in any resjiect 
an objeet. They tliink of me as of the man 
in the moon, and, whether I have a lantern, 
or a dog and faggot, or whether I have nei- 
ther of these desirable acconunodations, is to 
them a matter of perfect indirt'erence : upon 
that point we are agreed ; our indilfereuce is 
mutual; and, were I to publish again, which 
is not possible, I should give them a proof 
of it. 

L'Estrange's Josej)hus has lately furnishe<l 
us with evening lectures. But the historian 
is so tediously circumstantial, and the tr.ins- 
lator so iusupportably coarse and vulgar, that 
we are all three weary of him. How would 
Tacitus have shone upon such a subject, 
great master as he was of the art of descrip- 
tion, concise without obscurity, and afl'eetiug 
witlntut being poetical. But so it was or- 
dcre<l, and for wise reasons no doubt, that 
the greatest calamities any people ever suf- 
fered, and an .accomplishment of one of the 
most signal prophecies in the scripture, 
should be recorded by one of the worst wri- 
ters. The man was a temporizer too, and 
courted the favor of his Roman masters at 
the expense of his own creed, or else an iu- 
hdel and absolutely disbelieved it. You will 
think me very dillicult to please; I quarrel 
with Josephus for the want of elegance, and 
with some of our modern historians for hav- 
ing too much — with him for running right 
forward like a gazette, without stopping to 
make a single observation by the way, and 
with them for pretending to delineate char- 
acters that existed two thousand years ago, 
and to discover the motives by which they 
were influenced, with the same precision as if 
they had been their contemporaries. Sim- 
plicity is become a very rare ijuality in a wri- 
ter. In the decline of great kingdoms, and 
where refinenu'ut in all the arts is carrie<l to 
an excess, I suppose it is alw.-iys rare. The 
latter Roman writers are remarkable for false 
ornament, they were yet no doubt admired 
by the readers of their own day; and with 
respi^ct to authors of the present era, the 
most po])ular among them appear to me 
equally censurable on the same account. 
Swift and Addison were simple. 

Your mother wants room for a postscript, 
so my lecture must conclude abruptly. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Nov. 30, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — I have neither long visits 
to \>:\y nor to receive, nor ladies to .spend 
hours in telling me that which might be told 



• Private correspondence. 



in five minutes, yet often find myself obliged 
to be an economist of time, and to make the 
most of a short opportunity. Let our sta- 
tion be as retired as it may, there is no want 
of playtliing:^ and avocations, nor much need 
to seek them, in this world of ours, busi- 
ness, or what presents itself to us under 
that imposing character, will find ns out, 
even in the stillest retreat, and plead its im- 
portance, however trivial in reality, as a Just 
demand upon our attention. It is wonder- 
ful how, by means of such real or seeming 
necessities, my time is stolen away. I have 
just time to observe that time is short, and, 
by the time I have made the observation, 
time is gone. I have wondered in former 
d:iys at the p.atience of the antediluvian 
world, that they could endure a life almost 
millenary, with so little variety as seems to 
have fallen to their share. It is probable 
that they had much fewer employments than 
we. Their affairs lay in a narrower com- 
pass ; their libraries were indifferently fur- 
nished ; philosophical researches were carried 
on with mucli less industry and acuteness 
of penetration, and fiddles, perhaps, were not 
even invented. How then could seven or 
eight hundred years of life be supportable ? 
I have asked this question formerly, and 
been -at a loss to resolve it: but I think I 
can answer it now. I will suppose myself 
born a thousand years before Noah was 
born or thought of. I rise with the sun ; I 
worship; I prepare my breakfast: I swallow 
a bucket of goats' milk, and a dozen good 
sizeable cakes. I fasten a new string to my 
bow, and my youngest boy, a lad of about 
thirty years of age, having played with my 
arrows till he has stripped olf all the featli- 
er.s, I find myself obliged to repair them. 
The morning is thus sjient in preparing for 
the chase, and it is become necessary that I 
should dine. I dig up my roots ; I wash 
tliem ; I boil them ; I find them not done 
enough, I boil them again : my wife is an- 
gry : we dispute : we settle the point : but 
in the meantime the fire goes out, and must 
be kindled again. All this is very amusing. 
I liunt : I bring home the prey; with the 
skin of it I mend an old coat, or I make a 
new one. By this time tlie day is far spent ; 
I feel myself fatigued, and retire to rest. 
Thus, what with tilling the ground, and eat- 
ing the fruit of it, hunting, and walking, and 
running, and mending old clothes, and sleep- 
ing ancl rising again, I can suppose an in- 
habitant of the primaival world so much 
occupied as to sigh over the shortness of 
life, and to find, at the end of many centu- 
ries, that tliey had all slipped through liis 
fingers, and were passed aw.ay like a shadow. 
What wonder then that I, who live in a day 
of so much greater refinement, when there 
is so much more to be wanted, and wished, 



and to be enjoyed, should feel myself now 
and then pinched in point of opportunity, 
and at some loss for leisure to fill four sides 
of a sheet like this ? Thus, however, it is, 
and, if the ancient gentlemen to whom I 
have referred, and their complaints of the 
disproportion of time to the occasions they 
had for it, will not serve me as an e.xeuse, 1 
must even plead guilty, and confess that 1 
am often in haste, when I have no good rea- 
son for being so. 

This by way of introduction : now for my 
letter. Mr. Scott is desired by Mr. De Coef- 
logon to contribute to the " Theological 
Review," of which 1 suppose that gentleman 
is a manager. He says he has ensured your 
assistance, and at the same time desire ; 
mine, either in prose or verse. He did well 
to apply to you, because you can afford him 
substantial help; but as for me, had he 
known me better, he would never have sus- 
pected me for a theologian, either in rliyme 
or otheru'ise. 

Lord Dartmouth's Mr. Wright spent ne:'r 
two hours with me this morning ; a respect- 
able old man, whom I always see with 
pleasure, both for his master's sake and for 
his own. 1 was glad to learn from him that 
his lordship ha# better health than he has 
enjoyed for some years. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

Your affectionate W. C. 

TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON,* 

Olncy, Dec. 1.1, ITSl. 
My dear Friend, — I know not how it fiires 
with you, at a time when philosophy h.-is 
just br(night forth her most extradordinary 
production, not excepting, perhaps, that prod- 
igy, a ship, in all respects complete, and 
equal to the task of circumnavigating the 
globe. My mind, however, is frequently 
getting into these balloons, and is busy in 
multiplying speculations as airy as the re- 
gions througli which they pass. The last 
account from Fraiice, which seems so well 
authenticated, has changed my jocularity 
upon this occasion into serious expectation. 
The invention of these new vehicles is yet 
in its infancy, yet already they seem to have 
attained a degree of perfection which navi- 
gation did not reach, till ages of experience 
had matured it, and science had exhausted 
both her industry and her skill in its im- 
provement. I am aware, indeed, that the 
first boat or canoe that was ever formed, 
though rude in i's construction — perhaps 
not constructed at all, being only a hollow 
tree that had fallen casually into the water, 
and which, though furnished with neither 
sails nor oars, might yet be guided by a 
pole — was a more perfect creature in its 
* Private correspondence. 



kind than ii l)allo()n at present; the sinpfle 
circ-unistance of its innnaweable nature giv- 
ing it a clear .suporiority l)Otli in rcspoet of 
safely ami (.'onvi'Mionct'. But tlu' atnu)>plieri', 
tlioiiijli a niucli tliiniifr medium, we well 
know, resists the impression made upon it 
by the tail of a bird, as eti'eetually as the 
water that of a ship's rudder. Pope, when 
ineule.itintr one of his few useful lessons, 
!i:id direetinj; mankind to the providence of 
God, as the true source of all their wisdom, 
says beautifully — 

Learn of the little Nautilus to sail, 

Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. 

It is easy to parody these lines, so as to 

give them an accommodation and suitable- 
ness to the i)rcsent purpose. 

Learn of the circle-makini; kite to fly, 
Spread the tan-tail, and wheel about the sky. 

It is certain at least that nothing within 
the reach of human ingenuity will be lefl 
unattempted to accomplish and add all that 
is wanting to this last eflbrt of philosophical 
contrivance.* The approximating powers of 
the telescope, and the pouers l)y wiiieh the 
thunder-storm is delivered of its contents 
peaceably and without mischief, were once 
perhaps in appearance more remote from 
di.scovcry, and seemed less practicable, than 
we may now suppose it to give direction to 
that which is already buoyant; especially 
pos.sessed as we are of such consummate 
mechanical skill, already masters of prin- 
ciples which we have nothing to do but to 
apply, of which we have already availed our- 
selves in the similar case of navigation, and 
having in every fowl of the air a pattern, 
which now at length it may be sufiicient to 
imitate. Wings and a tail indeed were of 
little use, while the body, so much heavier 
than the space of air it occupied, was sure 
to sink by its own weight, and coidd never 
be held in equipoise by any implements of 
the kind which human strength could man- 
age, liut now we lloat : at random indeed, 
pretty much, and as the wind drive-i us; for 
want of nothing, however, but that steerage 
which invention, the conqueror of many 
equal, if not superior, dilhcidties may be ex- 
pected to supply. .Should the point be car- 
ried, and man at last become as familiar with 
the air as he has long been with the ocean, 
will it in its consequences prove a mercy or a 
judgment ? 1 think, a judgment, p'irst, be- 
cause, if a power to convey himself from place 
to place, like a bird, would have been good for 
him, his Maker would have formed him with 
such a capacity, llut he has been a grovel- 

* Wli;it would Cuwper linve thuii'^ht, if lie liiul lived lo 
8nc the initdcrii iiiveiili.ttuirr:iilr,mds,iind the po^siliility 
of tnvvcllin'/ thirty miles in one hour mid twenty min- 
utes, by mean:) of the operuliun ofstcaiaV 



ler upon the earth for si.\ tliousand years, 
and now at last, when the close of this pres- 
ent .state of things approaches, begins to 
e.vall himself above it. So much the wor.se 
for lihn. Like a truant school-boy, he breaks 
his bounds, and will have reason lo repent 
of his presumption. Secondly, 1 think it 
will prove a jtulginent, because with the ex- 
ercise of a very little foresight, it is easy to 
prognosticate a thousand evils, which the 
project must necessarily bring after it ; 
amounting at last to the confusion of all or- 
der, the .annihilation of all authority, with 
dangers both to property and person, and 
impunity to the oft'ender.s. Were 1 an abso- 
lute legislator, I would therefore make it 
death for a man to be convicted of (lying, 
the moment he could be caught: and to 
bring him down from his altitude by a bullet 
sent through his head or his carriage sliould 
be no murder. Philsophcrs would call me ;i 
Vandal; the scholar would say that, had it 
not been for me, the fable of Daedalus would 
have been realized ; and historians would 
load my memory with reproaches of phlegm, 
and .stupidity, and oppression ; but in the 
meantime the world would go on quietly, 
and, if it enjoyed less liberty, would at least 
be more secure. 

I know not what are your sentiments 
upon the subject of the East India bill.* 
This, too, has frequently iitlorded me matter 
of speculation. 1 can easily see that it is 
not without its blemishes ; but its beauties, 
in my eye, are much predominant. What- 
ever may be its author's views, if he delivers 
so large a portion of mankind from such 
horrible tyranny as the East has so long 
sulfered, lie deserves a statue much more 
than Montgoltier,f who, it seems, is to re- 



* As repcited allusion is made to the affairs of the East 
India Ci)nii)any, tjy Cowper, in the following loiters, fur 
the inf<irn»ation of those who m.ay not be conversant 
Willi this stllijecl, we add the followini; iuforniation. 

The ifreat abuses that were imputed to the 8y»l«U) of 
i^oviTiiment e-sial)lishi-d in that country, where a com- 
pany of merchanls cx'Teised the supreme sway, led .Mr. 
r"o.\, in ]~.s:{, (III,' period in which he was a member 
of aiiministralinn.) to introduce his cetelirated East 
India Bill, in wliieh he proposed to anniliilale the ehiu-- 
ter of the (-'oinpany, and to dispns..irss thi-iii of their 
poW(;r. The measure passed in the Commons, but was 
thrown out by the Lords ; and royal influence was s.iid 
to have been exerted to procure its rejection. The fail- 
ure of this bill led to the dis.solulion of that administra- 
tion, in the December of the same year. In the succeed- 
im; .lanuary of l?.s4, Mr. Pitt introduced his no less cele- 
brat d bill. Insteail of goini; the Icii^tlh of violalin;,' the 
cllarbT, Eranted in the time of William III., (the i;rent 
defect allributed to Mr. Fox's precedimj bill,) /tis object 
was lo preserve it inviolate, but with certain modiiica- 
tions. The main feature in his plan was to separate tlie 
commercial from the territorial concerns of the ('om- 
pany. and to vest the latter in a board, nominated by 
iroverninent ; thus withdrawiir.; from the Kast India 
CiMupany the extircisi- of powers beloni^ini; onlv to th<i 
supreme authority. This bill, though more Just and 
popular than the precedinK, w.as ne-vertlieless rejected 
by a majority of eiitht ; but it was suhsequently renewed, 
and carried, and is the origin of that Board of r'onlrol 
which is now so well known, as superinlendinj; and 
reifulatinif the concerns of our Indian empire. 

t The inventor of balloons. 



172 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ceive that honor. Perhaps he may bring his 
own freedom into jeopardy ; but to do tliis 
for the sake of emancipating nations so 
much more numerous than ourselves is at 
least generous, and a design that should 
hiive my eneouragement, if I had any en- 
couragement to atford it. 

We are well, and love you. Remember us, 
as I doubt not you do, with the same affec- 
tion, and be content with my sentiments upon 
subjects such as these, till I can send you, if 
that day should ever come, a letter more 
worthy of your reception. 

Nous sommes les vfitres, 

GUILLAUME ET MaRIE. 



TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Dec. 27, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Thanks to the patriotic 
junto whose efforts have staved off the ex- 
pected dissolution, franks luive not yet lost 
their currency. Ignorant as they were that 
my writing by this post depended upon the 
existence of the present parliament, they have 
conducted their deliberations with a sturdi- 
ness and magnanimity that would almost 
tempt one to suppose that tliey had known 
h. So true it is that the actions of men are 
connected with consequences they are little 
aware of; and that events, comparatively tri- 
vial in themselves, m.ay give birth to the most 
important. 

ily fhoughts of ministers and men in pow- 
er are nearly akin to yours. It is well for the 
public, when the rulers of a state are actuated 
by principles tliat may happen to coincide 
with its interests. The ambition of an indi- 
vidual has often been made subservient to 
the general good ; and many a man has served 
his country merely for the sake of immortal- 
izing himself by doing it. So far, it seems 
to me, the natural man is to be trusted, and 
no farther. Self it is at the bottom of all his 
conduct. If self can be pleased, flattered, 
enriched, exalted by his exertions, and his 
talents are such as qualify him for great use- 
fulness, his country shall be the better for him. 
And this, perhaps, is all the patriotism we 
have a right to look for. In the meantime, 
however, I cannot but think such a man in 
some degree a respectable character, and am 
willing at least to do him honor so far as I 
feel myself benefited by him. Ambition and 
the love of fame are certainly no Christian 
principles, but they are such as commonly 
belong to men of superior minds, and the 
fruits they produce may often plead their 
apology. The great miMi of the world are of 
a piece with the world to which they belong: 
they are raised up to govern it, and in the 
government of it are prompted by worldly 

* Private correspondence. 



motives : but it prospers perhaps under their 
management ; and, when it does, the Chris- 
tian world, which is totally a distinct creation, 
partaking of the advantage, has cause to be 
thankfid. The sun is a glorious creature ; he 
does much good, but without intending it. 
I, however, who am conscious of the good Ije 
does, though I know not what religion he is 
of, or tthether he has any or none, rejoice in 
his eiJ'ects, admire him, and am sensible that 
it is every man's duty to be thankful for him. 
In this .sentiment I know you agree uith rae, 
for I believe he has not a warmer votary than 
yourself 

We say the king can do no wrong; and 
it is well for poor George the Third that 
he cannot. In my opinion, however, he has' 
lately been within a hair's-brcadth of that pre- 
dicament.* His adviser-s, indeed, are guilty, 
and not he : but he will probably hnd, how- 
ever hard it may seem, tliat if he can do no 
wrong, he may yet sutler the consequences of 
the wrong he cannot do. He has dismissed 
his servants, but not disgraced them ; they 
triumph in their degradation, and no man is 
willing to supply their places. Must their 
offices remain unoccupied, or must they be 
courted to resume ihem 1 Never \\'as such a 
distracted state of things within my remem- 
brance; and I much fear that this is but the 
beginning of sorrows. It is not a time of day 
for a king to t.ake liberties with the people : 
there is a spirit in the Commons that will not 
endure it: and his Majesty's advisers must be 
less acquainted with the temper of the times 
than it is possible to suppose them, if they 
imagine that such strides of prerogative will 
not be resented. The address will gall him. 
I am sorry that he has exposed himself to 
such a reprehension, but I think it warranted 
by the occasion. I pity him ; but, king as he 
is, and much as I have always honored him, 
had I been a member, I should have voted 
for it. 

I am obliged to Mr. Bacon for thinking of 
me. That expression, however, does not do 
justice to my feelings. Even with the little 
knowledge 1 have of him, I should love him, 
had I no reason to suppose myself at any 
time an object of liis attention; but, knowing 
that I am so happy as to have a share in his 
remembrance, I certainly love him the more. 
Truly, I am not in his debt : I cannot s.ay 
wherefore it is so, but certainly few days pass 
in which 1 do not remember /k'jh. The print, 
indeed, with which he favored me, and which 
is always in my view, must often suggest t!)e 
reecdlection of him ; but though I greatly val- 
ue it, I do not believe it is my only prompter. 

■■ TIu3 jxlludes to t!ie induonce supposed to liave been 
exercised by the Itinf; iiiiilinst the piissini; of Mr. Fox'a 
celebrated Kitst India Bill ; and to his haviiif( commis- 
sioned Lord Temple, atterwanls Lord Buckingham, to 
make known his sentiments on that subject. This event 
led to U.e dissolution of the famous coalition ministry. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



173 



I finish with what I wi^ll may make you 
laugh, as it did mo. Mr. Seott, e.vliorliiis llio 
people to tVeimcnt prayer, closed liis address 
thus: — '• Vou have iiothinij to do but to ask 
and you will ever (ind him ready to be- 
stow. Open your wide mouths, aud he will 
(ill them." 

JIis. Uuwiii is Well. Aeeept an old but a 
true eouelusioii — our united love to you and 
yours, and believe me, my dear friend. 

Your ever affeetionate W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWI.V. 

No (late. 

My dear Friend, — It is hard upcni us strip- 
Iinn;s, who have uncles still liviujf (N. 15. I 
myself have an uncle still alive) that those 
venerable {Gentlemen should stand in our way, 
even when the ladies are in question: that I, 
for instance, should lind in oiie pa^'e of your 
letter a hope that Miss yhiittleworlh would 
be of your party, and be told in the ne.\t that 
she is eni,';ii,'ed to your uncle. Well, we may 
perhaps never be uncles, but we may reason- 
ably hope that the time is coming, when 
others, as young as we are now, shall envy 
us the privilege of old age, and see us engross 
that share in the attention of the ladies, to 
which their youth must aspire in vain. Make 
our coinplinu'Mts, if you please, to your sister 
Eliza, and tell her that we are both mortiMed 
at having missed the pleasure of seeing her. 

Balhjons are so much the mode, that even 
in this country we have attempted a balloon. 
You may possibly remember that at a place 
called Weston, a little more than a mile from 
Olney, there lives a family wlio.se name is 
Throckmiu-ton. The present possessor is a 
young man, whom I remember a boy. He has 
a wife, who is young, genteel, and handsome. 
They are l'apist.s, but much more amiable 
than many Protestants. We never had any 
intercourse witli the family, though ever since 
we lived here, we have enjoyed the range of 
their pleasure grounds, having been favored 
with a key, whicli admits us into all. When 
this man succeeded to the estate, on the death 
of his elder brother, and came to settle at 
Weston, 1 sent him a complimentarv card, 
requesling the continuance of that privilege, 
having till then enjoyed it by favor of his 
mother, who on that occasion went to finish 
her diys at Bath. You may conclude that he 
granted it, and fur about two years nothing 
more pas.sed between us. A fortnight ago, I 
received an invitation, in the civilest terms, in 
which he told me that the next day he should 
attempt to fill a balloon, and if it would be 
any pleasure to me to be present, should be 
happy to see me. Your mother and I went. 
The whole country were there, but the bal- 
loon could not be filled. The endeavor was, 



I believe, very philosophically made, but such 

a process depends, for its success, upon such 
niceties as make it very precarious. Our rc- 
cejition was, however, llaitering to a great 
degree, insomuch that more notice seemed lo 
be taken of us than we could possibly have 
expected, indeed rather more than of any of 
his other guests. They even seemed anxious 
to reeoinmend them.selves to our regard--. 
We drank chocolate, and were asked to dine, 
but were engaged. A day or two afterwards 
Jlrs. Unwin and I walked that way, and were 
overtaken in a shower. I found a tree that 1 
thought would shelter ns both, a large elm, in 
a grove that fronts the mansion. Mr.s. T. ob- 
served us, and, running towards us in the rain, 
insisted on our walking in. He was gone out. 
We sat chatting with her till the weallier 
cleared up, and then at her instance took a 
walk with her in the garden. The garden is 
almost their only walk, and is certainly their 
ordy retreat in which they are not liable to 
interruption. She olfered us a key of it, in 
a manner that made it impossible not to ac- 
cept it, and siiid she would send us one. ■ A 
few days afterwards, in the cool of the even- 
ing, we walked that \\'ay again. We saw 
them going towards the house, and exchanged 
bows and courtesies at a distance, but did not 
join them. In a few minutes, when we had 
passed the house, and had almost reached the 
gate that opens out of the park into the ad- 
joining field, 1 heard the iron gate behnigiiig 
to the court-yard ring, and saw Mr. T. ad- 
vancing hastily towards us. We made ecpial 
haste to meet him; he presented to us the 
key, which I told him I esteemed a singular 
favor: and, after a few such speeches as are 
made on such occasions, we parted. This 
happened about a week ago. I concluded 
nothing less than that all this civility and .at- 
tention was designed, on their part, as a pre- 
lude to a nearer aei|uaintance : but here at 
present the matter rests. I should like ex- 
ceedingly to be on an easy footing there, to 
give a morning call now and then, and to re- 
ceive one, but nothing more For, though 
he is one of the most agreeable men I ever 
saw, I could not wish to visit him in any 
other way: neither our house, furniture, ser- 
vants, nor income, being such as qualify us 
to make entertainments: neither would I on 
.any ;iecount be introduced to the neighboring 
gentry. Mr. T. is altogether a man of fashion, 
and respectable on every account.* 

I have told you a long story. Farewell. 
We number the days as they pass, and are 
glad tlnit we shall see you and your sister 
soon. 

Yours, &c., W. C. 

The year 1784 was a memorable period in 

* ile tifterwards succeeded to tlie liUe of Sir Jobll 
Throckmorton. 



174 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tlie life of the poet, not only as it witnessed 
the completion of one extensive performance, 
:ind the commencement of another (his trans- 
lation of Homer,) hut as it terminated his in- 
tercourse with that highly pleasing and valu- 
able friend, whose unremitting attention and 
seasonable advice had induced him to engage 
in both. 

Delightful and advantageous as his friend- 
sliij) with Lady Austen had proved, he now 
began to feel that it grew impossible to pre- 
serve that triple cord which his own pure 
heart had led him to suppose not speedily to 
be broken. jMrs. Unwin, though by no means 
destitute of mental accomplishments, was 
eclipsed by the brilliancy of the poet's new 
friend, and naturally became apprehensive of 
losing that influence which she had so long 
experienced over a man of genius and virtue, 
and that honorable share in his affections 
which she had previously enjoyed without the 
fear of witnessing its diminution. 

Cowper perceived' the painful necessity of 
sacrificing a great portion of his present grati- 
Hcations. He felt that he must relinquish 
tliat long-established friendship which had 
formed the delight arid happiness of his past 
life, or the new associate, whom he cherished 
as a sister, and whose heart and mind were so 
peculiarly congenial with his own. His grati- 
tude for past services of unexampled magni- 
tude and weight would not allow him to hesi- 
tate ; with a resolution and delicacy th.it do 
the highest honor to his feelings, he wrote a 
farewell letter to Lady Austen, explaining 
and lamenting the circumstances that forced 
liim to renounce the society of a friend, whose 
enchanting talents and kindness had proved 
so agreeably instrumental to the revival of 
his spirits and to tlie exercise of his fancy. 

As Hayley's further account of this event 
is minute and particular, we shall present it 
to the reader in his own words. 

"In those very interesting conversations 
with which I w.as honored by Lady Austen, I 
was irresistibly led to express an anxious de- 
sire for the sight of a letter written by Cow- 
per in a situation that must have called forth 
all the finest powers of his eloquence as a 
monitor and a friend. The lady confirmed 
me in my ojiinion that a more admirable let- 
ter could not be written : and, had it existed 
at that time, I am persuaded from her noble 
frankness and zeal for the honor of the de- 
])'-irted poet, she would have given me a copy ; 
but she ingenuously confessed that in a ino- 
iuent of natural mortification she burnt this 
very tender yet resolute letter. I mention 
the circumstance, because a literary corres- 
|)ondent whom I have great reason to esteem, 
lias recently expressed to me a wish (which 
may perhaps be general) that I could intro- 
duce into this corapil.ation the letter in ques- 
tion. Had it been confided to my care, 1 am 



persuaded I should have thought it very 
proper for publication, as it displayed both 
the tenderness and the magnanimity of Cow- 
per : nor could I have deemed it a want of 
delicacy towards the memory of Lady Ausleii, 
to exhibit a proof that, animated by the warm- 
est admiration of the great poet, whose iiiiicy 
she could so successfully call forth, she was 
willing to devote her life and fortune to his 
service and protection. The sentiment is to 
be regarded as honorable to the lady ; it is 
still more honorable to the poet, that with 
such feelings as rendered him perfectly sen- 
sible of all Lady Austen's fascinating powers, 
he could return her tenderness with innocent 
regard, and yet resolutely preclude himself 
from her society when he could no longer 
enjoy it without compromising what he owed 
to the compassionate and generous guardian 
of his sequestered life. No person ca.n justly 
blame Mrs. Unwin for feeling apprehensive 
that Cowper's intimacy with a lady of such 
extraordinary talents might lead him into per- 
plexities of which he was by no means aware. 
This remark was suggested by a. few ele- 
gant and tender verses, addressed by the 
poet to Lady Austen, and shown to mo by 
that lady. 

"Those who were acquainted with the un- 
suspecting innocence and sportive gayety of 
Cowper would readily allow, if they had seen 
the verses to which I allude, that they are 
such as he might have addressed to a real 
sister ; but a lady only called by that endear- 
ing name may be easily pardoned if she was 
induced by them to hope that they might pos- 
sibly be ,a prelude to a still dearer alliance. 
To me they appeared expressive of that pe- 
culiarity in his character, a giy and tender 
gallantry, perfectly distinct from the attach- 
ment of love. If the lady who was the sub- 
ject of the verses, had given them to me wiili 
a permission to print tliem, I shcnild have 
thought the poet himself might have approved 
of their appearance, accompanied u itii such a 
commentary. 

" In the whole course of this work I have 
endeavored to recollect, on every doubtful 
occasion, the feelings of Cowper, and made it 
a rule to reject whatever my peri'ect iniimacy 
with those feelings could lead me to suppose 
tlie spirit of the departed poet might wish me 
to lay aside as unfit for publication. I con- 
sider an editor .as guilty of the basest iiljury 
to the dead who admits into the posthumous 
volumes of an author, whom he professes to 
love and admire, any composition which his 
own conscience informs him thai niitlinr, if he 
could .speak from the tondi, would direct him 
to suppress. On this principle I have declined 
to print some letters which entered, more 
than I think the public ought to enter, into 
the history of a trifiing feminine discord tluit 
disturbed the perfect harmony of the happy 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



175 



trio at Olney, when Lady Austen and Mrs. 
Uiivvin were the united iiispirers of the poet. 
Vet as the lirief and true account which I gave 
of their se|)ara'iion has been thoiii£ht to east a 
j-hade of censure on the temper of Mrs. Unwin, 
wiiich i wa-i f.ir fruia inteiidinjf. injustice to 
the memory of that exemplary aiid suliliine 
female friend, 1 liere introduce a passage from 
a letter of Cowper to the Rev. William Un- 
win, honorable to both the ladies in question, 
as it describes them in a moment of generous 
reconciliation. 

'"I enclose a letter from Lady Austen, 
which I beg you to return me in your ne.vt. — 
We are reconciled. She seized the first op- 
portunity to embrace your mother with tears 
of the tenderest alfection, and I of course am 
satisfied. We were all a little awkward at 
first, but now are as easy as ever.' 

'■ This letter happens to have no date, but 
the e.xpressions I have cited from it are suf- 
ficient to prove that Mrs. Unwin, instead of 
h:uing shown an envious infirmity of temper 
on this occasion, must have conducted herself 
with a delicate liberality of mind." 

We now enter upon the correspondence of 
the year. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, Jan. 3, 1784. 

My dear William, — Your silence beg.an to 
be distressing to both your mother .and me, 
and had I not received a letter from you 
last night, I should have written by this 
post to innuire after your health. How can 
it be that you, who are not stationary like 
me, but often change your situation, and mi.\ 
with a variety of company, should suppose 
nic furnished with such abundant materials 
and yourself destitute? I assure you faith- 
fully that I do not find the soil of Olney pro- 
lific in the growth of .such articles .as make 
letter-writing a desirable employment. No 
place contributes less to the catalogue of in- 
cidents, or is more scantily supplied with an- 
ecdotes worth notice. 

We have 

One parson, one poet, one bellman, one crycr, 
And the poor poet is our only 'squire. 

Guess then if I have not more reason to e.\- 
pcct two letters from you than you one from 
me. The principal occurrence, and that which 
aifects me most at present, came to pass this 
moinenl. The stair-foot door being swelled 
by the thaw would do .anything better than it 
would open. An attempt to force it M])on 
that ollice has been attended with such a hor- 
rible dissolution of its parts that we were im- 
mediately obliged to introduce a ehirurgeon, 
commonly called a carpenter, v.hose applica- 
ti<ins we have some hope will cure it of a 
locked jaw, and heal its numerous fractures. 



His medicines are powerful chalybeates and 
a certain glutinous salve, which he tells me 
is made of the tails and ears of animals. 
Tile conseiiuences however are rather uiifi- 
vorable to my present employment, which 
does not well brook noise, bustle, and inter- 
rui)tion. 

This being the case, I shall not perhaps be 
either so perspicuous or so diffuse on the 
subject of which you desire my sentiments as 
I should lie, but I will do my best. Know 
then that I have learned long since, of Abl)o 
Rayual, to luate all monopolies as injurious, 
howsoever managed, to the interests of com- 
merce at large : consequently the charter in 
question would not at any rate be a favorite 
of mine. This however is of itself I confess 
no sufficient reason to justify the resumption 
of it. But sueh reasons I think are not want- 
ing. A grant of that kind, it is well known, 
is always forfeited by the non-performance of 
the conditions. And why not equally for- 
feited if those conditions are exceeded ; if the 
design of it be perverted, and its operation 
extended to objects whicli were never in the 
contemplation of the donor ! This appears 
to me to be no misrepresentation of their 
case, whose charter is supposed to be in dan- 
ger. It constitutes them a trading com|)any, 
.and gives them an exclusive right to Irafhc in 
the East Indies. But it does no more. It in- 
vests them with no sovereignty ; it does not 
convey to them the royal prerogative of 
making war and peace, which the king can- 
not alienate if he would. But this prerog;i- 
tive they have exercised, and, forgetting the 
terms of their institution, have possessed 
themselves of an immense territory, which 
they have ruled with a rod of iron, to which 
it is impossible they should even have a right, 
unless such a one as it is a disgrace to plead — 
I the right of conquest. The potentates of this 
I country they dash in pieces like a potter's ves- 
; sel, as often as they please, making the hap- 
piness of thirty millions of mankind a eou- 
j sideratiou subordinate to that of their own 
emolument, oppressing them as often as it 
may serve a lucrative purpose, and in no in- 
stance, that I have ever heard, consulting their 
interest or advantage. That government 
therefore is I)ound to interfere and to unking 
these tyrants is to me self-evident. And if, 
having subjugated so much of this miserable 
world, it is therefore necessary that we must 
keep possession of it, it appears to nie a duty 
so binding on the legi.sl.ature to resume it from 
the hands of those usurpers, that I should 
think a curse, and a bitter one, must follow 
the neglect of it. But, suppose this were 
done, cm they l>e legally deprived of their 
charter ? In iruth I think so. If the abuse 
and perversion of a charter can amount to a 
defeas.ince of it, never were they so grossly 
palpable as in this insUince ; never was char- 



176 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ter so justly forfeited. Neither am I at all 
afraid that such a measure should be drawn 
into precedent, unless it could be alleged, as 
a sufficient reason for not hanging a rogue, 
that perhaps magistracy might grow wanton 
ill the exercise of such a power, and now and 
tlien liang up an honest man for its amuse- 
ment. When the Governors of the Bank 
shall have deserved the same severity, I Iiope 
tliey will meet with it. In the meantime I 
do not think them a whit more in jeopardy 
because a corporation of plunderers have been 
brought to justice. 

We are well and love you all. I never 
wrote in such a hurry, nor in such disturb- 
ance. Pardon tlie effects, and believe me 
yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO MRS. HILL.* 

Olney, Jan. 5, 1784. 

Dear Madam, — You will readily pardon the 
trouble I give you by this line, when I plead 
my attention to your husband's convenience 
in my excuse. 1 know him to be so busy ii 
man, that I cannot in conscience trouble him 
with a commission, which I know it is im- 
possible he ^ll0uld have leisure to execute. 
After all, the labor would devolve upon you, 
and therefore I may as well address you in 
the first instance. 

I have read and return the books you were 
so kind as to procure for me. Mr. flill gave 
me hopes, in his last, that from the library, to 
which I have subscribed, I might still be sup- 
plied with more. I have not many more to 
wish for, nor do I mean to make any un- 
reasonable use of your kindness. In about 
a fortnight I shall be favored, by a friend in 
Essex, with as many as will serve me during 
the rest of the winter. In summer I read but 
little. In the meantime, I shall be mucli 
obliged to you for Forster's NarratiAc of the 
same voyage, if your librarian has it ; and 
likewise for " Swinburn's Travels" which Mr. 
Hill mentioned. If they can be sent at once, 
which ])erliaps the terms of subscription nuiy 
not allow, I shall be glad to receive them so. 
If not, then Forster's first, and Swinburn 
afterwards : and Swinburn, at any rate, if 
Forster is not to be procured. 

Reading over what I have written, I find it 
perfectly free and easy ; so much indeed in 
that style, that had I not had repeated proofs 
of your good-nature in other instances, I 
should h.ave modesty enough to suppress it, 
and attempt something more civil, and becom- 
ing a person who has never had the hap- 
piness of seeing you. But I have always ob- 
served that sensible people are best pleased 
with what is natural and unaffected. Nor 
can I tell you a plainer truth, than that I am, 
* Private correspondence. 



without the least dissimulation, and with a 
warm remembrance of past favors. 
My dear Madam, 
Your affectionate humble servant, 
W. C. 

I beg to be remembered to Mr. Hill. 



TO JOSEPH inLL, ESQ.* 

OIney, Jan. 8. 1784. 

My dear Friend, — -I wish you had more 
leisure, that you might oftencr fa\or me with 
a page of politics. The authority of a news- 
paper is not of sufficient weight to determine 
my opinions, and I have no other documents 
to be set down by. I therefore on this sub- 
ject am suspended in a state of constant 
scepticism, the most uneasy condition in 
which the judgment can find it.seU". But yimr 
politics have weight with me, becau.se I know 
your independent spirit, the justness of your 
reasonings, and the opportunities you have 
of information. But I know likewise the 
urgency and the multiplicity of your con- 
cerns; and therefore, like a neglected clock, 
must be contented to go wrong, except when 
perhaps twice in the year you shall come to 
set me right. 

Public credit is indeed shaken, and the 
funds at a low ebb. How can they be other- 
wise when our western wing is already clip- 
ped to the stumps, and the shears at this 
moment threaten our eastern. Low however 
as our public stock is, it is not lower than my 
private one; and tliis being the article that 
touches me most nearly at present, I shall be 
obliged to you if you will have recourse to 
such ways and means for the replenishment 
of my exchequer as your wisdom may sug- 
gest and your best ability suHicc to execute. 
The experience I have had of your readiness 
upon all similar occasions has been very 
agreeable to me ; and I doubt not but upon 
the present I shall find you equally prompt to 
serve me. So, 

Yours ever, ' W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Jan. 18, 1784. 
Jly dear Friend, — I loo have taken leave of 
the old year, and parted with it just when you 
did, but with very different sentiments and 
feelings upon the occasion. I looked back 
upon all the passages and occurrences of it 
as a traveller looks back upon a wilderness, 
through which he has passed with weariness 
and sorrow of heart, reaping no other fruit of 
his labor than the poor consolation that, 
dreary as the desert was, he has left it all be- 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



177 



hind him. The traveller would find even this 
comfort considerably lessened, if, as soon as 
lie had passed one wilderness, another of 
equal len<,'th and eiiually desolate shoidd ex. 
peri him. Ill this jiartieiilar, his experience 
and mine would exactly tally. I should re- 
joice indeed that the old year is over and 
gone, if I had not every reason to prophesy 
11 new one similar to it. 

I am glad yon have found so much hidden 
treasure : and Mrs. Unwin desires me to tell 
you, that yon did licr no more than justice in 
wdieviug that slie would rejoice in it. It is 
not easy to surmise the reason why the 
Reverend Doctor, your predecessor, concealed 
it. lieiiig a subject of a free ^fovernment, 
and 1 suppose full of the divinity mo.st in 
fashion, he could not fear lest his great riches 
should expose him to persecution. Nor can 
I suppo.se that he held it any disgrace for a 
dignitary of the churcli to be wealthy, at a 
time when churchmen in general sjiare no 
pain.s to become so. But the wisdom of 
some men has a droll sort of knavishness in 
it, much like that of the m.agpie, who hides 
what lie finds with a deal of contrivance, 
merely for the pleasure of doing it. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olncy, Jan., 1781. 

My dear William, — When I first resolved 
to write an answer to your last this evening, 
I had no thought of anything more sublime 
than prose, lint befofe I began it occured 
to me that perhaps you would not be dis- 
pleased with an attempt to give a poetical 
translation of the lines you sent me. Tliey 
are so beautiful, that I felt tlie temptation ir- 
resistible. At least, as the French s.ay, it was 
plus ffrrte que. moi ; and I accordingly com- 
plied. By this means I have lost an hour; 
and whether I shall be able to fill my .sheet 
before supper is as yet doubtful. But I will 
do my best. 

For your remarks, I think them perfectly 
just. You have no rea.son to distrust your 
taste, or to submit the trial of it to me. You 
understand the use and the force of language 
as well as any man. You have quick feel- 
ings and you are fond of poetry. How is it 
possible then that you should not bo a judge 
of it? r venture to hazard only one alter- 
ation, whicli, as it appears tri me, would 
amount to a little improvement. The seventh 
and eighth lines I think I should like better 
thus— 

.Vspirante levi zcphyro et redeunte scrcna 
.\nni temperie fcecundo 6 cespite surgunt. 

My reason is, that the word crim is re- 
peated too soon. At least my ear does not 
like it, and when it can be done without in- 



jury to the sense, there seems to be an ele- 
gance in diversifying the expression, as much 
as jiossiblc, u)ion similar occasions. It dis- 
covers -.1 command of phrase, and gives a 
more masterly air to the piece. If extincla 
stood unconnected with lelis, I should prefer 
your word micanl, to the doctor's vigenf. 
But the latter seems to stand more in direct 
opposition to that sort of extinction which 
is eflected by a shaft or arrow. In the 
daytime the stars may be said to die, and in 
the night to recover their strength. Perhaps 
the doctor had in his eye that noble line of 
Gray's, 

Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts 
of war ! 

But it is a beautiful composition. It is ten- 
der, touching and elegant. It is not easy to 
do it justice in English, as for example.* 

Many thanks for the books, which being 
most admirably packed came safe. They 
will furnish us with many a winter evening's 
amusement. We are glad that you intend to 
be the carrier back. 

We rejoice too that your cousin has re- 
membered you in her will. The money she 
left to those who attended her hearse, would 
have been better bestowed upon you : and by 
this time perhaps she thinks so. Alas! what 
an inquiry docs tliat thought suggest, and 
how impossible to make it to any purpose I 
What are the employments of the departed 
spirit? and where does it subsist? Has it 
any cognizance of earthly tilings ? Is it trans- 
ported to an immeasurable distance ; or is it 
still, though iiuperccptible to us, conversant 
with the same scene, and interested in what 
passes here ? IIow little we know of a state 
to which we are all destined ; and how does the 
obscurity th.at hangs over that undiscovered 
country increase the anxiety we sometimes 
feel as we are journeying towards it ! It is 
sullicient however for such as you and a few 
more of my aquaintance to know that in your 
separate state you will be happy. Provision 
is m.ade for your reception ; and you will 
have no cau.se to regret aught that you have 
left behind. 

I have written to Jlr. . My letter 

went this morning. How I love and honor 
that man ! For many reasons I dare not tell 
him how much. But I hate the frigidity of 
the style inwiiiehlam forced to address him. 
That line of Horace, 

Dii tibi divitias ilcderunt artemque fruendi. 

was never so applicable to the poet's friend, 
as to Mr. . My bosom burns to immor- 
talize him. But prudence say.s, " Forbear !'" 
and, though a poet, I pay respect to her injunc- 
tions.f 

* The verses appearintr aciain with tlio original in tho 
next letter, are uniitleil. 

t Jolin Thornton, Esii., i^ Ilie person luTC alluded to. 

12 



178 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



I sincerely give you joy of the good you 
liave unconsciously done by your example 
and conversation. That you seoni to your- 
self not to deserve the acknowledgment 
your friend makes of it, is a proof that you 
do. Grace is blind to its own beauty, where- 
as sucli virtues as men may reacli without 
it are remarlsable self-admirers. May you 
iiKike such impressions upon many of your 
iirder! I know none that need them more. 

You do not want my praises of your con- 
duct towards Mr. . It is well for him 

liowever, and still better for yourself, that 
you are capable of such a part. It was said 
of some good man (my memory does not 
.serve me with his name) "do him an ill turn 
and you make him your friend ibrever." 
But it is Christi.anity only that forms such 
friends. I wish his father may be duly af- 
fected by this instance and proof of your 
superiority to those ideas of you which he 
has so unreasonably harbored. He is not in 
my favor now, nor will be upon any other 
terms. 

I laughed at the comments you make on 
your own feelings, when the subject of them 
was a newspaper eulogium. But it was a 
laugh of pleasure, and approbation : such in- 
deed is the heart, and so is it made up. 
There are few that can do good, and keep 
their own secret, none perliaps witliout a 

struggle. Yourself and your friend are 

no very common instances of the fortitude 
(hat is necessary in such a conflict. In for- 
mer days I have felt my heart beat and every 
vein throb upon such an occasion. To pub- 
lish my own deed was wrong. I knew it to 
be so. But to conceal it seemed like a vol- 
untary injury to myself. Sometimes I could 
and sometimes I could not succeed. My oc- 
casions for such conflicts indeed were not 
very numerous. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Jan. 25, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — This contention about 
East Indian patron.age seems not uidikely to 
avenge upon us by its consequences the mis- 
chiefs we liave done there. Tlui niatter in 
dispute is too precious to be relin(|uished by 
eilher p.arty ; and each is jealous of ihe influ- 
ence the o.'her would derive from tlie posses- 
sion of it. In a country whose ])oliticshave so 
long rolled upon the wheels of corruption, an 
atTair of such value must prove a weight in 
either scale, absolutely destructive of the very 
idea of a bal.anee. Every man has his senti- 
ments upon this subject, and I have mine. 
Were I constituted umpire of this strife, with 
full powers to decide it, I would tie a talent 
of lead about the neck of this patronage, and 



plunge it into the depths of the sea. To 
speak less flguratively, I would abandon all 
territorial interest in a country to which we 
can have no right, and wliich we cannot gov- 
ern with any security to the happiness of the 
inhabitants, or without the danger of incur- 
ring either perpetual broils, or the most in- 
supportable tyranny at home. That sort of 
tyranny I mean, wliich flatters and tantalizes 
the subject with a slunv of freedom, and in 
reality allow-s him nothing more, bribing to 
the right and left, rich enough to aflbrd the 
purch.ase of a thousand' consciences, and 
consequently strong enough, if it happen to 
meet with an incorruptible one, to render all 
the ettbrts of that man, or of twenty such 
men, if they could be found, romantic and 
of no effect. I am the king's most loyal sub- 
ject, and most obedient humble servant. But, 
by his majesty's leave, 1 must acknowledge I 
am not altogether convinced of the rectitude 
even of his own measures, or of the simplic- 
ity of his views ; and, if I were satisfied th.at 
he himself is to be trusted, it is nevertheless 
palpable that he cannot answer for his suc- 
cessors. At the same time he is my king, 
and I reverence him as such. I account his 
prerogative sacred, and shall never wish pros- 
perity to a party that invades it, and under 
th.at pretence of patriotism, would annihilate 
all the consequence of a cliaracter essential 
to the very being of the constitution. For 
these reasons I am sorry tliat we have any 
dominion in the East ; that we have any such 
emoluments to contend about. Their im- 
mense value will probably prolong the dis- 
pute, .and such struggles having been already 
made in the conduct of it as have shaken our 
very foundations, it seems not unreasonable 
to suppose that still greater eflbi'ts and more 
fatal are behind; and, afier all, the decision 
in favor of either side m.ay be ruino\is to tlie 
whole. In the meantime, that the Company 
themselves are but indifi'erenlly i|ualified for 
the kingship is most dejilorably evident. 
Wh.at sh.all I say therefore? I distrust the 
court, I suspect the patriots ; I put the Com- 
pany entirely aside, as having forfeited all 
claim to confldence in such a businsss, and 
see no remedy of course, but in the annihi- 
lation, if th.at could be accomplished, of the 
very existence of our authority in the East 
Indies. 

Y'ours, my dear friend, W. C. 

It was natural for Cowper to indulge in 
such a redeetion, if we consider, that in his 
time India presented a melancholy scene of 
rapine and corruption. It used to be said by 
Mr. Burke, that every man became unbaptized 
in going to India, and that, should it please 
Providence, by some unforeseen dispensation, 
to deprive Great Britain of her Indian empire, 
she would leave behind no memorial but the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



179 



evidences of her ambition, and the traces of 
her ilosolaling wars. 

Hnpjiily we have lived to see a great moral 
revoliitioii, aiul Enghiiid hiia at lenj)fth ro- 
dci'med her character. Slie has eniioliied the 
triumphs of her arms, by maliiiiff tliem sub- 
servient to. the introdiiclioii of the Gospel ; 
;iiid seems evidently destined by Providence 
to be the honored instrument of evangelizing 
the nations of the East. Already the sacred 
Scriptures have been translated, in whole or 
in jtart, into nearly forty of the Oriental lan- 
guages or dialects. Schools have been es- 
tablished, and are rapidly multiplying in the 
three presidencies. The apparently insur- 
mountable barrier of caste is giving way, and 
t!ie great fabric of Indian supersiition is 
crnmhiing into dust, while on its ruins will 
arise the everlasting empire of righteousness 
and truth. 

The following lines, written by Dr. Jortin, 
to which we subjoin (.'owper's translation, 
were inclosed in the last letter. 



IN BREVITATEM VITX SPATII, 
CONCESSI. 



HOMINIEOS 



Hci luihi ! Le<je rata sol occidit atquo resurgit, 
Lutiaquc muta(iE ro|iaral dispenclia forniiE, 
.Vstraque, purpurei tclis extincta diei. 
Rursus nocte vigont. Humiles lelluris alumni, 
Graiiiinis herba vircns. et Horum picta propago, 
(luos crudelis liyenis lethali tabe peredit, 
Cutu zophyri vox l)lanJa vocat. rediitque sercni 
Teraperics anni, loci-undi) c respite surgunt. 
Nos (loniini rerum nos, magna ct pulchra minati, 
Cuiu breve ver vitce robustaque transiit a;tas, 
Deliciums; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras 
Recldit in aitherias. tuiuuli ncque eiaustra resolvit. 

OS THK SIIOHTNKSS OF IIU.MAN LU'E. 

Suns that set and moons that wane, 
Rise, and arc restored again. 
Stars, that orient day sulnlues, 
Night at her return renews. 
Herbs and flowers, the lieauteous birtii 
Ot" the genial woaib of earth, 
.Suffer but a transient death 
h'To.n the winter's cruel lireath. 
/epbyr speaks ; serener skies 
W'arai tlie gletie. and they arise. 
Wc, alas ! earth's haughty kings, 
We, that promise miglily things, 
loosing soon lit'f's happy jiritne, 
Droop and t'aile in Iitth; time. 
Spring returns, but not our bloom, 
Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 



TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

r)lncy, Feb., 17S4. 
My dear Friend, — I am glad tliat you have 
finished a work, of which I well remember 
the Ijeginning, and which I w.as sorry you 
thought it e.vpcdient to discontinue.* Vour 
reason for not proceeding was, however, such 
* The " Review of Eccleaiuslicol History." 



as I was obliged to acquiesce in, being sug- 
gested by a ji^alousy you felt, " lest your 
spirit should be betrayed into acrimony, in 
writing upon such a subject." I doubt not 
you have suliiciently guarded that ))oiiit ; and 
indec<l, at tlie time I could not discover that 
you had failed in it. 1 have busied myself 
tins morning in contriving a Greek title, and 
in seeking a motto. The motto you mention 
is certainly ai)pnsite. But t think it an ob- 
jection that it lias been so much in use; al- 
most every writer that has claimed a liberty 
to tliiidi for him.sclf, upon whatever subject, 
having chosen it. I therefore send you one 
whicli I never .saw in that shape yet, and which 
appears to me equally apt and proper. The 
Greek word iu/ios, which signifies literally a 
shackle, may figuratively .serve to express 
those chains which bigotry and prejudice cast 
upon the mind. It seems therefore, to speak 
like a lawyer, no misnomer of your book to 
call it — 

The following pleases me most of all the 
mottos I have thought of But with respect 
both to that and the title you will use your 
pleasure. 

Qucrelis 
Haud justis assurgis, et urrita jurgia jaetas. 

JEs. X. 94. 

From the little I have seen, and the much 
I have heard, of the manager of the Review 
you mention, I cannot feel even the smallest 
push of a desire to serve him in the capacity 
of a poet. Indeed 1 dislike him so much, 
that, had I a drawer full of jiieces Ht for his 
purpose, I hardly think I should contribute 
to his collection. It is possible too that I 
may live to be once more a publisher myself; 
in which case, I should he glad to find myself 
in possession of any such original pieces as 
might decently make their appearance in a 
volume of my own. At present, however, I 
have nothing that w-ould be of use to him, 
nor have I many opportunities of composing, 
Sund:iy being the only day in the week which 
we sjicnd alone. 

I am at this moment pinched for time, but 
was desirous of proving to you with what 
ahierity my (ireek and Latin meuKJry are al- 
ways ready to obey you, and theiad'ore, by 
the first post, have to tlie best of my ability 
complied with your recjuesf. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

(lliiey, Feb. 10, 17."4. 

My dear Friend, — The morning is my 
writing time, and in the morning I have no 
spirits. So much the worse for my corre- 



180 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



spondents. Sleep, that refreshes my body, 
seems to cripple mc in every other respect. 
As the evening ;ipproaches, I grow more 
alert, and when I am retiring to Ijed am more 
fit for mental occupation than at any other 
time. So it fares with us whom they call 
nervous. By a strange inversion of the ani- 
mal economy, we are ready to sleep when 
we have most need to be .awake, and go to betl 
just when we mi^'ht sit up to some purpose. 
Tlie watch is irregularly wound up, it goes 
ill tlie niglit when it is not wanted, and in tlie 
d.ay stands still. In many respects we have 
the advantage of our forefathers, the Picts. 
We sleep in a whole skin, are not obliged to 
submit to the painful operation of puncturing 
ourselves from head to foot in order that we 
may be decently dressed, and fit to appear 
abroad. But, on the other hand, we have 
reason enough to envy them their tone of 
nerves, and that flow of spirits which elfect- 
ually secured them from all luieomfortable im- 
pressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from 
every shade of mchmcholy from every other 
cause. They understood, I suppose, the use 
of vulnerary herbs, having frecpient occasion 
tor some skill in surgery, but physicians I pre- 
sume they had none, having no need of any. 
Is it possible th.at a creature like myself can 
be descended from such progenitors, in whom 
there appears not a single trace of family re- 
semblance'! What an alteration have a few 
ages made! They, without clothing, would 
defy the severest season, and I, with all the 
accommodations that art has since invented, 
am hardly secure even in the mildest. If the 
wind blows upon me when my pores are 
open, I catch cold. A cough is tlic conse- 
quence. I suppose, if such a disorder could 
have seized a Pict, his friends would liave 
concluded that a bone had stuck in his 
throat, and that he was in some danger of 
choking. They would perhaps have ad- 
dressed tliemselves to the cure of his cougli 
by thrusting their lingers into his gullet, 
which would only have exasperated the ease. 
But they would never have tliought of ad- 
ministering laudanum, my only remedy. For 
this dift'ercnce however that has obtained be- 
tween me and my ancestors, I am indebted 
to the luxurious practices and enfeebling 
self-indulgence of a long line of grandsires, 
u'ho from generation to generation have 
been employed in dcterior.ating the breed, till 
at last the collected effects of all their follies 
have centred in my puny self — a man, in- 
deed, but not in the image of those that 
went before me — a man who sighs and 
groans, who wears out life in dejection and 
oppression of spirits, and who never thinks 
of the aborigines of the country to wliich I 
belong, without wishing that I had been born 
among them. Tlie evil is without a remedy, 
unless the ages that are passed could be re- 



called, ray whole pedigree be permitted to 
live again, and being properly admonished to 
beware of enervating slotli and refmeuient, 
would preserve their hardiness of nature un- 
impaired, .and transmit the desirable fpiality 
to their posterity. I once s.aw Adam in a 
dream. VVe sometimes say of a picture that 
we doubt not its likeness to the original, 
tliough we never saw him; a judgment we 
have some reason to form, when the face is 
strongly chanictered, and the features full of 
expression. So I think of my visionary 
Adam, and for a similar reason. His figure 
was awkward indeed in the extreme. It was 
evident that lie had never been taught by a 
Frenchman to hold his head erect, or to turn 
out his toes ; to dispose of his arms, or to 
simper without a meaning. But, if Mr. Ba- 
con was called upon to produce a statue of 
Hercules, he need not wish for a juster pat- 
tern. He stood like a rock ; the size of his 
limbs, the prominence of his muscles, and the 
height of his stature, all conspired to bespeak 
him a creature whose strength had suiVered 
no diminution, and who, being the first of his 
race, did not come into the world under a 
necessity of sustaining a load of infirmities, 
derived to him from the intemperance of 
others. He was as much stouter than a Pict, 
as I suppose a Pict to be than I. Upon my 
hypothesis, therefore, there has been a gradual 
declension in point of bodily vigor, from 
Adam down to me; at least, if my dream 
were a just represent.ation of that gentleman, 
and deserve the credit I cannot help giving 
it, such must have been the case. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Feb., 1784. 
J[y dear Friend, — I give you joy of a tliaw 
that has put an end to a frost of nine weeks" 
continuance with very little interruption ; the 
longest tliat litis happened since the year 
173i). May I presume th.at you feel yourself 
indebted to me for intelligence, which per- 
liajis no other of your correspondents will 
vouchsafe to communicate, though they are 
as well apprised of it, and as mucii convinced 
of the truth of it, as myself! It is I sup- 
pose e\-erywhere felt as a blessing, but no- 
where more sensibly than at Olney ; though 
even at Olney the severity of it has been al- 
leviated in behalf of many. The same 
benefactor, who befriended them last year, 
has with eipial liberality administered a sup- 
ply to their necessities in the present. Like 
the subterraneous flue that warms my myr- 
tles, he does good and is unseen. His in- 
junctions of secrecy are still as rigorous as 
ever, and must therefore be observed with 
the same attention. He however is a Inippy 
man, whose philanthropy is not like mine, an 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



181 



impotent principle, spending itself in fruitless 
wishes. At the s;iine lime I eonfess it is a 
consolation, ;unl I tVel it an honor, to be em- 
ployed as the conductor, and to be trusted as 
llie dispenser, of ■another man's bounty. 
SoHie have been saved from perishing, and 
all that could partake of it from the most 
pitiable distress. 

I will not apologize for my pidities, or 
suspect them of t'rrcjr, merely because they 
are taken up from the newspapers. I take it 
for granted iliat those re|iorters of the wis- 
dom of our representatives are tolerably cor- 
rect and faithful. Were they not, and were 
they guilty of frequent and gross misrej)re- 
sentatioii, as.surcdly they would be chastised 
by the rod of parliamentary criticism. Could 
I be present at the debates, I should indeed 
have a better opinion of my documents. But 
if the House of Comnuins be the best school 
of Uritish politics, which I think an undeni- 
able assertion, then he that reads wli.it passes 
there has opjHirtunities of information infe- 
rior only to theirs who hear for themselves, 
and can be present upon the spot. Thus 
qualitied, I take courage; and when a certain 
reverend neighbor of ours curls his nose at 
me, and holds my opinions clicap, merely be- 
cause he has passed through London, I am 
not altogether convinced that he has reason 
on his side. I do not know that the air of 
the metropolis has a power to brighten the 
intellects, or that to sleep a night in the great 
city is a necessary cause of wisdom. He tells 
me that "Sir. Vox is a rascal, and that I-ord 
North is a. villain; that every creature execrates 
them both, and that I ought to do so too. 
But I beg to be excused. Villain and rascal 
are appellations which we, who do not converse 
with great men, are rather sparing in the use 
of. I can conceive them both to be most en- 
tirely persuaded of the rectitude of their 
conduct, and the rather because I feel myself 
much inclined to believe that, being so, they 
are not mistaken. I cannot think that secret 
influence is a bugbear, a phantom conjured 
up to serve a purpose, the mere shibbo- 
leth nH a party:* and being, and having al- 
ways been, somewhat of an enthusiast on 
the subject of British liberty, I am not able 
to withhold my reverence and good wishes 
from the man, whoever he be, that exerts 
himself in a constitutional way to oppose it. 

Caraccioli upon the subject of self-ac- 
quaintance was never I believe translated. I 
have sonu:times thought that the Theological 
Miscellany might be glad of a" chapter of it 
montJdy. It is a work which I much admire. 

• Tlie wcn't intluL-nec, here meiilioiied, was at lliis 
lime, and ofleii ultiTWanis, paid to In: employed by tlie 
Court; and behm liii;li!y unconstitutional, was fretiuenlly 
adverted to. in slron-.; lani,'\iii!^o uf reprehension, in the 
House of O)rninons. Mr. Powys, afterwards l^ord I^il- 
ford, culled it *'h f mirth fstatt in the realm ;^'' aud Mr. 
Dnrke ilenominated it ^ a power bcAitid the throne greater 
thin the throne itself." 



V'ou, who are master of their plan, can tell 
me whether such a contribution would be 
welcome. If you think it would, I would 
be punctual in my remittances; and a labor 
of that sort would suit me better in my 
present state of mind than original composi- 
tion on religious subjects. 

Remember us as those that love you, and 
are never unmindful of you. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* 

IMucy, Feb. e-2,17M. 

My dear Friend, — I owe you thanks for 
your kind remembrance of me in your letter 
sent me on occasion of your departure, and 
as many for that which I received last night. 
I should have answered, had I known where 
a line or two from me might find you; but, 
uncertain whether you were at home or 
abroad, my diligence I confess wanted the 
necessary spur. 

It makes a capital figure among the com- 
forts we enjoyed during the long severity of 
the .season, that the same inaigintu to all ex- 
cept ourselves made us his almoners this 
year likewise, as he did the last, and to the 
same amount. Some we have been enabled 
I suppose to save from perishing, and cer- 
tainly many from the most pinching nece.s- 
sity. Are you not afraid, Tory as you are, 
to avow yonr principles to me, who am a 
Whig ? Know that I am in the opposition ; 
that, though I pity the king. I do not wish 
him success in the present confest.f But 
this is too long a battle to fight upon paper. 
Make haste, that we may decide it face to 
face. 

Our respects wait upon Mrs. Bull, and our 
love upon tlu^ young Hebncan.t I wish you 
joy of his proliciency. and am glad that you 
can say, with the old man in Terence, 

Omnes continuo laudare fortunas meas, 
dui nutum habeam tali ingenio prjcJitum. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM tJNWLN. 

tJluoy, Fob. -m, 1784. 
Jly dear Friend, — We are glad that you 
have such a Lor<l I'etre in your neighbor- 
hood. He mnst be a man of a liberal turn to 
employ a heretic in such a service. I wish 
you a further ac(|uaintance with him, not 
doubting that the more he knows you, he will 
find you the more agreeable. You despair 

• Private correspondence. 

t This alludes to Mr. I'itt beililf retained in offlcc, 
Ihouirh l're(|iiriitly outvoted in Parliainenl. 

I Mr. Hull's son, who utterwards succeede{l his father, 
bt>th in the ministerial olflce, and also in the seminary 
established at Newport Pagiiei, and with no less claim 
to respect and esteem. 



182 



COVVPER'S WORKS. 



of becoming a prebcndtiry, for want of cer- 
tain rliythinu'.al talents, wliicli you suppose 
me possessed of. iSut wluit thiiii; you of a 
carduuirs hat^ Perhaps his lordsliip may 
liave interest at Rome, and that greater honor 
mav await you. Seriou.^ly, however, I re- 
sjieel liis character, and should not be sorry 
if tliere were many such Papists in the land. 

Mr. has given free scope to his gene- 
rosity, and contrihuled as largely to the relief 
of Olney as he did last year. Soon after I 
had given you notice of his first remittance, 
we received a second to the same amount, ac- 
companied indeed with an intimation that we 
were to consider it as .an anticipated supply, 
which, but for the uncommon severity of the 
present winter, he should have reserved for 
the next. The inference is that ne.xt winter 
we are to expect nothing. But the man, and 
his beneficent turn of mind considered, there 
is some reason to hope that, logical as the in- 
ference seems, it may yet be disappointed. 

Adverting to your letter again, I perceive 
that you wish for my opinion of your answer 
to his lordship. Had I forgot to tell you 
that I approve of it, I know you well enough 
to be aware of the misinterpretation you 
wouhl have put upon my silence. I am glad 
therefore that I happened to cast my eye upon 
your appeal to my opinion, before it was too 
late. A modest man, however able, has 
always some reason to distrust himself upon 
extraordinary occasions. Nothing is so apt 
to betray us into absurdity as too great a 
dread of it ; and the application of more 
strength tli.an enough is sometimes as fatal as 
too little : but you have escaped very well. 
For my own part, when I write to a stranger, 
I feel myself deprived of lialf my intellects. 
I suspect that I shall write nonsense, and I 
do so. I tremble at the thouglit of an inac- 
curacy, and become absolutely ungraramati- 
cal. I feel myself sweat. I have recourse to 
the knife and the pounce. I correct half a 
dozen blunders, which in a conunon case I 
should not have committed, and have no 
sooner despatched what I have written, than 
I recollect how much better I could have 
made it ; how easily and genteelly I could 
have relaxed the stiffness of the phrase, and 
have cured the insufierable awkwardness of 
the whole, hail they struck me a little earlier. 
Thus we stand in awe of we know not what, 
and miscarry through mere desire to excel. 

I read Johnson's Prefaces every niglit, ex- 
cept when the newspaper calls me oft'. At a 
time like the present, what author can stand 
in competition with a newspaper ; or who, 
that has a spark of patriotism, does not point 
all his attention to the present crisis. 

w. c. 



I am so disgusted with ■ 



upon to write to you, that I do not choose to 
express my feelings. Woe to the man whom 
kindness cannot soften ! 



TO THE REV. JOHN KEWTON. 

Olnoy, March 8, IT&I. 
My dear Friend, — I thank yon for the two 
first numbers of the Theological Miscellany. 
I have not read them regularly through, but 
sufficiently to ob.^erve that they are much in- 
debted to Omicron.* An essay, signed Par- 
vulus, pleased me likewise ; and 1 shall be 
glad if a neighbor of ours, to whom I have 
lent them, should be able to apply to his own 
use the lesson it inculcates. On f;irlher con- 
sideration, I have seen reason to forego my 
purpose of translating Caraccioli. Though 
I think no book more calculated to teach 
the art of pious meditation, or to enforce a 
conviction of the vanity of all pursuits that 
have not the soul's interests for their object, 
I can yet see a flaw in his manner of instruct- 
ing, that in a country so enlightened as ours 
would escape nobody's notice. Not enjoying 
the advantage of evangelical ordinances and 
Christian communion, he falls into a mistake, 
natural in his situation, ascribing always the 
pleasures lie found in a holy life, to his own 
industrious perseverance in a contemplative 
course, and not to the immediate agency of 
the great Comforter of his people, and direct- 
ing the eye of his readers to a spiritual prin- 
ciple within, which he supposes to subsist in 
the soul of every man, as the source of all 
divine enjoyment, and nol. to Christ, as ho 
would gladly have done, had he fallen under 
Christian teachers. Allowing for these de- 
fects, he is a charming writer, and by those 
who know how to make such allowances 
may be read with great delight and improve- 
ment. But, with these defects in his man- 
ner, though, I Ijelieve, no man ever had a heart 
more devoted to God, he does not seem 
dressed with sufficient exactness to be fit for 
the i)ublic eye, where man is known to be 
nothing, and Jesus all in all. He must there- 
fore be dismissed, as an unsuccessful candi- 
date for a place in this i\Iiscellany, and will 
be less mortified at being rejected in the first 
instance than if he had met with a refusal 
from the publisher. I can only therefore re- 
peat what I said before, that, when I find a 
proper subject, and myself at liberty to pur- 
sue it, I will eude.avor to contribute my 
quota. W. C. 



— , for allow- 
ing himself to be silent, when so loudly called 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March II, 1T84. 
I return you many thanks for your Apol- 
og)', which I have read with gre.at pleasure. 
Yon know of old that your style always 
* The Bignaturu assumed by Mr. Newton. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



183 



ple:ises me ; and having, in a former letler, 
given you tiie I■ea^Olls for which 1 lilie it, 1 
spare yon nowlhe pain of a repi'tition. Tlie 
spirit too in wineli you vvriie pleases me as 
much, lint I perceive that in some cases it 
is possible to be severe, and at the same time 
perfectly goo J-teinpered ; in all cases, I sup- 
pose, wliere we suiter by an injurious and un- 
reasonable attack, and can justify our conduct 
by a plain and simple narrative. On such oc- 
casions truth itself seems a satire, because by 
impl.cation at least it convicts our adversaries 
of me want of eliarity and candor. For this 
reason peHiaps you will hnd that you have 
made many angry, though you are not so ; and 
it is possible they may be the more angry upon 
that very account. I'o assert and lo prove 
that an eidiglitened minister of the gospel 
may, without any violation of his eonscienee, 
and even upon the ground of prudence and 
propriety, continue in the Establishment, and 
to do tins with the nujst absolute composure, 
must be very provoking to the dignity of 
some dissenting doctors ; and, to nettle them 
still more, you in a manner iin|)ose upon them 
the necessity of being silent, by declaring that 
you will be so yourself. Upon the whole, 
however, I have no doubt that your Apology 
will do good. If it .sh(juld irritate some who 
have more zeal than knowledge, and more of 
bigotry than of either, it may serve to eidarge 
the views of others, and to convince them 
that there may be grace, truth, and cllicacy 
in the ministry of a church of which they are 
not members. J wish it success, and all that 
attention to which, both from the nature of 
the subject and the manner in wliich you 
have Ire. lied it, it is so well entith'd. 

The patronage of the East Indies will be 
a dangerous weapon, in whatever hands. 1 
have no prosjjcct of deliverance for this 
country, but the same that 1 have of a possi- 
bility liiat we may one day be disencumbered 
of our ruinous possessions in the East. 

Our good neighbors,* who have so success- 
fully knocked away our western crutch from 
under us, seem to design us the same favor 
on the opposite side, in \jhich case we shall 
be poor, but I think we shall stand a better 
chance to be free ; aiul I had rather drink 
water gruel for breakfast, and be no man's 
slave, than wear a chain, and drink tea. 

I have just room to add that We love you 
as usual, and are your very allectioiiatc 
William and Mary. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOIIX NEWTON.f 

OIncy, M:irdi 15, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — I ccniverse, you say, upon 
other subjects than that of despair, and may 

• The Pruueli iKition, who aided America in hur stnig- 
glo for independence, 
t I'rlvale correjipoudeucc. 



therefore write upon others. Indeed, my 
friend, I am a man of very little conversation 
upon any subject. From that of despair I 
abstain as much as possible, for the sake of 
my comp.uiy ; but 1 will venture to say that 
it is never out of my nnnd one minute in the 
whole d.iy. I do not mean to say that 1 am 
nc\er cheerful. I am often so ; always in- 
deed when my nights have been undisturbed 
for a season. But the effect of such contin- 
ual listening to the language of a heart hope- 
less and deserted is that 1 can never give 
much more than half my atteniion to what is 
started by others, and very rarely start any- 
thing myself Jly silence, however, and my 
absence of mind, make me sometimes as en- 
tertaining as if I had wit. They furnish an 
occasion for friendly and good-natured rail- 
lery ; they raise a laugh, and I partake of it. 
But you will easily perceive that a mind thus 
occupied is but indifferently ijualihed for the 
consideration of theological mattei-s. The 
most useful and the most delightful topics 
of that kind are to me forbidden fruit ; — 1 
tremble if I approach them, it has happened 
to me sometimes that I have found myself 
imperceptibly drawn in, and made a jiarty in 
such discourse. The eonse(inenee has been, 
dissatisfaction and self-reproach. You will 
tell me, perhaps, that I have written upon 
these subjects in \'erse, and may therefore, if 
I please, in prose. But there is a difference. 
The search after poetical expression, the 
rhyme, and the numbers, are all afl'airs of 
some difficulty ; they amuse, indeed, but are 
not to be attained without study, and en- 
gross, perhaps, a larger share of the attention 
than the subject itself. Persons fond of 
music will sometimes find pleasure in the 
tune, when the words atlbrd them none. 
There are, however, subjects that do not 
always terrify me by their importance; such 
I mean as relate to Christian life and man- 
ners ; and when such a one presents il-sclf, 
and finds me in a frame of mind that does not 
absolutely forbid the employment, I shall 
most readily give it my attention, for the 
sake, however, of your request merely. — 
Verse is my favorite occupation, and what I 
coin[)ose in that way 1 reserve for my own 
use liereafter. 

1 have lately finished eight volumes of 
Johnson's Prefaces, or laves of the Poets. 
In all that number 1 observe but one man — 
a poet of no great faiiu — of whom 1 did not 
know that he existed till 1 found him there, 
whose mind seems to have had the slightest 
tincture of religion ; and he was hardly in 
his senses. His name was Collins. He 
sank into a state of melancholy, and died 
young. Not long before his death he was 
found at his lodgings in Islington, by his 
biographer, with the New Testament in his 
hand. He said to Johnson, " 1 have but one 



184 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



book, liut it is flie best." Of him, therefore, 
there are some hopes. But from the lives 
of all the rest there is but one inference to 
be drawn — that poets are a very worthless, 
wicked set of people. 

Yours, my dear friend, truly, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, March 19, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I wish it were in my 
power to give you any account of the Mar- 
quis Caraecioli. Some years since I saw a 
short history of him in the ' Review,' of 
which I recollect no particulars, except that 
he was (and for aught I know may be still) 
an officer in the Prussian service. I have 
two volumes of his works, lent me by Lady 
Austen. One is upon the subject of self- 
acquaintance, and the other treats of the art 
of conversing with the same gentleman. 
Had I pursued my purpose of translating 
liim, my design was to have fnrnishcd my- 
self, if possible, with some authentic account 
of him, which I suppose may be procured at 
any bookseller's who deals in foreign publi- 
cations. But for the reasons? given in my 
last I have laid aside tlie design. There is 
something in his style that touches me e.\- 
ceedingly, and which I do not know how to 
describe. I should call it pathetic, if it were 
occasional only, and never occurred but when 
his subject happened to be particularly ati'ect- 
ing. But it is universal ; he has not a sen- 
tence tliat is not marked with it. Perhaps 
therefore I may describe it better by saying 
that his whole work Jias an air of pious and 
tender melanelioly, which to me at least is 
e.xtremely agreeable. This property of it, 
which depends perhaps altogether upon the 
arrangement of his words, and the modula- 
tion of his sentences, it would be very ditK- 
cult to preserve in a translation. I do not 
know that our language is capable of being 
so managed, and rather suspect that it is 
not, and that it is peculiar to the French, be- 
cause it is not unfrequent among their writ- 
ers, and I never saw anything similar to it in 
our own. 

BIy evenings are devoted to books. I 
read aloud for the entertainment of the 
party, thus making amends by a vociferation 
of two hours for my silence at other times. 
We are in good health, and waiting as pa- 
tiently as we can for the end of tliis second 
winter. 

Yours, ray dear friend, W. C. 

The following letter will be read with in- 
terest as expressing Cowper's sentiments on 
Dr. Johnson's " Lives of the Poets." 



TO THE KEV. WM. UNWIN.* 

OIncy, March 21, 1784. 

My dear William, — I thank you for the 
entertainment you have aflbrded me. I often 
wish for a library, often regret my folly in 
selling a good collection, but I have one in 
Essex. It is rather remote indeed, too dis- 
tant for occasional reference ; but it serves 
the purpose of amusement, and a wagon be- 
ing a very suitable vehicle for an author, I 
find myself comniodiously supplied. Last 
night I made an end of reading " .Johnson's 
Prefaces ;" but the nuudjer of poets whom 
he has vouchsafed to chronicle being fifty- 
six, there mu-st be many with whose history 
I am not yet acquainted. These, or some 
of these, if it suits you to give tliem a part 
of your chaise when you come, will be heart- 
ily welcome. I am very mucli the biogra- 
pher's humble admirer. His uncommon share 
of good sense, and his forcible expression, 
secure to hira that tribute from all his read- 
ers. He has a penetrating insight into char- 
acter, and a happy talent of correcting the 
l)opular opinoin upon all occasions where it 
is erroneous; and this he does with the 
boldness of a man who will think for him- 
self, but at the same time witli a justness of 
sentiment that convinces us he does not dif- 
fer from others through afl'ectation, but be- 
cause he has a sounder judgment. This 
remark, however, has his narrati\e for its 
object rather than his critical i)ert'ormance. 
In the latter I do not think him always just, 
when he departs from the general opinion. 
He finds no beauties in Milton's Lycidas. 
He pours contempt upon Prior, to such a 
degree, that, were he really as undeserving 
of notice as he represents liim, he ought no 
longer to be numbered among the poets. 
These indeed are the tw'O capital instances 
in which he has oflended me. There are 
others less important, which I have not room 
to enumerate, and in which I inn less con- 
fident that lie is wrong. Wliat suggested to 
him the thouglit tliat the Alma was written 
in imitation of Hijdibras, I cannot conceive. 
In former years, they were both favorites of 
mine, and I often read tliem : but never saw 
in them the least resemblance to each other; 
nor do I now, except that they are composed 
in verse of the same measure. After all, it 
is a melancholy observ.ation, which it is 
impossible not to make, after having run 
through this series of poetical lives, that 
where there were such shining talents there 
should be so little virtue. These luminaries 
of our country seem to have been kindled 
into a brighter blaze than others only that 
tlieir spots might be more noticed ! So 
much can nature do for our intellectual part, 
and so little for our moral. What vanity, 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



185 



what petulance in Pope! How painfully 
seiisiblo of censure, and yet how restless in 
provocation ! To wiiat mean artifices coukl 
Atlilison stoop, in hopes of injuring tlie repu- 
tation of his friend ! Sava;,a', how sordidly 
vicious! and the more cojidemned for the 
pains that are taken to palliate his vices. 
Olfensive as they appear thruugli a veil, how 
would they disgust witliout one ! What a 
.sycophant to tlie public ta.ste was Dryden ; 
sinning against his feelings, lewd in his writ- 
ings, though chaste in his conversation. I 
know not but one might search these eight 
volumes with a candle, as the prophet says, 
to tirid a man, and not find one, unless per- 
haps Arbuthnot were he. I .shall begin 
Beattie this evening, and propose to myself 
much satisfaction in reading him. In him at 
least I shall find a man whose faculties have 
now and then a glimpse from heaven upon 
thcni; a man, not indeed in possession of 
much evangelical light, but faiilifnl to what 
he has, and never neglecting an opportunity 
to use it! How much more respectable 
such a character than that of thousands who 
would call him blind, and yet have not the 
grace to practise half his virtues ! He too is 
a poet and wrote the Minstrel. The speci- 
mens which I have seen of it pleased me 
much. If you Imve the whole, I should be 
glad to read it. I may perhaps, since you 
allow me the liberty, indulge myself here 
and there with a marginal annotation, but 
shall not use that allowance wantonly, so as 
to deface the volumes. 

Yours, my dear William, W. C. 



TO TIIE REV. JOHS NEWTON. 

Olney, Marcli 09, 17&1. 

My dear Friend, — It being his m.ajesty's 
pleasure that I should yet have aiuitlier op- 
portunity to write before he dissolves the 
p irliament, I avail myself of it with all pos- 
sible alacrity. I thank you for your last, 
which was not the less welcome for coming, 
like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when 
it was not expected. 

As, when the sea is uncommonly iigitated, 
the water finds its way into creeks and holes 
of rocks, which in iU* calmer state it never 
re.iches, in like manner the effect of these 
turbulent times is felt even at Orchard-side, 
where in general we live as uudistm-bed by 
the political element as shrimps or cockles, 
th.it have been accidentally .deposited in 
some hollow beyond the wati'r-nnrk, l)y the 
usual dashing of the waves. We were sit- 
ting yesterJ.iy after dinner, the two Lidies 
and myself, very composedly, and without 
the le.ast apprehension of any such intrusion 
in our snug parlor, one lady knitting, the 
other netting, and the gentleman winding 
worsted, when, to our unspeakable surprise, 



a mob appeared before the window ; a smart 
rap was heard at the door, the boys hallooed, 

and the maid ainiounccd Mr. G . Puss* 

was unfortunately let out of her box, so that 
the candidate, with all his good friends at 
his heels, w.-is refused admittance at the 
grand entry, and referred to the back-door, 
as the only possible way of apjjroach. 

Candidates are creatures not very suscep- 
tible of affronts, and would rather, I sup- 
pose, climb in at a window than be abso- 
lutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the 
kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. 

G , advancing toward me, shook me by 

the hand with a degree of cordiality that was 
extremely seducing. As soon as he and as 
many more as could find chairs were .seated, 
he began to open the intent of his visit. I 
told him I had no vote, for which he readily 
gave me credit. I assured him I had no 
influence, which he w'.as not equally inclined 
to believe, and the less, no doubt, because 

.Mr. A , addressing hini.self to me at that 

moment, informed me that I had a great 
deal. Supposing that I could not be pos- 
sessed of such a treasure without knowing 
it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion, by 
saying that if I had any, I was utterly at a 
loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein 
it consisted. Thus ended the conference. 

JL'. G squeeziid me by the hand again, 

kissed the ladies, and witlulrew. He kissed 
likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed 
upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind- 
hearted gcntleuuin. He is very young, gen- 
teel, and handsome. He has a [lair of very 
good eyes in his head, which not being snlh- 
cient as it should seem for the many nice 
and dillicult purposes of a senatckr, he has a 
third also, whicli he wore suspended by a 
ribbon from his button-hole. The boys hal- 
looed, the dogs barked. Puss scampered, the 
hero, with his long train of obsequious fol- 
lowers, « ithdrew. We made ourselves very 
merry with the adventure, and in a short 
time settled into our former tranquillity, 
never pr(d)ably to be thus interrupted more. 
I thought myself however happy in being 
able to allirm truly that I had not that influ- 
ence for which he sued, and for which, had I 
been possessed of it, with my ])re.sent views 
of the dispute between the Crown and the 
Commons.}- I must have refused him, for lie 
^ on the side of the former. It is comfort- 
able to be of no conseiiuence in a worhl, 
where one cannot exercise any without dis- 
obliging somebody. The town however 
seems to be much at his service, and, if he 
be equally successful throughout the county, 
he will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. 
A , perhaps, was a little niortiiieil, be- 

* His t:imo hare. 

t \Vl' iiiivc ulrcaily stilted ttinl Mr. Pitt was frequonlly 
oiitvuiiil at llii9 lime in Ihe lloiisc of CuiiiTnoiis, but, 
iK'ing supported by the Icing, did nut ctioose to resign. 



186 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



cause it w:is evident that I owed the honor 
of this visit to his misrcprcfcntiition of my 
importanue. But iiad lie thmiijlit proper to 

assure iSIr. G tliat I liad three heads, I 

should not I suppose have heeu bound to 
produce them. 

Mr. S , who you say was so much ad- 
mired in your pulpit, would be equally ad- 
mired in his own, at least by all capable 
judges, were he not so apt to be angry with 
his congregation. This hurts him, and, had 
he the understanding and eloquence of I'aul 
himself, would still hurt him. He seldom, 
hardly ever, indeed, preaelies a gentle, well- 
tempered sermon, but 1 hear it highly com- 
meiuled: but warmth of temper, indulged to 
a degree that may be called scolding, defeats 
the end of preaching. It is a misapplication 
of his powers, whieli it also cripples, and teases 
away his hearers. But he is a good man, and 
may perhaps outgrow it. 

Yours, W. C. 



time forth forever. There is a word that 
makes this world tremble; and the Pope 
cannot countermand it. A fig for such a 
conjurer! Pharaoh's conjurers had twice 
his ability. 

Believe me, my dear friend, 

AITcctioiuitely yours, W. C. 

We have already alluded to this awfnl 
catastrophe, which occurred Feb. 5, 1783, 
though the shocks of earthquake continued 
to be felt sensibly, but less violently, till 
May 23rd. The motions of the earth are de- 
scribed as having been various, either whirl- 
ing like a vortex, horizontally, or by pulsa- 
tions and beatings from the bottom upwards; 
the rains continual and violent, often acccun- 
panied with lightning and irregular and furi- 
ous gusts of wind. The sum total of the 
mortality in Cal.ibria and Sicily, by tlie earth- 
quakes alone, as returned to the Secretary of 
State's otfice, in Naples, was 32,367 ; and, 
including other casualties, was estimated at 
40,000.* 



TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olnoy, April, 1784. 

People that are but little acquainted with 
the terrors of divine wrath, are not much 
afraid of trifling with their Maker. But, for 
my own part, I would sooner take Empedo- 
cie's leap, and fling myself into Mount ^tiui 
tlian I would do it in the slightest instance, 
were I in circumstances to make an election. 
In the scripture we find a broad and clear ex- 
hibition of mercy ; it is displayed in every 
page. Wrath is, in comparison, but sliglitly 
touched upon, because it is not so much a 
discovery of wratl: as of forgiveness. But, 
had the displeasure of God been the principal 
subject of the book, and had it circumstan- 
tially set forth that measure of it only which 
may be endured even in this life, the Chris- 
tian world perhaps would have been less 
comfortable ; but I believe presumptuous 
meddlers with the gospel wmild h.avc been 
less frequently met with. The word is a 
flaming sword; and he that touclies it with 
unliallowed finger.s, thinking to make a tool 
of it, will find that he has burned them. 

What havoc in Calabria ! Every house is 
built upon the sand, whose inhabitants lia\e 
no God or only a false one. Solid and fluid 
are such in respect to each otlier; but witji 
reference to tlie divine power they are equal? 
ly iixed or equally unstable. The inhabi- 
tants of a rock shall sink, while a cock-boat 
shall save a man alive in the midst of the 
fathomless ocean. The Pope grants dispen- 
sations for folly and madness during the car- 
nival. But it seems they are as ofi'ensive to 
him, whose vicegerent he pretends himself, at 
that season as at any other. Were I a Cala- 
brian, I would not give my papa at Rome one 
farthing for his amplest indulgence, from this 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, April 5, 17P4. 

My dear William, — I thanked you in my 
last for Johnson ; ] now thank you with more 
emphasis for Beattie, the most agreeable and 
amiable writer I ever met with — the only au- 
thor I have seen whose critical and philo- 
sophical researches .are diversified and embel- 
lished by a poetical imagination, that makes 
even the driest subject and the leanest a feast 
for an epicure in books. He is so much at 
his ease, too, that his own character appears 
in every page, and, which is very rare, we see 
not only the writer but the liuin ; and that 
man so gentle, so well-tempered, so happy in 
his religion, and so humane in his philosophy, 
that it is necessary to love him if one has any 
sense of what is iovely. If you have not his 
poem called the Minstrel, and cannot borrow 
it, I must beg you to buy it for me ; for, 
thougli I camiot aftbrd to deal largely in so 
cxpen.sive a conunodity as books, 1 must af- 
ford to ]nirchase at least the poetical works 
of Beattie. I have read six of Blair's Lec- 
tures, and what do I say of Blair ! That he 
is a sensible man, master of his subject, and, 
excepting here and there a Scotticism, a good 
writer, so far .at least as perspicuity of expres- 
sion and method contribute to make one. 
But, O the sterility of that man's fancy ! if 
indeed he has any' such faculty belonging to 
him. Perhaps philosophers, or men designed 
for such, are sometimes born without one ; 
or perhaps it withers for want of exercise. 
However that may be. Dr. Blair has such a 
brain as Shakspeare somewhere describes 

* Sec Sir Williara Hamilton's account of this awful 
event. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



187 



— "dry as the remainder biseuit after a voy- 
age.'* 

I take it for granted, tliat these good men 
are pliilo^ophiiMlly eorreet (for tliey are both 
agreed upon tlie snbjoet) in their aceonnt of 
the origin of hingnage ; and, if the Seriptnre 
had lefi ns in the dark upon that artick", I 
shcinid very readily adopt their hypothesis for 
want of better iiifonnation. I should sup- 
pose, for instanee, that man made his first ef- 
fort ii) speech, in the way of an interjection, 
and that ah 1 or oh ! being uttered with won- 
derful gesticulation, and variety of attitude, 
must have left his powers of expression quite 
exhausted: that in a course of time he would 
invent in:niy names for many things, but tirst 
for the objects of liis daily wants. An apple 
would consequently be called an apple, and 
perhaps not many years would elapse before 
the apjjelhition would receive the sanction of 
gener.d use. In this case, and upon this sup- 
position, seeing one in the hand of another 
man, he would e.vclaim, with a most moving 
pathos, " Oh apple !" — well and good — oh ap- 
ple ! is a very affecting speech, but in tlie 
meantime it profits him nothing. The man 
that holds it, eats it, and he goes away with 
Oh apple in his mouth, and with nothing bet- 
ter. Reflecting on his disappointment, and 
that perhajis it arose from his not being more 
explicit, he contrives a term to denote his ide:i 
of transfer or gratuitous communication, and, 
the next occasion that offers of a similar kind, 
performs his p:irt accordingly. His speech 
now stands thus, " Oh give apple I" The ap- 
ple-holder perceives himself called on to part 
with his fruit, and having satisfied his own 
hunger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. 
But unfortuiuitely there is still room for a 
mistake, and a third person being present he 
gives the apple to him. Again disappointed, 
and again perceiving that his language has 
not all the precision that is requisite, the ora- 
tor retires to his study, and there, after much 
deep thinking, conceives that the insertion of 
a jironoun, whose oliice shall be to .signify 
that he not only wants the apple to be given, 
but given to himself, will remedy all defects, 
he uses it the next opportunity, and succeeds 
to a wonder, obtains the apple, and by his suc- 
cess, such credit to his invention, that pro- 
nouns continue to be in great repute ever after. 

Now, as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie 
and Blair, both agree that language was ori- 
ginally inspired, and that the great variety of 
languages \\c find upon earth at present took 
its rise from the confusion of tongues at 

• This criticism on Blair's Lectures seems lo be too 
severe. There wus a period when his S^-rmoiis were 
nniont,' th<? inosl ailmireJ productions of the day ; sixty 
thousanil copie?«, il was said, were sold. They fiirnied 
the slaiidard of divinity fifty years ai?o: but they are now 
jn.-ftly considered lo be delicient, in not exhiliitin? the 
Kri'.ii and fnndameiilal truths of the (iospel, and to be 
merely entitled to the praise of Ijeing a beautiful system 
of eUiics. 



Babel, I am not perfectly convinced that there 
is any just occasion to invent this very inge- 
nious solution of a dilhculty which Scripture 
h.is solved already. My opinion, however, is, 
if I may ])resuine to have an <>j)inion of my 
own, so different from theirs, who are .so 
much wiser than myself, that, if a man had 
been his own teacher, and had ac(iuired his 
words and his ]ihrases only as necessity or 
convenience had prompted, his progress must 
have been considerably slower than it was, 
and in Homer's days the production of such 
a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the con- 
tr.iry, I doubt not Adam, on the very day of 
his creation, was .able to express himself in 
terms both forcible and elegant, and that he 
was at no loss for sublime diction and logical 
combination, when he wanted to praise his 
JIaker. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTO.N. 

Olnoy, A|)ril 1\ 1784. 

My dear William, — I wish I had both burn- 
ing words and bright thoughts. But I have 
at present neither. My head is not itself 
Having had an un])leasant night and a melan- 
choly day, and having already written a long 
letter, I do not find myself in point of spirits 
at all qualified either to burn or shine. The 
post sets out early on Tuesday. The morn- 
ing is the only time of exercise with me. In 
order therefore lo keep it open for tliat pur- 
pose, and to comply with your desire of an 
immediate answer, I give you as much as I 
can .spare of the present evening. 

Since I desp itched my last, Blair has crept 
a little farther into my favor. As his subjects 
improve, he improves with them : but upon 
the whole I .account him a dry writer, useful 
no doubt as an instructtu', but as little enter- 
taining as, with so much knowledge, it is pos- 
sible to be. His language is (except Swift's) 
the least figurative I reinemher to have seen, 
and the few figures found in it are not always 
happily employed. I take him to be a critic 
very little animated by what he reads, who 
rather reasons about the beauties of an au- 
thor than really tastes them, and who finds 
that a ]iassage is pr.iiseworthy, not because 
it charms him. but because it is accommo- 
dated to the laws of criticism in that case 
made and provided. 1 have a little complied 
with your desire of marginal annotations, 
aniVshiiiild have dealt in them more largely 
had I read the books to myself; but, being 
reader to the ladies, I have not always lime 
to settle my own opinion of a doubtful ex- 
pression, much less to suggest an emenda- 
tion. I have not censured a particular ob- 
servation in the book, though, when I met 
with it, it displeased ine. I this moment 
recollect it, and may as well therefore note 



188 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



it hero. He is commending, and deservedly, 
tluit most noble description of a thunder- 
storm in tlie first Georgic, which ends with 

.... Ingeminant austri et densissiraus iiiibcr. 

Being in haste, I do not refer to the volume 
for his very words, but my memory will serve 
me «'ith the matter. When poets describe, 
ho says, they should always select such cir- 
cumstances of the subject as are least obvi- 
ous, and therefore most striking. He there- 
fore admires the effects of the thunderbolt, 
splitting mountains, and filling a nation with 
astonishment, but quarrels with the closing 
member of the period, as containing particu- 
lars of a storm not worthy of Virgil's notice, 
because oljvious to the notice of all. But 
here I differ from him ; not being able to con- 
ceive that wind and rain can be improper in 
the description of a tempest, or how wind 
and rain could possibly be more poetically 
described. Virgil is indeed remarkable for 
finishing his periods well, and never comes 
to a stop but with the most consummate dig- 
nity of numbers and e.xpression, and in the 
instance in question I think his skill in this 
respect is remarkably displayed. Tlie line is 
perfectly majestic in its march. As to the 
wind, it is such only as the word ingeminanl 
could describe and the words densissimiis hii- 
bcr give one an idea of a shower indeed, but 
of such a shower as is not very common, and 
such a one as only Virgil could have done 
justice to l)y a single epithet. Far therefore 
from agreeing with the Doctor in his stricture, 
I do not think the ^Eneid contains a nobler 
line, or a description more magnificently fin- 
ished. 

We are glad that Dr. C has singled 

you out upon this occa.sion. Your perform- 
ance we doubt not will justify his choice : 
fear not, you have a lieart that can feel upon 
charitable occasions, and therefore will not 
fail you upon this. The burning words will 
come fast enough when the sensibility is 
such as yours. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Tlie ingenuity and humor of the following 
verses as well as their poetical merit, give 
them a just claim to admiration. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* 

OIncy, April 2,), 1784. 
My dear William, — Thanks for the fish, 
with its companion, a lobster, which wc mean 
to eat to-morrow. 

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OP THE HALTBUTT ON 
WniCII I DINED TU[.S DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 
1784. 

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued 
Thy pastime 1 when wast thou an egg ncw- 
spawn'd 

* Private correspondence. 



Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste 1 
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds 
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe. 
.Vnd i]i thy minikin and embryo state, 
Attach'd to the firm I'^af of some salt weed, 
Didst outlive tempests such as wrung and rack'd 
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark. 
And wh(lm\l them in the um-xplored abyss. 
Indebted to no magnet and no chart, 
Nor under guidance oi' the polar fire, 
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, ^ 

Grazing at large in meadows submarine. 
Where fiat Batuvia. just emerging, peeps 
.Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks 
Beat back the surge — and where Hibernia shoots 
Her wondrous causeway far into the main. 
— Wherever thou hast led, thou little thoughl'st, 
And I not more, that I should It'ed on thee. 
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much 

good lish, 
To him who sent thee ! and success as oft 
As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well ! 

To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee 
Thy lot, thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd 
Would envy, could they know that thou wast 
To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, April 36, 1784. 

We are glad that your book runs. It will 
not indeed satisfy those whom nothing could 
satisfy but your accession to tlieir party ; but 
the liberal will say you do well, and it is in 
tlie opinion of siich men only that you can 
feel yourself interested. 

I liave lately been employed in reading 
Beattie and Blair's Lectures. The latter 1 
have not yet fini.shed. I find the former the 
most agi'eeable of tlie two, indeed the most 
entertaining writer upon dry subjects I ever 
met with. His imagiualion is highly poetical, 
his language easy and elegant, and his man- 
ner so familiar that we seem to be conversing 
with an old friend upon terms of the most 
sociable intercourse while we read him. 
Blair is on the contrary rather stiff, not that 
his style is pedantic, but his air is formal. He 
is a .sensible man, and understands his sub- 
jects, but too conscious that he is addressing 
the public, and too solicitous about his suc- 
cess, to indulge himself for a moment in that 
play of fancy which makes the other so 
agreeable. In Blair we find a scholar, in 
Beattie both a scholar and an amiable man, 
indeed so amiable that I have wished for his 
acquaintance ever since I read his book. 
Having never in my life perused a page of 
Aristotle, I am glad to have had an opportu- 
nity of learning more (ban (I sn])pose) he 
would have tauglit me, from the writings of 
two modern critics. I felt myself too a little 
disposed to compliment my own acumen upon 
the occasion. For, though the art of writing 
and composing was never mucdi my study, I 
did not find that they had any great news to 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



189 



tell mi?. They have assisted me in putting 
my observations into some iiielhod, but have 
not sunjgested many of wlili'li I was not by 
some means or other previously apprized. In 
faet, crities did not originally beget author.s, 
but authors ma<le eritic-i. Common sense 
diclaled to writers the neecssity of method, 
conne.xioii, and thoughts eongruous to the 
nature of their subject ; genius prompted 
them with embellishmejits, and then eame tlie 
crities. Observing the good cU'eets of an at- 
tention to these items, they enacted laws for 
the observance of tliein in time to come, and, 
having drawn their rules for good writing 
from what was actually well written, boasted 
themselves the inventors of an art which yet 
the authiu's of the day had already exempli- 
fied. They are however useful in their way, 
giving us at one view a map of the bound:i- 
ries which propriety sets to fancy, and serv- 
ing as judges to whom I lie public may at 
once appe.ii, when pestered with the vagaries 
of those wlio have had the hardiness to trans- 
gress them. 

The cnnditades for this county have set an 
example of economy which other candidates ' 
would do well to follow, having come to an 
agreement on both sides to defray the ex- 
penses of their voters, but to open no houses 
for the entertainment of the rablile ; a reform 
however, which the ralible did not at all ap- 
prove of, and testitied their dislike of it by a 
riot. A stage was built, from which the ora- 
tors -liad designed to harangue the electors. ; 
This became the first victim of their fury, i 
Having very little curiosity to hear wh."it 
gentlemen couhl say wIkj wovdd give them 
nothing better than words, they bi-oke it in 
pieces, and threw the fragments upon the 
hustings. The sherilf, the members, the 
lawyers, the voters, were instantly p\it to 
llight. They rallied, but were again routed 
by a second assault like the former. They 
then proceeded to break the windows of the 
inn to which they lia<l lied; and a fear pre- 
vailing that at night they would lire the town, 
a jiroposal was made by the freeholders to 
face about, and endeavor to secure them. At 
that instant a rioter, dressed in a merry An- 
drew's jacket, stepped forward and challenged 
the best man among them. Olney sent the 
hero to the lield. who made him repent of his 

prcsnniplion : Mr. A was he. Seizing 

liiin by the throat, he shook him — he threw 
him to the earth, lie made the hollowness of 
his seull resound by the application of his 
fists, and dragged him into custody without 
the least damage to his person. Animated 
by this example, the other freeholders fol- 
lowed it, and in five minutes twenty-eight 
out of thirty ragamulfins were safely lodged 
in gaol. Adieu my dear friend. 

We love you, and are vours, 

\V. & M. 



TO THE REV. WILLIABI UNWIN. 

Olucy, Miiy .1, 17S4. 

I\Iy dear Friend, — The subject of face- 
painting may be considered (1 think) in two 
points of view. First, there is room for dis- 
pute w'ith respect to the consistency of the 
practice with good morals; and, secondly, 
whether it be on the whole convenient or not 
may be a matter worthy of agitation. I set 
out with all the formality of logical disquisi- 
tion, but do not promise to ob.serve the same 
regularity any farther than it may comport 
with my purjiose of writing as fast as I can. 

As to the immorality of the custom, were 
I in France, I should see none. On the con- 
trary, it seems in that country to be a symp- 
tom of modest consciousness and a tacit con- 
fession of w'hat all know to be true, that 
French faces have in fact neither red nor 
white of their own. This humble acknowl- 
edgment of a defect looks the more like a 
virtue, being found among a people not re- 
markable for humility. Again, before we 
can prove the practice to ho immoral, wc 
must prove immorality in the design of those 
who use it : either, that they intend a decep- 
tion or to kindle unlawful desires in the be- 
holders, lint the French ladies, as far as 
their purpo.se comes in question, must 1^ ac- 
quitted of buth these charges. Nobody sup- 
poses their color to be natural tor a moment, 
any more than if it were blue or green; and 
this unambiguous judgment of the mailer 
is owing to two causes; first, to the universal 
knowledge we have that French women are 
naturally brown or yellow, with vi'ry few 
exceptions, and, secondly, to the inartificial 
manner in which they paint; for they do not, 
as I am satisfactorily informed, evi'ii attempt 
an imitation of nature, but besmear tliein- 
selves hastily and'at a venture, anxious only 
to lay on enough. Where, therefore, there 
is no wanton iniention nor a wish to deceive, 
I can discover no immorality. I5ut in Eng- 
land (I am afraid) our painted ladies are not 
clearly entitled to the .same apology. They 
even imitate nature with such exaelness that 
the whole public is sometimes divided into 
p:irties, who litigate with great warmth the 
question, whether painted or not. This was 

remarkably the case with a Bliss B , 

whom I well remember. Her roses and lilies 
were never discoviTcd to be spurious till she 
attained an age thai made the su))posilion of 
their being natural impossible. This anxiety 
to be not merely red and while, which is all 
they aim at in France, but to be thought very 
beautiful ■•ind much more beautiful than na- 
ture has made tliein, is a symptom not very 
favorable to the idea we would wish to en- 
tertain of the chastity, purity, and modesty of 
our countrywomen. That they are guilty of 
a design to deceive is certain ; olhcrwise, why 
so niucli art ( and if to deceive, wherefore 



190 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and with what purpose ? Certainly either to 
gratify vanity of tlie silliest kind, or, which 
is still more criminal, to decoy and inveigle, 
and carry on more successfully the business 
of temptation. Here therefore my opinion 
splits itself into two opposite sides upon the 
same question. I can suppose a Freneli wo- 
iiian, tliough painted an iucli deep, to be a 
virtuous, discreet, excellent character, and in 
no instance should I thirili the worse of one 
bt'cause she was painted. But an English 
belle must pardon me if I have not the same 
charity for her. She is at least an impostor, 
whether she cheats me or not, because she 
means to do so ; and it is well if th.it be all 
the censure she deserves. 

This brings me to my second class of ideas 
upon this topic : and here I feel that I should 
be fearfully puzzled were I called uj)on to re- 
commen<l the practice on the score of conve- 
nience. If a husband chose that his wife 
should paint, perhaps it might be her duty as 
well as her interest to comply ; but I think he 
would not much consult his own for reasons 
that will follow. In the first place she would 
admire herself the more, and, in the next, if 
she managed the matter well, she might be 
more admired by others; an acquisition that 
mighdbring her virtue under trials to which 
otherwise it might never have been exposed. 
In no other case, however, can I imagine the 
practice in this country to be either expedient 
or convenient. As a general one, it certainly 
is not expedient, because in general English 
women have no occasion for it. A swarthy 
coniiilexion is a rarity here, and the sex, es- 
Jiecially since inoculation has been so much 
in use, have very little cause to cimiplain that 
nature has not been kind to them in the article 
(if eom])lexion. They may hide and .sj)oil a 
good one, but they cannot (at least they 
hardly can) give themselves a better. But, 
even if they could, there is yet a tragedy in 
the .sequel, which should make them tremble. 
I understand that in France, thougli the use 
of rouge be general, the use of white paint is 
far from being so. In England, she that uses 
one commonly uses both. Now all white 
paints, or lotions, or whatever they be called, 
are mercurial, consequently poisonous, con- 
.sequently ruinous in time to the constitution. 
The Miss B above mentioned, was a mis- 
erable witness of this truth, it being, certain 
that her Hesh fell from her bones before she 

died. Lady C was hardly a less melaii- 

clioly proof of it; and a London physician 
perha[)s, were he at liberty to blab, could 
publish a bill of female mortality of a length 
iliat would astonish us. 

For these reasons I utterly condemn the 
I'raetiee as it obtains in England ; and for a 
reason superior to all these I must disapprove 
it. I cannot indeed discover that Scripture 
forbids it in so many words. But that anxious 



solicitude about the person which such an ar- 
tifice evidently betrays is, I am sure, contrary 
to the tenor and spirit of it throughout. Show 
me a woman with a painted face, and I will 
show you a woman whose heart is set on 
things df the earth, and not on things above. 
But this observation of mine applies to it only 
when it is an imitative art: for, in the use of 
French women, I think it as innocent as in 
the use of the wild Iijdian, who draws a cir- 
cle round her face, and makes two spots, per- 
haps blue, perhaps white, in the middle of it. 
Such are my thoughts upon the matter. 
Vive, raleque. 

Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, May 8, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — You do well to make 
your letters meny ones, though not very 
merry yourself, and that both for my sake 
and your own ; for your own sake, because it 
sometimes happens that, by assuming an air 
of cheerfulness, we become cheerful in re- 
ality ; and for mine, because 1 have always 
more need of a laugh than a cry, being some- 
what disposed to melancholy by natural tem- 
perament, as well as by other causes. 

It was long since, and even in the infoncy 
of John Gilpin, recommended to me by a lady, 
now at Bristol, to write a sequel. But, having 
always observed that authors, elated with the 
success of a first part, have fallen below them- 
selves when they have attempted a second, I 
had more prudence than to take her counsel. 
I want you to read the history of that hero 
published by Bladon, and to tell me what it 
is made of. But buy it not. For, puffed as 
it is in the papers, it can be but a bookseller's 
job, and must be deai- at the price of two 
shillings. In the last packet but one that I 
received from Johnson, he asked me if I had 
any improvements of John Gilpin in hand, or 
if I designed any ; for that to print only the 
original again would be to publish what has 
been hackneyed in every magazine, in every 
newspaper, and in every street. I answered 
that the copy which I sent him contained two 
or three small variations from the first, ex- 
cept which I had none to proposi' ; and if he 
thought him now too trite to make a part of 
my volume, I should willingly acquiesce in 
his judgment. I take it for granted therefore 
that he will not bring up the rear of my 
Poems .according to my first intention, and 
shall not be sorry for the omission. It may 
spring from a principle of pride; but spring 
from what it may, I feel and have long felt a 
disinclin.ition to a public avowal that he is 
mine ; and since he became so popular. I have 
felt it more than ever; not that I should ever 
have expressed a scruple, if Johnson had not. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



191 



niiijht expose myself to a charge of vanity by 
ailniitiing liiin into my book, and thai some 
people would iinpn'c it to me as a crime. 
Coiisider what tlie world is made of, and you 
will not lind my sn-ipieions eliimerifal. Add 
to this, that when, on corrcctin<( the latter 
part of the fifth book of " The Task," I came 
to consider the solemnity and sacred nature 
of the subjects there handled, it seemed to 
me an inconj^ruity at the least, not to call it 
by a harsher name, t() lollow up such jjrenii- 
ses with such a conclusion. 1 am well con- 
tent therefore with havinff laii^'hed, and made 
others laujfh ; and will build my hopes of suc- 
cess as a poet upon more important matter. 

In our printi[}ij business we now joff on 
nu'rrily enough. The eoraini^ week will I 
hope bring me to an end of" The Task," and 
the next fortnight to an end of the whole. I 
am glad to have I'aley on my side in the 
atVair of education. He is certainly on all 
subjects a sensible man, and, on such, a wise 
one. But I am mistaken if " Tirocinium" do 
not make some of my friends angry, and jiro- 
cnre me enemies not a few. There is a sting 
in verse th.it prose neither has nor can have ; 
and I do not know that schools in the gross, 
and especially public schools, have ever been 
so pointedly condemned before. But they 
are become a nuisance, a pest, an abomina- 
tion ; and it is fit that the eyes and noses of 
mankind should if possible be opened to per- 
ceive it. 

This is indeed an author's letter ; but it is 
an author's letter to his friend. If you will 
be the friend of an author, you must e.vpeet 
such letters. Come July, and come yourself, 
with as many of your e.\terior selves as can 
po<<sibly come with you ! 

Your.s, my dear William, afTectionately, and 
with your mother's remembrances. Adieu, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olni-)-. May 10, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — We rejoice in the ac- 
count you give us of Dr. Johnson. His con- 
version will indeed be a singular proof the 
omnipotence of grace: and the more singular, 
the more decided. The world will set his 
.age against his wisdom, and comfort itself 
with the thought that he must be superannu- 
.ited. Perh.ips therefore in order to refute the 
slander, and do honor to the ciiuse to which 
be becomes a convert, he could not do better 
than devote his gre.lt abilities, and a consid- 
erable part of the remainder of his years, to 
the production of some imporUmt work, not 
immediately connected with the interests of 
religion. He would thus give proof that a 
man of profound learning and the best sense 
may become a child without being a fool ; 
• Private correspondence. 



and that to embrace the gospel is no evidence 
either of enthusiasm, infirmity, or insanity. 
But He who calls him will direct him. 

On Friday, by particular invitation, we at- 
tciulcd an attempt to throw off a balloon at 
Mr. Throckmorton's, but it did not succeed. 
We e.\pect however to be summoned again 
in the course of the ensuing week. Mrs. Un- 
win and I were the party. We were enter- 
tained with the utmost politeness. It is not 
possible to conceive a more engaging and 
agreeable character than the gentleman's, or a 
more consummate asserabhige of all that is 
called good-nature, complaisance, and iimo- 
cent cheerfulness, than is to be seen in the 
lady. They have lately received many gross 
affronts from the people of this place, on ac- 
count of their religion. We thought it there- 
fore the more neces.sary to treat them with 
respect. 

Best love and best wishes, W. C. 

We think there must be an error of date 
in this letter, because the period of time gen- 
erally ascribed to the fict recorded in the 
former part of it, occurred in the last illness 
of Dr. Johnson, which was in December, 
1784. A discussion has arisen respecting 
the circumstances of this case, but not as to 
the fact itself. As regards this latter point, 
it is s,atisfactorily established that Dr. John- 
son, throughout a long life, had been pecu- 
liarly harassed by fears of death, from which 
he was at length hai)pily delivered, and en- 
abled to die in peace. This happy change of 
mind is generally attributed to the Rev. Mr. 
Latrobe having attended him on his dying 
bed, and directed him to the only sure ground 
of acceptance, viz., a reliance upon God's 
promises of mercy in Christ Jesus. The 
truth of this statement rests on the testimony 
of the Rev. Christian Ignatius Latrobe, who 
received the account from his own father. 
Some again assign the instrumentality to an- 
other pious individu.il, ilr. Winstanley.* We 
do not see why the services of both may not 
have been simultaneously employed, and 
equally crowned with success. It is the fact 
itself which most claims our own attention. 
We here see a man of profound learning and 
great moral attainments deficient in correct 
views of the gr.md fundamental doctrine of 
the gospel, the doctrine of the at(niement ; 
and conseiiuently unable to look forward to 
eternity without alarm. We believe this 
state of mind to be peculiar to many who are 
distinguished by genius and learning. The 
go,spel, clearly understood in its design, as a 
revelation of mercy to every penitent and 
believing sinner, and cordially received into 
the heart, dispels these fears, and by directing 
the eye of faith to the Lamb of God that 
taketh away the sins of the world, will in- 
• See " Christian Observer," Jan., 183.'i. 



192 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



fallibly fill the mind with that blessed hope 
whii-h is full of life and immortality. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, May 2i, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I am glad to have re- 
ceived .at last an account of Dr. Johnson'.s 
favorable o])inion of my book. I thought it 
wanting, and had long since concluded that, 
not iiaving the happiness to please him, I 
owed my ignorance of his sentiments to the 
tenderness of my friends at Ho.xton, who 
would not mortify me with an account of his 
disapprob.ition. It occurs to me th.at I owe 
him thanks for interposing between me and 
the resentment of the Reviewers, who sel- 
dom show mercy to an advocate for evangel- 
ical truth, whether in prose or verse. I there- 
fore enclose a short acknowledgment, which, 
if you see no impropriety in the measure, 
you can, I im.igine, without much dilHcuUy, 
convey to liim through the hands of Jlr. 
Latrobe. If on any account you judge it an 
inexpedient step, you can very easily sup- 
press the letter. 

I pity J\Ir. Bull. What harder task can any 
man undertake than the management of those 
who have reached tlie age of manhood with- 
out h.aving ever felt the force of authority, or 
passed through any of the preparatory parts 
of education ? I had either forgot, or never 
adverted to the circumstance, that his disci- 
ples were to be men. At present, however, 
I am not surprised that, being such, they nre 
found disobedient, untractablc, insolent, and 
conceited ; qualities that generally prevail in 
the minds of adults in exact proportion to 
their ignor.ance. He dined with us since I 
received your last. It was on Thursday that 
he was here. He came dejected, burthencd, 
full of complaints. But we sent him away 
cliferful. He is very sensible of the pru- 
dence, delicacy, and attention to his charac- 
ter, which the Society have discovered in 
their conduct towards him upon this occasion; 
and indeed it does tliem honor ; for it were 
past all enduring, if a charge of insufficiency 
should obtain a moment's regard, when 
brought by five such coxcombs .against a 
man of his erudition and ability.* Lady 
Austen is gone to Bath. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Jimc 5, 17&1. 
When you told me tliat the critique npon 
my volume was written, thougli not by Doc- 
tor Johnson himself, yet by a friend of his, 
to whom lie reconnnendcd tlie book and the 
business, I inferred from that expression that 

* A spirit of insubordiiialion liad manifested itself at 
the Theolo^cal Seminary at Newport, under the superin- 
tendence of Mr. Cull. 



I was indebted to him for an active interpo- 
sition in my favor, and consequently that he 
had a riglit to thanks. But now I concur 
entirely in sentiment with you, and heartily 
second your vote for the suppression of 
th.anks which do not seem to be much called 
for. Yet even now, were it possible that I 
could fall into his company, I sliould not 
think a slight acknowledgment misapplied. 
I was no other way anxious tibout his opin- 
ion, nor could be so, after you tind some 
others had givi^n a favorable one, than it was 
natural I should be, knowing as I did that 
his opinion had been consulted. 

I am att'ectionately your.s, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, June 21, 1784.- 

My dear Friend, — We are much pleased 
with your designed improvement of the late 
preposterous celebration, and have no doubt 
that in good hands the foolish occasion will 
turn to good account. A religious service, 
instituted in honor of a musician, and per- 
formed in the house of God, is a subject th.at 
calls loudly for the animadversion of an en- 
lightened miinster ; and would be no mean 
one for a satirist, could a poet of that de- 
scription be found spiritual enough to feel 
and to re-sent the profanation. It is reason- 
able to suppose that in the next year's alma- 
nac we shall find the name of Handel among 
the red-lettered worthies, for it would surely 
puzzle the Pope to add anything to his can- 
oniz:rtion. 

This unpleasant summer makes me wisli 
for winter. The gloominess of that season 
is the less felt, both because it is expected, 
and because the d.ays are short. But such 
weather, when the days are longest, makes a 
double winter, and my spirits feel that it 
does. We have now frosty mornings, and 
so cold a wind that even at higli noon we 
have been obliged to break oft' our walk in 
the southern side of the garden, .and seek 
shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Sirs. Unwin 
by the fireside. Haym.aking begins here to- 
morrow, and would have begun sooner, had 
the weather permitted it. 

Mr. Wright called upon us last Sunday. 
The old gentleman seems happy in being ex- 
empted from the effects of time to such a 
degree that, though we meet but once in the 
year, I cannot perceive that the twelve months 
that have elapsed h.ave made any change in 
him. It seems, however, that as much as he 
loves his master, and as easy as I suj>pose he 
has always found his service, he now and 
then heaves a sigh for liberty, and wishes to 
taste it before he dies. But his wife is not 
so minded. She cannot leave a family, the 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



193 



sons and daughters of which seem all to be 
lier own. Her brother died lately in the 
East Indies, leavinj^ twenty Ihousiind pounds 
behind him, and lialf of it to her; but the 
slii|) that was brinfring liDUie this treasure is 
su|)iiosed to be lost. Her husband appears 
perfectly unalfeeted by the misfortune, and 
she perhaps may e\en be glad of it. Sueh 
an aeijuisition would have forced her into a 
state of independence, and made her her own 
mistress, whetlier she would or not. I charged 
him with a pelition to Lord Dartmouth, to 
send me Cook's last Voyage, which I have a 
great curiosity to see, and no other means of 
procuring. I ^ dare say I shall obtain the 
favor, and have great [jleasure in taking my 
last trip witli a voyager whose memory I re- 
spect so much. Farewell, my dear friend: 
our affectionate remembrances are faithful to 
you and yours. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UmVIN.* 

Olnt-y, July 3, fprobably 1784.] 
lly dear Friend, — I am writing in the 
greenhouse for retirement's sake, where I 
shiver with cold on this present 3d of July. 
Summer and winter therefore do not depend 
on the position of the sun with respect to 
the earth, but on His appointment who is 
sovereign in all things. Last Saturday night 
the cold was so severe that it piiiclied off 
many of the young shoots of our peach-trees. 
Tlie nurseryman we deal with inturms me 
that the wall-trees are almost everywhere 
cut off; and that a friend of his, near Lon- 
don, has lost all the full-grown fruit-trees of 
an extensive garden. The very w-alnuts, 
which are now no bigger than small hazel- 
nuts, drop to the ground, and the flowers, 
though they blow, seem to liave lost all their 
odors. I walked with your mother yester- 
day in the garden, wrapped up in a winter 
surtout, and found myself not at all incum- 
bered by it; not more indeed than I was in 
January. Cucumbers contract that spot 
which is seldom found upon tliem except late 
in the autumn; and melons hardly grow. It 
is a comfort however to reflect that, if we 
cannot have these fruits in perfection, neither 
do we want them. Our crops of wheat are 
said to be very indifferent; tlie stalks of an 
unequal height, so that some of the ears are 
in danger of being smothered by the rest ; 
and the ears, in gener.d, lean and scanty. I 
never knew a summer in which we had not 
now and then a cold day to conllict with ; 
but such a wintry fortnight as the last, at 
this season of the year, I never remember. 
I fear you have made the discovery of tlie 
webs you mention a day too late. The ver- 
min have probably by this time left them, 
* Private correspondence. 



and may laugh at all human attempts to de- 
stroy them. For every web tliey have hung 
upon the trees and bushes this year, you will 
next year probably find llfty, perhaps a hun- 
dred. Their increase is almost infinite ; so 
that, if Providence does not interfere, and 
man see fit to neglect them, the laughers you 
mention may live to be sensible of their mis- 
take. Love to all. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, July .% 1784. 

My dear Friend, — A dearth of materials, a 
eon.sciousness that my subjects are for the 
most part, and must be, uninteresting and 
unimportant, but above all, a poverty of ani- 
mal spirits, that makes writing much a great 
fatigue to me, have occasioned my choice of 
smaller paper. Acquiesce in the justice of 
these reasons t'or the ])rescnt; and, if ever the 
times should mend with me, I sincerely prom- 
ise to amend with them. 

Homer says, on a certain occasion, that Ju- 
piter, when he was wanted at home, was gone 
to partake of an entertainment provided for 
him by the yEthiopian.s. If by Jupiter we 
understand the weatlier, or the season, as the 
ancients frequently did, we may say that our 
English Jupiter has been absent on account 
of some such invit;ition : during the whole 
month of June he left us to experience al- 
most the rigors of winter. This line day, 
however, afl'ords us some hope that the feast 
is ended, and that we shall enjoy his company 
without tlie interference of his ^Ethiopian 
friends again. 

Is it possible that the wise men of antiqui- 
ty could entertain a real reverence for the 
fabulous rubbish which they dignified with 
the name of religion ! We, who have been 
favored from our infancy with so clear a light, 
are perhaps hardly competent to decide the 
question, and may .strive in vain to imagine 
the absurdities that even a good understand- 
ing may receive as truths, when totally un- 
aided by revelation. It seems, however, that 
men, whose conceptions upon other subjects 
were often sublime, whose reasoning powers 
were undoubtedly ecpial to our own, and 
whose management in matters of juris|)ru- 
dciice, that required a very industrious exam- 
ination of evidence, was as acute anil subtle 
as that of a modern Attdrney-general, could 
not be the dupes of such imposture as a child 
among us would detect and laugh at. Ju\e- 
nal, I remember, introduces one of his Sat- 
ires with an observation that there were 
some in his day who had the hardiness to 
laugh at the stories of Tartarus and Styx, 
and Charon, and of the frogs that croak upon 
the banks of the Lethe, giving his reader, at 
the same time, cause to suspect that he was 
13 



194 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



liimself one of tliat profone number. Horace, 

on the other liand, declares in sober sadness, 
that he would not for all the world get into a 
boat wilh a man wlio had divulged tlie Eleu- 
sinian mysteries. Yet we know that those 
mysteries, whatever they might be, were al- 
together as unworthy to be esteemed divine, 
.Ts the mythology of the vulgar. How, then, 
must we determine 1 If Horace w-ere a good 
and orthodox heathen, how came Juvenal to 
bo such an ungracious libertine in principle 
as to ridicule the doctrines which the other 
held as sacred ? Their opportunities of in- 
formation, and their mental advantages, were 
equal. I feel myself rather inclined to believe 
that Juvenal's a\'owed infidelity was sincere, 
and that Horace was no better than a canting, 
hypocritical professor.* 

You must grant me a dispensation for say- 
ing anything, w-hcther it be sense or nonsense, 
upon the subject of politics. It is truly a 
matter in which I am so little interested, that, 
were it not that it sometimes serves me for a 
theme w hen I can find no other, I should nev- 
er mention it. I would forfeit a large sum, 
if, after advertising a month in the Gazette, 
the minister of the day, whoever he may be, 
could discover a man who cares al)out him or 
his measures so little as I do. When I say 
that I would forfeit a large sum, I mean to 
have it understood that I would forfeit such a 
sum if I had it. If Mr. Pitt be indeed a \'ir- 
tuous man, as such I respect him. But, at the 
best, I fear he will have to say at last wilh 
jEneas, 

Si Pergama dextra 
Defend! possent, etiam hac defensa fuissent. 

Be he what he may, I do not like his taxes, 
At least, I am much disposed to quarrel with 
some of them. The additional duty upon 
candles, by which the poor will Ite much af- 
fected, hurts me most. He says indeed that 
they will but little feel it, because even now 
they can hardly aflbrd the use of them. He 
had certainly put no compassion into his 
budget, when he produced from it this tax, 
and such an argument to support it. Justly 
translated, it seems to amount to this — 
" Make the necessaries of life too expensixe 
for the poor to reach them, and you will save 
their money. If they buy but few candles, 
they will pay but little tax ; and if they buy 
none, the tax, as to them, will be annihila- 
ted." True. But in the meantime they 
Avill break their shins against their furni- 
ture, if they have any, and will bo but little 
the richer when the hours in which they 
might work, if they could see, shall bo de- 
ducted. 

I have bought a great dictionary, and want 

* Some of tlie learned have been inclined to believe 
that the Eleusinian mysteries inculcated a rejection of 
the absurd raytholo^'y of those times, and a belief in uuc 
Great Supreme Being. 



nothing but Latin authors to furnish me with 
the use of it. Had I purchased them first, 
I had begun at the right end; but I could 
not afford it. I beseech you admire my 
prudence. 

Vivite, valete, et mcmentote nostrum. 
Yours affectionately, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

OIney, July 12, 1784, 

jMy dear William, — I think with you that 
Vinny's* lino is not pure. If he knew any 
authority that would have justified his sub- 
stitution of a participle for a substantive, he 
w-ould have done well to have noted it in the 
margin ; but I am much inclined to think th.it 
he did not. Poets are sometimes exposed to 
difficulties insurmountable by lawful means, 
whence I imagine was originally derived that 
indulgence that allows them the use of what 
is called the poetica Ucentia. But that liber- 
ty, I believe, contents itself with the abbre- 
viation or protraction of a word, or an alter- 
ation in the quantity of a syllable, and never 
presumes to trespass upon grammatical pro- 
priety, I have dared to attempt to correct 
my master, but am not bold enough to say 
that I have succeeded. Neither am I sure 
that my memory serves me correctly with the 
line that follows ; but when I recollect the 
English, am persuaded that it cannot differ 
much from the true one, Tliis therefore is 
my edition of the passage — 

Basia araatori tot tum permissa beato ; 

Or, 

Basia qux' juveni Indulsit .Susanna beato 
Navarcha optaret maximus esse sua. 

The preceding lines I have utterly for- 
gotten, and am consequently at a loss to 
know whether the distich, thus managed, 
will connect itself with them easily, and as 
it ought. 

We thank you for the drawing of your 
house, I never knew my idea of what I had 
never seen resemble the original so much. 
At some time or other you have doubtless 
given me an exact .account of it, and I have 
retained the faithful impression made by your 
description. It is a comfortable abode, and 
the time I hope will come when I shall enjoy 
more than the mere representation of it, 

I have not yet re.id the last " Review," but, 
dipping into it, I accidentally fell upon their 
account of "Hume's Essay on Suicide," I am 
glad that they have liberiility enough to con- 
demn the licentiousness of an author, whom 
tliey so much admire. I say liberality, for 
there is as much bigotry in the world to that 
man's errors, as there is in the hearts of some 
* Vincent Bourne, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



195 



sectaries to their peculiar modes and tenets. 
He is llie Pope of tliousands, as blind and 
presuiiiptnous as himself, (iod certainly in- 
fatuates those who will not see. It were 
otherwise in)possil)le, tiiat a man, naturally 
shrewd and sensilile, and who.se nnderstand- 
inL' has had all the advant;ii;es of constant 
exercise and cullivation, could have satisfied 
himself, or have hoped to satisfy others, with 
such palpahle .sophistry as has not even the 
gr.icc of fallacy to recommend it. His silly 
assertion, that, because it wonhl be no sin lo 
divert the course of the Danube, therefore it 
is none to let out a few ounces of blood from 
an artery, would justify not suicide only, but 
homicide also. For the lives of ten thousand 
men are of less consequence to their country 
than the cour.se of that river to the rejrions 
throujih which it flow.s. Population would 
soon make society amends for the loss of her 
ten thousand members, but the loss of the 
U;inuhe would he felt by all the millions that 
dwell upon its banks, to all generations. 
But the life of a man an<l the water of a river 
can never come into competition with each 
other in point of value, unless in the estima- 
tion of an unprincipled philosopher. 

I thaid< you for your offer of the classics. 
When I want I will borrow. Horace is ray 
own. Homer, with a clavi.s, I have had pos- 
session of for some years. They are the prop- 
erty of iMr. Jones. A Virgil, the property of 

Mr. S , 1 have had as long. I am nobody 

in the affair of tenses, unless when you are 
present. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO TirE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

OIncy, July 1.1, 17*1. 

My dear William, — We rejoice that you 
had a .safe journey, and, though we should 
have rejoiced still more had you had no oc- 
casion for a physician, we are glad that, hav- 
ing had need of one, yon had the good for- 
tune lo find hiiu — let us hear soon that his 
advice has proved efTectiial, and that you are 
delivered from all ill symptoms. 

Thanks for the care you have taken to fur- 
nish me with a dictionary: it is rather strange 
that, .at my time of life, and .after a youth 
spent in classical pursuits, I should want one ; 
and stranger still that, being possessed at 
present of only one Latin author in the world, 
I should think it worth while to purchase one. 
I say that it is strange, aiul indeed I think it 
so myself But I have a thought that, when 
my present labors of the pen are ended, I 
may go to school again, and refresh my spirits 
by a little intercourse with the Mantuan and 
the Sabine bard, and perha|)s by a re-i)erusal 
of some others, whose works we generally 
lay by at that period of life when we are best 



qualified to read them, when, the judgment 
and the taste being formed, their beauties are 
least likely to be overlooked. 

This change of wiiul and weather comforts 
me, and I should have enjoyed the first fim^ 
morning 1 have seen this month with a pecu- 
liar relish, if our new tax-maker had not put 
me out of temper. I am angry with him, not 
only for the matter, but for the uuinner of his 
propo.sal. \V'hen he lays his impost upon 
horses he is jocular, and laughs, though, c(m- 
sidering that wheels, and miles, ami grooms 
were taxed before, a graver countenance upon 
the occasion would have been more decent. 
But he provoked me still more by reasoning 
as he does on the justification of the lax upon 
candles. Some families he says will suffer 
little by it. VVliy? because they are so poor 
that they cannot afford themselves more than 
ten pounds in the year. Excellent! They 
can use but few, therefore they will pay but 
little, and consequently will be but little hur- 
dcned: an argument wliieli for its cruelty and 
effrontery seems worthy of a hero ; liut he does 
not .avail himself of the whole force of it, nor 
with all his wisdom had sagacity enougli to 
see that it contains, when pushed to its ut- 
mo.st extent, a free discharge and acquittal of 
the poor from the payment of any tax at all: 
a commodity being once m.ade too e.\pen.sive 
for their pockets, will cost them nothing, for 
they will not buy it. Rejoice, therefore, O 
ye penniless! tlie minister will indeed send 
you to bed in the dark, but your remaining 
halfpenny will be safe ; instead of being spent 
in the u.seless luxury of candle-light, it will 
buy you a roll for breakfast, which vou will 
eat no doubt with gratitude to the man who 
so kindly lessens the number of your dis- 
bur.sements, and, while he seems to threaten 
your money, saves it. I wish he would re- 
member that the halfpenny which government 
imposes, the shopkeeper will swell to two- 
pence. I wish he wo\ild visit the miserable 
huts of our laccmakers at 01iu\v, and see 
them working in the winter months, by the 
light of a firlhing candle, from four in the 
afternoon till midnight : 1 wish he had laid 
his tax upon the fen thous.iiul lamjis that il- 
luminate the I'.intheon. upon the fiambc:iux 
that wait upon ten thons.ind chariots and se- 
dans in an evening, and upon the wax candles 
that give light to ten thousand card-tables. 
I wish, in short, that he would consider the 
pockets of the poor as sacred, and that to tax 
a jieople already .so necessitous is but to dis- 
courage the little industry that is left among 
us, by driving the laborious to despair. 

A neighbor of mine in Silver-end keeps an 
.ass: the ass lives on the other side of the 
garden-wall, and I am writing in the green- 
house. It happens that he is this morning 
most musically disposed, whether cheered by 
the fine weather, or .some new tune which ho 



196 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



has just acquired, or by finding his voice 
more liarmoiiious than usual. It would be 
cruel to mortify so fine a singer, therefore I 
do not tell liimthal. he interrupts and hinders 
me ; hut I venture to tell you so, and to 
plead liis performance in excuse for my ab- 
rupt conclusion. 

I send you the goldRiiches, with which 
you will do as you see good. We have an 
affectionate remembrance of your late visit, 
and of all our friends at Stock. 

Believe me ever your.s, W. C. 



TO THE KEV, JOHN KEWTON. 

OlQcy, July 14, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — Notwithstanding the just- 
ness of tlie comparison by which you illus- 
trate the folly and wickedness of a congre- 
gation assembled to pay divine honors to the 
memory of Handel, I couUl not help laugh- 
ing at tlie picture you have drawn of tlie 
musical convicts. The subject indeed is 
awful, and your manner of representing it is 
perfectly just ; yet I laughed, and must have 
laughed had I been one of your hearers. 
But the ridicule lies in the preposterous con- 
duct which you reprove, and not in your re- 
proof of it. A peo])le so musically mad 'as 
to make not oidy their future trial the sub- 
ject of a concert, but even the message of 
mercy from their King, and the only one he 
will ever send them, must excuse me if I am 
merry where there is more cause to be sad ; 
for, melancholy as their condition is, their 
behavior under it is too ludicrous not to be 
felt as sucli, and would conquer even a more 
settled gra\"ity than mine. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Tiie Commemoration of Handel, men- 
tioned in tlie above letter, which was per- 
formed with great pomp in a place of re- 
ligious worship, and accompanied by his 
celebrated oratorio of the Messiali, was con- 
sidered by many pious minds to resemble an 
act of canonization, and therefore censured 
as profane. Mr. Newton, being at tliat lime 
rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, in the city, 
preached a course of sermons on the occa- 
.sion, and delivered his sentiments on the 
subject of oratorios generally, but with such 
originality of thought in the following pas- 
sage that we insert it for the benefit of those 
to whom it may be unknown. It is intro- 
duced ill the beginning of his fourtli sermon 
from Malachi iii. 1 — 3. 

'• ' Whereunto shall we liken the people 
of this generation, and to what are tliey 
like V I represent to myself a numlier of 
persons, of various characters, involved in 
o'.ie common charge of high treason. They 
are already in a state of continement, but 
not yet brought to their trial. The facts, 



however, are so plain, and the evidence against 
them so strong and pointed, that there is 
not the least doubt of their guilt being fully 
proved, and that nothing but a pardon can 
preserve them from punishment. In this 
situation, it should seem their wisdom to 
avail themselves of every expedient in their 
power for obtaining mercy. But they are 
entirely regardless of their danger, and wholly 
taken up with contriving methods of amus- 
ing fliemselves, that they may pass away 
the terra of their imprisonment with as much 
cheerfulness as possible. Among other re- 
sources, they call in the assistance of music. 
And, amidst a great variety of subjects in 
this way, they are particularly pleased with 
one : they choose to make the solemnities 
of their impending trial, the character of 
their judge, the methods of his procedure, 
and the awful sentence to which they are 
exposed, the groundwork of a musical enter- 
tainment ; and, as if they were quite uncon- 
cerned in the event, their attention is chiefly 
fixed upon the skill of the composer, in 
adapting the style of his music to the very 
solemn language and subject with which 
they are trifling. The King, however, out 
of his groat clemency and compassion to- 
wards those who have no pity for themselves, 
presents them with his goodness : undesired 
by them, he sends them a gracious niessage: 
he assures them, that lie is unwilling they 
should suffer : he requires, yea, he entreats 
them to submit ; he points out a way in 
which their confession and submission shall 
be certainly accepted : and, in this way, which 
he condescends to prescribe, lie offers them 
a free and full pardon. But, instead of tak- 
ing a single step towards a compliance with 
his goodness, they set his message likewise 
to music : and this, together with a descrip- 
tion of their present state, and of the fearful 
doom awaiting them if they continue obsti- 
nate, is sung for their diversion: accom- 
panied with the sound of cornet, flute, harp, 
sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of 
instruments. Surely, if such a case as I 
have supposed could be found in real life, 
thougli 1 miglit admire the musical taste of 
these people, I should commiserate tlieir 
insensibility." 



TO THE r.EV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olncy, July 19, 1784. 
In those days when Bedlam was open to 
the cruel curiosity of holiday ramblers, I 
have been a visitor there. Though a boy, I 
was not altogether insensible of tlie misery 
of the poor captives, nor destitue of feeling 
for tliem. But the madness of some of 
them had such a huninrousair, and displayed 
itself in so many whimsical freaks, that it 
was impossible not to be entertained, at the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



19-/ 



same time that I was anip-y witli myself for 
beitii^ so. A line of Bourne's is very ex- 
pressive of the speetaele wliieli tliis world 
exhibits, trat;i-eoinieal as the incidents of it 
are, absurd in themselves, but terrible in 
their eonse.quenees; 

Sunt res huraana: flubilc ludibrium. 

An inst;vnce of this deplorable merriment 
lias occurred in the course of the last week 
at Olney. A feast gave the occasion to a 
catastrophe truly shocking.* 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOIIS NEWTON. 

OInc.v, .luly 28, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I may perhaps be short, 
but am not willing that you should go to 
Lyminglon without first having had a line 
from me. I know that place well, having 
spent six weeks there above twenty years 
ago. The town is neat and the country de- 
lightful. Vou walk well, and will conse- 
quently find a part of the coast, called Hall- 
cliff, within the reach of your ten toes. It 
was a favorite walk of mine; to tlie best of 
my remembrance about three miles distant 
from Ijymington. There you may stand 
upon the beach and contemplate the Needle- 
rock ; at least, you might have done so 
twenty years ago ; but since that time I 
think it is fallen from its base and is drowned, 
and is no longer a visible object of con- 
templation. I wish you may pass your time 
there happily, as in all probability you will, 
perhaps usefully too to others, undoubtedly 
so to yourself 

The maniu'r in which you have been pre- 
viously made acquainted with Mr. Gilpin 
give< a providential air to your journey, and 
affords reason to hope that you may be 
charged with a message to him. I admire 
him as a biographer. But, as Mrs. Unwin 
and I were talking of him last night, we 
could not but wonder that a man should see 
so much excellence in the lives, and so 
much glory and beauty in the death, of the 
martyrs whom he has recorded, and at tlu' 
same time disapprove the principles th.at 
produced the very conduct he admired. It 
seems however a step towards the truth to 
applaud the fruits of it ; and one cannot 
help thinking that one step more would put 
him in possession of the truth itself By 
your means may he be enabled to take it ! 

VVe are obliged to you for the preference 
vou «ould have given to Olney, had not 
Providence determined your course another 
way. But as, when we saw you last sum- 
mer, you gave us no reason to expect you 

* Wc presume Ihnt this is tlie samp circumstance 
ol'wiiich more purticular iiieittion is msulc in the bctnn- 
ning of Uii.' letter to the Rev. Mr. Unwin, Aug. 14, 17S4. 



this, we are the less disappointed. At your 
age and mine, biennial visits have such a 
g.ip between them, that we cannot promise 
ourselves upon those terms very numerous 
future interview.s. But, whether ours are 
to be many or few; you will always be wel- 
come to me for the sake of the comfortable 
days that are past. In my present state of 
mind, my friendship for you indeed is as 
warm as ever : but I feel myself very indif- 
ferently qualified to be your companion. 
Other days than these inglorious and un- 
profitable ones are promised me, and when I 
see them I shall rejoice. 

I saw the advertisement of your adversary's 
book, lie is happy at least in this, that, 
whether he have brains or none, he strikes 
without the danger of being stricken again, 
lie could not wish to engage in a contro- 
versy upon easier terms. The other, whose 
publication is postponed till Christmas, is re- 
solved I su[)pose to do s-omething. But, do 
what he will, he cannot prove that you have 
not been aspersed, or that you have not re- 
futed the charge ; which, unless he can do, I 
think he will do little to the purpose. 

Mrs. Unwin thinks of you, and always with 
a grateful recollection of yours and Mrs. 
Newton's kindness. She has had a nervous 
fever lately ; but I hope she is lietter. The 
weather forbids walking, a prohibition hurt- 
ful to us both. 

Wo heartily wish you a good journey, and 
are iiffcctionately yours, 

W. C. & M. U. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAJI UNWIN. 

Olney, August 14, 1784. 

Jly dear Friend, — I give you joy of a jour- 
ney performed without trouble or danger. 
You have travelled five hundred miles with- 
out having encountered either. (Some neigh- 
bors of ours about a fortnight since, made 
an cxcur-inn only to a neighboring village, 
and brougbt hmne with them fractured sculls 
and broken limbs, and one of Ihein is dead. 
For my own jiart, I seem pretty much ex- 
empted from the dangers of the road. — 
Thanks to that tender interest and concern 
which the legislature takes in my security! 
Having, no doubt, their fears lest so precious 
a life should determine too soon and by some 
untimely stroke of misadventure, they have 
made wheels and horses so expensive that I 
am not likidy to owe my death to either. 

Your mother and I continue to visit Wes- 
ton daily, and find in those agreeable bowers 
such amusement as leaves us but little room 
to regret that we can go no farther. Having 
touched that theine, I cannot abstain fnuu the 
pleasure of telling you that our neighbors in 
that place being about to leave it tor some 
time, and meeting us tliere but a few evenings 



198 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



before their departure, entreated us, during 
tlieir absence, to consider the garden and all 
its contents a.s our own, and to gather what- 
ever we liked without the least scruple. We 
accordingly picked strawberries as often as 
we went, and hrought home as many bundles 
of honeysuckles as served to perfume our 
dwelling till they returned. 

Once more, by the aid of Lord Dartmouth, 
I tind myself a voyager in tlie Pacific Ocean. 
In our last night's lecture we made our ac- 
quiiintiince with tlie island of Hapaee, where 
we liad never been before. The French and 
Italians, it seems, have but little cause to 
plume themselves on account of their acliieve- 
ments in the dancing way, and we may here- 
after, without much repining at it, acknowl- 
edge their superiority in that art. They 
are equalled, perhaps excelled, by savages. 
How wonderful that, without any intercourse 
with a politer world, and having made no 
proficiency, in any other accomplishment, 
they should in this however have made them- 
selves sucli adepts, that for regularity and 
grace of motion they might even be our 
masters ! How wonderful too that with a 
tub and a stick they should be able to produce 
such harmony, as persons accustomed to the 
sweetest music cannot but hear with pleas- 
ure ! It is not very difficult to account for 
the striking difference of character that ob- 
tains among the inhabitants of these islands ! 
Many of them are near neighbors to each 
other; their opportunities of improvement 
mucli tlie same ; yet some of them are in a 
degree polite, discover symptoms of taste, 
and have a sense of elegance ; while others 
are as rude as we naturally expect to find a 
people who have never had any communica- 
tion with the northern hemisphere. These 
volumes furnish much matter of philosophi- 
cal speculation, and often entertain me, even 
while I am not employed in reading them. 

I am sorry you have not been able to as- 
certain the doubtful intelligence I have re- 
ceived on the subject of cork shirts and 
bosoms. I am now every day occupied in 
giving all the grace I can to my new produc- 
tion and in transcribing it; I shall soon 
arrive at the passage that censures that folly, 
which I shall be loath to expunge, but which 
1 must not spare unless the criminals can be 
convicted. The world, however, is not so 
unproductive of subjects of censure, but that 
it may probably supply me with some other 
that may serve as well. 

If you know anybody that is writing, or 
intends to write, an epic poem on the new 
regulation of fratiks, you may give him my 
compliments, and these two lines for a be- 
ginning — 

Heu quot amatores nunc torquet epistola rara ! 
Vectigal cerium pcrituraquc gratia Franki ! 
Yours faithfully, W. C. 



We have elsewhere stated that the mode 
originally used in franking, was for the mem- 
ber to sign his name at the left corner of the 
letter, with the word "free" attached to it, 
leaving the writer of the letter to add the su- 
perscription at his own convenience. But 
instances of forgery having become frequent, 
by persons erasing the word "free," and 
using the niune of the member for fraudulent 
purposes, a new regulation was adopted at 
this time to defeat so gross an abuse. In 
August, 1784, under the act of the 24th of 
George III., chap. 37, a new enactment passed, 
prescribing the mode of franking for the 
future as it is now practised. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OIney, August 16, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — ^Had you not expressed 
a desire to hear from me before you take 
leave of Lymington, I certainly should not 
have answered you so soon. Knowing the 
place and the amusements it affords, I should 
have had more modesty than to suppose my- 
self capable of adding anything to your 
present entertainments worthy to rank with 
them. I am not, however, totally destitute ' 
of such pleasures as an inland country may 
pretend to. If my windows do not command 
a view of the ocean, at least they look out 
upon a profusion of mignonette ; which, if it 
be not so grand an object, is, however, quite 
as fragrant ; and, if I have not an hermit in 
a grotto, I have, nevertheless, myself in a 
greenhouse, a less venerable figure perhaps, 
but not at all less animated than he : nor are 
we in tliis nook altogether unfuniished with 
such means of philosophical experiment and 
speculation as at present the world rings 
with. On Thursday morning last, we sent 
up a balloon from Emberton meadow. — 
Tlu-ice it rose and as oft descended, and in 
the evening it performed another Hight at 
Newport, where it went up and came down 
no more. Like the arrow discharged at the 
pigeon in the Trojan games, it kindled in the 
air and was consumed in a moment. I have 
not heard what interpretation the soothsayers 
have given to the omen, but shall wonder a 
little if the Newton sliepherd prognosticate 
anything less from it than the most bloody 
war that was ever waged in Europe. 

I am reading Cook's lust Voyage, and am 
much pleased and amused with it. It seems 
that in some of the Friendly Lsles they excel 
so mucli in dancing, and perform that opera- 
tion with such exquisite delicacy and grace, 
that they are not surpassed even upon our 
European stages. Oh ! that Vestris had been 
in the ship, that he might have seen himself 
outdone by a savage! The paper indeed 
tells us, that the queen of France has clapped 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



199 



this kintj of capors up in prison, for dwlin- 
inj( to dance before lier on a pretence of 
sicliness, when, in fact, he was in perfect 
health. If this be true, perhaps he may, by 
this time, be prepared to second such a wish 
as mine, and to thinli, that the durance lie 
suffers would be well cxehani,'ed for a dance 
at Annamook;u I should, however, as little 
have expected to hear tliat these islanders 
had such consummate skill in an art that re- 
quires so much taste in the conduct of the per- 
son, as that they were i^ood mathematicians 
and astronomers. Defective as they are in 
every branch of knowledge, and in every other 
species of retincment, it seems wonderful 
that they should arrive at such perfeclion in 
the dance, which sonic of our English gentle- 
men, witli all the assistance of French in- 
struction, find it impossible to learn. We 
must conclude, therctorc, that particular na- 
tions have a genius for particular feats, and 
that our neighbors in France, and our friends 
in the South Sea, have minds very nearly 
akin, though they inhabit countries so very 
remote from each other. 

.Mrs. Unwin remembers to have been in 
company with llr. Gilpin at her brother's. 
She thought him very sensible and polite, 
and consequently very agreeable. 

We are truly glad that Jlrs. Newton and 
yourself are so well, and that there is reason 
to hope that Eliza is better. You will learn 
from this letter that we are so, and that for 
my own part I am not quite so low in spirits 
as at some times. Learn too, what you knew 
before, that we love you all, and that I am 
your — 

Affectionate friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UXWIN. 

OIney, Sept. 11, 1784. 
My dear Friend, — You have my thanks for 
the inquiries you have made. Despairing, 
however, of meeting with such (confirmation 
of that new mode as would warrant a general 
stricture, 1 had, before the receipt ol' j'our 
last, discarded the passage in which I had 
censured it. I am proceeding in my tran- 
sc-ript with all possible despatch, having 
ne.irly finished the fourth book, and hoping, 
by the end of the month, to have eoinpleted 
the work. When finished, that no time may 
be lost, I purpose taking the first opportu- 
nity to transmit it to Leman Street, but must 
beg that you will give me in your iie.vt an 
cMct direction, that it may proceed to the 
mark without any hazard of a miscarriage. 
A second transcript of it would be a labor 
I should very reluctantly undertake: for, 
though I have kept copies of all the material 
alterations, there are many minutiio of which 
I have made none: it is besides slavish work, 
and of all occupations that which I dislike 



the most. I know th.at you will lose no time 
in reading it, but I must beg you likewise to 
lose none in conveying it to Johnson, that, 
if he chooses 'to print it, it may go to the 
press immediately ; if not, that it may be 
offered directly to your friend Longman, or 
any other. Not that I doubt Johnson's ac- 
ceptance of it, for he will hud it more ad 
capliim jiopidi than the former. I have not 
numbered the lines, except of the four first 
books, which amount to three thousand two 
hundred and seventy-six. I imagine, there- 
fore, that the whole contains about five thou- 
sand. I mention this circumstance now, be- 
cause it may save him some trouble in casting 
the size of the book, and I might possibly 
forget it in another letter. 

About a fortnight since, we had a visit from 

Jlr. , whom I had not seen many years. 

He introduced himself to us very politely, 
with many thanks on his own part, and on 
the part of his family, for the ainusenient 
which my book has aflorded them. He said 
lie was sure that it must make its wav, and 
hoped that I h.id not laid down the pen. I 
only told him, in general terms, that the use 
of the pen was necessary to my well being, 
but gave hiin no hint of this last production. 
He said that one passage in particular had ab- 
solutely electritied him, meaning the descrip- 
tion of the Briton in Table Talk. He seemed, 
indeed, to emit some sparks, when he men- 
tioned it. I was glad to have that picture 
noticed by a man of acultivated mind, because 
I had always thought well of it myself, and 
had never heard it distinguished before. 
Assure yourself, my William, that though I 
would not write thus freely on the subject of 
me or mine, to any but yourself, the jjleasure 
I h.ave in doing it is a most innocent one, and 
partakes not in the least degree, so far as my 
conscience is to be credited, of that vanity 
with which authors are in general so justly 
chargeable. Whatever I do, I confess that I 
most sincerely wish to do it well; and when 
I have reason to hope that I have succeeded, 
am plea.sed indeed, but not proud ; for He 
who has placed everything out of the reach 
of man, except what he freely gives him, has 
made it impossible for a reflecting mind that 
knows this, to indulge so silly a passion for 
a moment. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olnoy, Sept. II, 17W. 
My dear Friend, — I have never seen Doc- 
tor Cotton's book, concerning which your 
sisters ijuestion me, nor did I know, till you 
mentioned it, that he had written anything 
newer than his Visions; I have no doubt that 
it is so far worthy of him as to be pious and 
sensible, and I believe no man living is better 



200 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



quulified to write on such subjects as his title 
seems to announce. Some years have passed 
since I lieard from him, and considering liis 
great age it is probable that I sluill hear from 
liim no more ; but I shall always respect him. 
lie is truly a philosopher, according to my 
judgment of the character, every tittle of his 
knowledge in natural subjects being con- 
nected in his mind with the firm belief of an 
Omnipotent agent. 

Yours, &c., W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olncy, Sepl. 18, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — Following your good 
example, I lay before me a sheet of my 
largest paper. It was this moment fair and 
unblemished, but I have begun to blot it, and 
having begun, am not likely to cease till I 
have spoiled it. I have sent you many a 
sheet that, in my judgment of it, has been 
very unworthy of your acceptance, but my 
conscience was in some measure satisfied by 
rellecting that, if it were good for nothing, at 
the same time it cost yon nothing, except the 
trouble of reading it. But the case is altered 
now.* You must pay a sohd price for frolliy 
matter, and though I do not absolutely pick 
your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, 
as the saying is, are never the wiser. 

My greenhouse is never so pleasant as 
Vfhen we are just upon the point of being 
turned out of it. The gentleness of the au- 
tumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter 
season, make it a much more agreeable re- 
treat than we ever find it in the summer ; 
when, the winds being generally brisk, we 
cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quan- 
tity of air, without being at the same time 
incommoded by it. But now I sit with all 
the windows and the door wide open, and 
am regaled with the scent of every llower, in 
a garden as full of flowers as I have known 
how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I 
lived in a hive, I should hardly he.ar more of 
their music. All the bees in the neighbor- 
hood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite 
to the window, and pay me for the honey 
they get out of it by a hum, which, though 
rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear 
as the whistling of my linnets. All the 
sounds that nature utters are delightful, at 
least in this country. I should not perhaps 
find the roaring of lions in Africa or of bears 
in Russia very pleasing, but 1 know no beast 
ill England whose voice I do not account 
musical, save and except always the braying 
of an ass. The notes of all our birds and 
fowls please rae without one exception. I 
should not indeed think of keeping a goose 
in a cage, that I might hang him up in the 

* He alludes to the new mode of fraiiliing. 



parlor for the sake of his melody, but a goose 
upon a common or in a farmyard is no bad 
performer: and as to insects, if the black 
beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will 
keep out of my way, I have no objection to 
any of the rest ; on the contrary, in whatever 
key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble to 
the bass of the humble bee, I admire them 
all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a 
very observable instance of providential kind- 
ness to man, that such an exact accord has 
been contrived between his ear and the 
sounds with which, at least in a rural situa- 
tion, it is almost every moment visited. All 
the world is sensible of the uncomfortable 
effect that certain sounds have upon the 
nerves, and consequently upon the spirits. 
And if a sinful world had been filled with 
such as would have curdled the blood, and 
have made the sense of hearing a perpetual 
inconvenience, I do not know that we should 
have had a right lo complain. But now the 
fields, the woods, tlie gardens, have each 
their concert, and the ear of man is forever 
regaled by creatures who seem only to please 
themselves. Even the ears that are deaf to 
the Gosper are continually entertained, though 
without knowing it, by sounds for which 
they are solely indebted to its Author. There 
is somewhere in infinite space a world that 
does not roll within the precincts of mercy, 
and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, 
to suppose that there is music in heaven, in 
those dismal regions perhaps the reverse of 
it is found ; tones so dismal, as to make woe 
itself more insupportable, and to acuminate 
even despair. But my paper admonishes me 
in good time to draw the reins, and to check 
the descent of my fancy into deeps with 
which she is but loo familiar. 

Our best love attends you both. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Ocl. 2, 1784. 

My dear William, — A poet can but ill spare 
time for prose. The truth is, I am in haste 
to finish my transcript, that you may receive 
it time enough to give it a leisurely reading 
before you go to town ; wliich, whether I 
shall be able to accomplish, is at present un- 
certain. I have the whole punctuation to 
settle, which in blank verse is of the last im- 
portance, and of a species peculiar to th.at 
composition ; for I know no use of poinLs, 
unless to direct the voice, the management 
of which, in the reading of blank verse, being 
more difficult than in the reading of any 
other poetry, requires perpetual hints and 
notices to regulate the intlexions, cadences, 
and pauses. This ho«cvcr is an alfair that, 
in .spite of grammarians, must be left pretty 
much ad libilum scriptoris. For, I suppose, 



LIFE OF COWPER 



201 



every autlior points according to his own 
reading. If I can send the parcel to the 
waifOM by one o'clock next Wednesday, yon 
will have it on Saturday llie ninth. But this 
is more than I expect. Perhaps I shall not 
he able to despatch it till the eleventh, in 
which case it will not reach you till the thir- 
teenth. I the rather think that the latter of 
these two periods will obtain, because, be- 
sides the punctuation, I have the argument 
of each book to transcribe. Add to this that, 
in wrilhig for the printer, I am forced to write 
my best, which makes slow work. The motto 
of the whole is — 

Fit surculus arbor. 

If you can put the author's name under it, do 
so, if not, it must go without one ; for I know 
not to whom to ascribe it. It was a motto 
taken by a certain prince of Orange, in the 
year 1733, hut not to a poem of his own 
writing, or indeed to any poem at all, but, as 
I think, to a medal. 

Mr. is a Cornish member ; but for 

what place in Cornwall I know not. All I 
know of him is, that I saw him once clap his 
two hands upon a rail, meaning to leap over 
it. But he did not tinnk the attempt a safe 
one, and therefore took them oH' again. lie 
was in company wiili Mr. Throckmorton. 
With that gentleman we drank chocolate, 
since I wrote last. The occasion of our visit 
was, as usual, a balloon. Your mother in- 
vited her, and I him, and they promised to 
return the visit, but have not yet performed. 
Timl le monJe se Irouxok W, as you may sup- 
pose, among the rest Mrs. W . She was 

driven to the door by her son, a boy of seven- 
teen, in a phaeton, drawn by four horses from 
Lilliput. This is an ambiguous expression, 
and, should what I write now be legible a 
thousand years hence, might puzzle commen- 
tators. Be it known therefore to the Alduses 
ami the Stevenses of ages yet to come, that 

I do not mean to allirm that Jlrs. W 

herself came from Lilliput that morning, or 
indeed that she ever was tiiere, hut merely 
to describe the horses, as being so diminu- 
tive, that they might be with propriety said 
10 be Lilliputian. 

The privilege of franking having been so 
eropjied, I know not in what manner I and 
my bookseller are to settle the conveyance 
of proof sheets hither and back again. They 
must travel I imagine by coach, a large quaiv 
tity of them at a time ; for, like other authors, 
I liiid myself under a poetical necessity of 
being frugal. 

We love you all, jointly and separately, aa 
usuaL W. C. 

I have not seen, nor shall see, the Dissent- 
er's answer to Mr. Newton, unless you can 
furnish me with it. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

OInoy, Oct. 9, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — The ])ains you have taken 
to disengage our corresjiondence from the ex- 
pense with which it was threatened, convinc- 
ing me that my letters, trivial as they are, are 
yet acceptable to you, encourage nie to ob- 
serve my usual punctuality. You complain 
of unconnected thouglits. I believe there is 
not a head in the world but might utter the 
same complaint, and that all would do so, were 
they all as attentive to their own vagaries and 
as honest as your.s. The description of your 
meditations at least suits mine ; perhaps 1 can 
go a step beyond you, upon the same ground, 
and as.sert with the strictest truth that I not 
only do not think with connexion, but that I 
frecjueiitly do not think at .all. I am much 
mistaken if I do not often catch myself nap- 
ping in this way : for, when I ask myself, what 
was the last ide;^(as the ushers at Westmin- 
ster ask an idle boy what was the last word,) 
I am not able to answer, but, like the boy in 
(juestion, am obliged to stare and say nothing. 
This may be a very unphilosophical account 
of myself, and may clash very much with the 
general opinion of the learned, that, the soul, 
being an active principle, and her activity con- 
sisting in thought, she must con.sequently 
always think. 15ut pardon me, messieurs les 
philosophes, there are moments when, if I 
think at all, I am utterly unconscious of doing 
so, .and the thought and the consciousness of 
it seem to ine at least, who am no philoso- 
pher, to be inseparable from each other. Per- 
haps, however, we may both be right ; and, if 
you will grant me that I do not always think, 
I will in return concede to you the activity 
you contend for, and will qualify the ditfer- 
ence between us by supposing that, though 
the soul be in herself an active principle, the 
influence of her present union with a princi- 
ple that, is not such makes her often dormant, 
suspends her operations, and atfects her with 
a sort of deliquium, in wliich she sulfers a 
temporary loss of all her functions. I have 
related to you my experience truly and with- 
out disguise; you must therefore either ad- 
mit my assertion, that the soul does not ne- 
cessarily always act, or deny that mine is a 
human soul : a negative, that I am sure you 
will not easily prove. So much for a dis- 
pute whiclij little thought of being engaged 
in to-day. 

Last night I had a letter from Lord Dart- 
mouth. It was to apprise me of the safe ar- 
riviil of Cook's last Voyage, which he w;is so 
kind as to lend me, in Saint James's Square. 
The reading of these volumes alfiu'ded me 
much amusement, and I hope some instruc- 
tion. No observation however forced itself 
upon me with more violence than one, that 
I could not help making on the death of Cap- 
tain Cook. God is a jealous God, and at 



202 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Ovvliyhee Ihe poor man was content to be 
worshipped. From that moment, tlie remark- 
able interposition of Providence in his favor 
was converted into an opposition that tliwart- 
ed all his purposes. He left the scene of his 
deiticalion, but was driven back to it by a 
most violent storm, in which he sufiered more 
than in any that had preceded it. When he 
departed, he left his w-orshippers still infatu- 
ated with an idea of his godship, consequently 
well disposed to serve him. At his return, 
he found thcni sullen, distrustful, and myste- 
rious. A trilling theft was committed, which, 
by a blunder of his own in pursuing the thief 
after the property had been restored, was 
mag-nified to an affair of the last importance. 
One of their favorite chiefs was killed too by 
a blunder. Nothing in short but blunder and 
mistake attended him, till lie fell breathless 
into the water, and then all w.'is smooth again. 
The world indeed will not Jake notice or see 
that the dispensation bore evident marks of 
divine displeasure; but a mind, I think, in 
any degree spiritual cannot overlook them. 
We know from truth itself that the death of 
Herod was for a similar offence. But Herod 
was in no sense a believer in God, nor had 
enjoyed half the opportunities with which 
our poor countryman had been favored. It 
may be urged perhaps th.it he was in jest, 
that he meant nothing but his own amuse- 
ment, and that of his companions. I doubt 
it. He knows little of the heart, who does 
not know that even in a sensible man it is 
flattered by every species of e.xaltation. But 
be it so, that he was in sport — it was not 
humane, to say no worse of it, to sport with 
the ignorance of his friends, to mock their 
simplicity, to humor and acquiesce in their 
blind credulity. Besides, though a -stock or 
stone may be worshipped blameless, a bap- 
tized man may not. He knows what lie 
does, and, by suffering such honors to be 
paid him, incurs the guilt of siicrilcge.* 

We are glad that you are so happy in your 
church, in your society, and in all your con- 
ne.vions. I have not left myself room to say 
anything of the love we feel for you. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

Several of the succeeding letters advert to 
the poem of " The Task," and cannot fail to 
inspire interest. ^ 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Oct. 10, 1784. 
My dear William, — I send you four quires 
of verse, which, having sent, I shall dismiss 
from my thoughts, and think no more of till 

* \Vr suhjnin the following nole of Ilajiey on this sul)- 
jrrl: ^Mlii\iir..^ riijoycd in Ihc ycnr 377ii the iitr;i„urr nf 
cfnivcr^iTii.' with tiii-^ illustrious soaman, on b();ir.l liis(.\\n 
slii|), till- Ursnluliim, i cannot pa.ss Uie pn-scnt Itttcr 
without observing, that I am porsnnded my I'l'icmi Cow- 
jicr utterly misappi-eliended the behavior of Captain 



I -see them in print. I have not after all 
found time or industry enough to give the 
last hand to the points. I believe however 
they are not very eiToneous, though, in so 
long a work, and in a work that requires 
nicety in this particular, some inaccuracies 
w-ill escape. Where you find any, you will 
oblige me by correcting them. 

In some passages, especially in the second 
book, you will observe me very satirical. 
Writing on such subjects I could not be 
otherwise. I can write nothing without aim- 
ing at least at usefulness. It were bene.ith 
my years to do it, and still more dishonora- 
ble to my religion. I know thtit a reforma- 
tion of such abuses as I have censured is not 
to be expected from the efforts of a poet ; 
but to contemplate the world, its follies, its 
vices, its indifference to duty, and its strenu- 
ous attachment to what is evil, and not to 
reprehend, were to approve it. From this 
charge at least I shall be clear, for I htivc 
neither tacitly nor expressly flattered either 
its characters or its customs. I have paid 
one and only one compliment, which was so 
justly due that 1 did not know how to with- 
hold it, especially having so fair an occasion 
(I forget myself, there is another in the first 
book to Mr. Throckmorton.) but the compli- 
ment I mean is to Mr. . It is howe\i'r 

so managed, that nobody but himself can 
make the application, and you to whom I 
disclose the secret ; a delicacy on my part, 
which so much delicacy on his obliged me to 
the observance of! 

What there is of a religious cast in the 
volume, I have thrown towards the end of it, 
for two reasons — lirst, that I might not re- 
volt the reader at his entrance — and, secondly, 
that my best impressions might be mtide hist. 
Were I to write tis many volumes as Lopez 
de Vega, or Voltaire, not one of them would 
be without this tincture. If the world like 
it not, so much the worse for them. I make 
all the concessions I can, that I may please 
them, but I will not please them at the ex- 
pense of my conscience. 

My descriptions are till from nature ; not 
one of them second-handed. My delineations 
of the heart are from my own experience ; 
not one of them borrowed from books, or in 
the least degree conjectural. In my num- 
bers, which I varied as much ;is I could, (for 
blank verse without variety of numbers is no 
better than bladder and string,) I have imi- 
tated nobody, though sometimes perhajis 
there may be an apparent resemblance ; be- 
cause, at the same time that I would not 
imitate, I have not affectedly dillercd. 

Took in the affair .lllilded to. From the little personal 
ae(]uainlance which 1 had myself with this humane and 
truly Cliristian naviiiator, and from the whole tenor of 
his lift', 1 cannot believe it possible lor him to have acted, 
under any circumstances, with such impious arrogance 
as might iippear offensive in the eyes of the Almighty." 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



203 



If the work cannot boast a regular plan, 
(in wliic-li rt'sjioet however I do not think it 
altofj'other indefensible,) it in.ny yet boast 
that the relleetions are naturally susjffested 
always by tlie preeedintj passage, anil that, 
except tile tilth hook, which is rather of a 
political aspect, the whole has one tendency; 
to disciiuMtenance the modern enthusiasm 
after a London life, and to recommend rural 
ease and leisure, as friendly to the cause of 
piety anil virtue. 

If it pleases you I shall be happy, and col- 
lect from your pleasure in it an omen of its 
general acceptance. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM tTNWIN. 

Olncy, Oct. 20, 1784. 

My dear William, — Your letter has relieved 
me from some an.xiety, and iji\en me a good 
deal of positive pleasure. I have faith in 
your judgment, and an implicit conlidence in 
the sincerity of your approbation. The writ^ 
ing of so long a poem is a serious business ; 
and the author must know little of his own 
heart who does not in some degree suspect 
himself of partiality to his own production; 
and who is he that would not be mortified 
by the discovery that he h.ad written five 
thou.sand lines in vain! The poem, how- 
ever, wliieh you have in hand, will not of 
itself make a volume so large as the la.st, or 
as a bookseller would wish. I say thi.s, be- 
cause when I had sent Johnson five thousand 
verses, he applied for a thousand more. Two 
years since I began a piece which grew to the 
length of two hundred, and there stopped.* 
I have lately resumed it, and (I believe) shall 
finish it. But the subject is fruitful, and will 
not be comprised in a sniallet comp.-iss th.in 
seven or eight hundred verses. It turns on 
the question whether an education at school 
or al home be preferaWe, and I shall give the 
preference to the latter. I mean tliat it shall 
pursue the track of the former. That is to 
say, that it shall visit Stock in its way to 
publicalifm. My design also is#o inscribe 
it to you. But you must see it first ; and, 
if, after seeing it, you should have any ob- 
jection, though it should be no bigger than 
the tittle of an i, I will deny myself th.at ' 
pleasure, .and find no fault with your refusal. 
I have not been without thoughts of adding 
John Gilpin at the tail of all. He has made 
a good deal of noise in the world, and per- 
haps it may ni>l be amiss to show that though 
I write generally with a serious intention, 1 
know how to be occasionally merry. The 
Critical Reviewers charged nie with an at- 
tempt at humor. John, having been more 
celebrated upon the score of humor than 
* Tirocinium. Sec Poems. 



most pieces that have appeared in modern 
days, may serve to exonerate me from the 
imputation: but in this article I am entirely 
under your judirment, and mean to be set 
down by it. Ail these together will make 
an octavo like the l.ast. I should have told 
you, that the piece which now employs me 
is in rhyme. I do not intend to write any 
more blank. It is more difficult than rhyme, 
and not so amusing in the composition, if, 
when you make the oflx-r of my book to 
Johnson, he should stroke his chin, and look 
up to the ceiling, and cry, '■ Humph 1'' anti- 
cipate him, I l)eseech you, at once, by saying, 
"that you know I should be .sorry that he 
should undertake for me to his own disad- 
vantage, or that my volume should be in any 
degree pressed upon him. I make him the 
ofl'er merely because I think he would have 
reason to complain of me if I did not." But, 
that punctilio once satisfied, it is a matter of 
indifl^'erence to nie what publisher .sends me 
forth. If Longman shmild have difficulties, 
winch is the more probable, as I understand 
from you that he does not in these cases see 
with his own eyes, but will consult a brother 
poet, take no pains to conquer them. The 
idea of being hawked about, .and especially 
of your being the hawker, is insupportable. 
Nichols, I have heard, is the most learned 
printer of the present day. He m.ay be a 
man of taste as well as learning; and I sup- 
pose that you would not want a gentleman 
usher to introduce you. He prints "The 
Gentleman's Magazine," and may serve us, 
if the others should decline : if not, give 
yourself no farther trouble about the matter. 
I may possibly envy autliors who can afl'ord 
to publish at their own expense, and in that 
case should write no more. But the mortifi- 
cation should not break my heart. 

I proceed to your corrections, for which I 
most unaH'ectedly thank you, adverting to 
them in their order. 

Page 1-10. — Truth generally without the 
article (lie, would not be sufficiently defined. 
There are many sorts of truth, philosophical, 
niatlieniatical, moral, &e.,an(l a reader not 
much accustomed to hear of religious or 
scriptural truth, might possibly and indeed 
easily doul>t what truth was particularly in- 
fended. I acknowledge that i; rar', in my use 
of the word, does not often occur in poetry. 
So neither does the subject which I handle. 
Every subject has its own terms, and relig- 
ious ones take theirs with most propriety 
from the scripture. Thence I take the word 
i;riici: The sarcastic use of it in the mouths 
of infidels I admit, but not their authority to 
proticrihe it, especially as (iod's favor in the 
abstract has no other word in all our lan- 
guage by which it can be expressed. 

P;ige 1.50. — Impress the miml faintly or not 
at all. — I prefer this line, because of the in- 



204 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tprrupted run of it, having always observed 
that a little nnevenness of this sort, in a long 
work, has a good eft'ect, used, as I mean, 
sparingly, and with discretion. 

Page 1^7. — This should liave been noted 
first, but was overlooked. Be pleased to al- 
ter for me thus, with the difference of only 
one word, from the alteration proposed by 
you — 

We too are iVienils to royally. We love 

The king who loves the law, respects his bounds. 

And reigns content within them. 

You observed probably, in your second 
reading, that I allow the life of an animal to 
be fairly taken away, when it interferes either 
with the interest or convenience of man. 
Consequently snails and all reptiles that 
spoil our crops, either of fruit or grain, may 
be destroyed, if we can catch them. It gives 
me real pleasure that Mrs. Unwin so readily 
understood me. Blank verse, by the un- 
usual arrangement of the words, and by the 
frequent infusion of one line into another, 
not leas than by the style, which recpiires a 
kind of tragical magniiicenee, cannot be 
chargeable with much obscurity, must rather 
be singularly perspicuous, to be so easily 
comprehended. It is ray labor, and my prin- 
cipal one, to be as clear as possible. You 
do not mistake me, when you suppose that I 
have great respect for the virtue that Hies 
temptation. It is that sort of prowess, which 
the whole train of scripture calls upon us to 
manifest, when assailed by sensual evil. In- 
terior mischiefs must be grappled with. There 
is no flight from them. But solicitations to 
sin, that address themselves to our bodily 
senses, are, I believe, seldom conquered in 
any other way. 

I can easily see that you may have very 
reasonable objections to my dedicatory pro- 
posal. You are a clergyman, and 1 liave 
banged your order. You are a child of alma 
mater, and I have banged her too. Lay 
yourself, therefore, under no constraints that 
I do not lay you under, but consider your- 
self as perfectly free. 

With our best love to you all, I bid you 
heartily farewell. I am tired of this endless 
scribblement. Adieu ! 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oluey, Oct. 22, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I am now reading a 
book which you have never read, and will 
probably ne\er read — Kno.x's Essays. Per- 
haps I should premise that I am driven to 
such reading by the want of books that 
would please me better, neither liaving any, 
nor the means of procuring any. I am not 
* Private correspondence. 



sorry, however, that I have met with him ; 
though, when I have allowed him the praise 
of being a sensible man, and in his way .a 
good one, I ha\e allowed him all that I can 
afford. Neither his style pleases me, which 
is sometimes insuii'erably dry and hard, and 
sometimes ornamented even to an Harxeian 
tawdriness ; nor his manner, wdiich is never 
lively without being the worse for it; so 
unhappy is he in his attempts .at character 
and narration. But, writing chiefly on the 
manners, vices, and lollies of the modern 
day, to me he is at least so far useful, as 
that he gives me information upon points 
which I neither can nor wmdtl be informed 
upon except by hearsay. Of such informa- 
tion, however, I have need, being a writer 
upon those subjects myself, and a satirical 
writer too. It is fit, therefore, in order that 
I may find fault in the right place, that I 
should know where fiiult may properly be 
found. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Oct. 30, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I accede most readily to 
the justice of your remarks, on the subject 
of the truly Roman heroism of the Sandwich 
islanders. Proofs of such prowess, I be- 
lieve, are seldom exhibited by a people who 
have attained to a high degree of civilization. 
Refinement and profligacy are too nearly al- 
lied to admit of anything so noble ; and I 
question whether any instances of faithful 
friendship, like that which so much aflTected 
you in the behavior of the poor savage, were 
produced even by the Romans themselves in 
the latter days of the empire. They had 
been a nation, whose virtues it is impossible 
not to wonder at. But Greece, which was 
to them what France is to us, a Pandora's 
box of mischief, reduced them to her own 
standard, and they naturally soon sunk still 
lower. Religion in this case seems pretty 
much out of the question. To the produc- 
tion of such heroism undebauched nature 
herself is equal. When Italy was a land of 
heroes, sh" knew no more of tlie true God 
than her cicisbeos and her fiddlers know 
now ; and indeed it seems a matter of indif- 
ference whether a man be born under a 
truth, which does not influence him, or un- 
der the actual influence of a lie ; or, if there 
be any difference between the cases, it seems 
to be rather in favor of the latter ; for a 
false persuasion, sucli as the Mahometan, for 
instance, may animate the courage, and fur- 
nish motives for the contenqrt of death, 
while despisers of the true religion are pun- 
ished for their folly, by being abandoned 
to the last degrees of depravity. Accord- 
ingly, we see a Sandwich islander sacrificing 
himself to his dead friend, and our Christian 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



205 



seamen and mariners, instead of licini? im- 
pressed by a sense of his generosity, buteli- 
ering liini with a persevering enieity that 
will disgrace them forever; for he was a 
defenceless, unresisting enemy, who meant 
nothing more than to gratify his love for the 
deceased. To slay him in such circum- 
sUinees was to murder him, and with every 
aggravation of the crime that can be ima- 
gined. 

I am again at Johnson's, in the shape of a 
poem in lilank verse, consisting of six books 
and called " The Task."' I began it .about 
this time twelvemonth, and writing some- 
times an hour in a day, sometimes half a one, 
and sometimes two hours, liave lately lin- 
ished it. I mentioned it not sooner, l)ecausc 
almost to the last I was doubtful whether I 
should ever bring it to a conclusion, working 
often in such distress of mind as, while it 
spurred me to the work, at the same time 
threatened to disi|u;ilify me for it. Jly book- 
seller, I ^sujipose, will be as tardy as before. 
I do not expect to be born into the world 
till the month of March, when I and the cro- 
cuses shall peep together. You may assure 
yourself that 1 shall take my first opportu- 
nity to wait on you. I mean likewise to 
gratify myself by obtruding my muse upon 
Mr. Hacon. 

Adieu, my dear friend ! We are well, and 
love you. VV. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM USWIN. 

Olncj-, Nov. ), 17f4. 
My dear Friend, — Were I to delay my an- 
swer, I must yet write without a frank at 
last, and may as well tlu-refore write without 
one now, cs|)ecially feeling as I do a desire 
to thank you for your friendly offices so well 
performed. I am glad, for your sake as 
well as for my own, that you succeeded in the 
first instance, and that the first trouble proved 
the last. I am willing too to consider John- 
son's readincis to .accept a second volume 
of mine as an argument that at least he was 
no loser by the former. I collect from it 
some reasonable hope that the volume in 
question may not wrong him cither. My 
imagination tells me (for I know you inter- 
est your.self in the success of my produc- 
tions) that your heart fluttered when you 
approiiehed Johnson's door, and that it felt 
itself discharged of a burden when you came 
out again. Vou did well to mention it at 

the T s; they will now know that you 

do not pretend to a share in my confidence, 
whatever be the value of it, greater than vou 
actually possess. I wrote to Mr. Newton 
by the last post to tell him that I w.as gone 
to the press again. Ho will l)e surprised 
and perhaps not pleased. But I 'think he 



ciinnot complain, for he keeps his own au- 
thorly secrets without participating them 
with me. I do not think myself in tlie least 
injured by his reserve, neither should I, if he 
wti-e to jjublisli a whole library without fa- 
voring me with any previous notice of his 
intentions. In these eases it is no violation 
of the laws of friendship not to commu- 
nicate, though there must be a friendship 
where the communication is made. But 
many reasons may concur in disposing a 
writer to keep his work secret, and none of 
them injurious to his friends. The influence 
of one I have felt myself, for which none of 
them would blame nie — I mean the desire 
of surprising agreeably. And, if I have de- 
nied myself this pleasure in your instance, it 
was only to give myself a greater, by eradi- 
cating from your mind any little weeds of 
suspicion that might still remain in it, that 
any man li\ing is nearer to me than your- 
self Had not this consideration forced up 
the lid of my strong-box like a le\er, it 
would have kept its contents u'ith an invis- 
ible closeness to the last : and the first news 
that either you or any of my friends would 
have heard of •■ The Task," they would have 
received from the iiublie papers. But you' 
know now that neither as a poet nor a man 
do I give to any man a precedence in my 
estim.ation at your exjjense. 

I am proceeding with my new work (which 
at present I feel myself much inclined to call 
by the name of Tirocinium) as fast as the 
muse permits. It has reached the leng.h of 
seven hundred lines,and will probably receive 
an addition of two or three hundred more. 

When you see Mr. perhaps you will not 

find it diliicult to procure from him half-a- 
dozen franks, addressed to yourself, and dated 
the fifteenth of December, in which case they 
will all go to the post, filled with my lucubra- 
tions, on the evening of that day. I do not 
name an earlier, because I hate t" be hurried : 
and Johnson cannot want it sooner than, thus 
managed, it will reach him. 

I am not sorry that " John Gilpin," though 
hitherto he has been nobody's child, is likely 
to be owned at last. Here and there I can 
give him a touch that I think will mend him ; 
the language in some places not being quite 
so quaint and old-fashioned as it should be ; 
and in one of the stanzas there is a false 
rhyme. When I have thus given the finish- 
ing stroke to his figure, I mean to gr.aec him 
with two mottoes, a Greek and a I/:itin one, 
which, when the world shall see that 1 have 
only a little one of three words to the vol- 
ume itself, and none to the books of which 
it consists, they will perhaps understand as 
a stricture upon that pompous display of lit- 
erature, with which some authors take occa- 
sion to crov.d their titles. Knox in particu- 
lar, who is a sensible man loo, has not I 



206 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



think fewer than half-a-dozen to his " Es- 
says." 

Adieu, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Nov., J784. 

My dear Friend, — To condole with you on 
tlie death of a mother an-ed eighty-seven 
would be absurd— rather therefore, as is rea- 
sonable, I congratulate you on the almost 
singular felicity of having enjoyed the com- 
pany of so amiable and so near a relation so 
long. Your lot and mine in this respect have 
been very diiVerent, as indeed in almost every 
other. Your mother lived to see you rise, at 
least to see you comfortably established in 
the world. Mine, dyingwhen I was six years 
old, did not live to see me sink in it. You 
may remember with pleasure while you live 
a blessing vouchsafed to you so long, and 
I while I live must regret a comfort, of which 
I was deprived so early. I can truly say that 
not a week passes (perhaps I might with 
equal veracity say a day) in which I do not 
think of her. Such was the impression lier 
tenderness made upon me, though the oppor- 
tunity she had for showing it was so short. 
But the ways of God are equal — and, when 
I reflect on the pangs she w'ould have suf- 
fered had she been a witness of all mine, 
I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn 
that she was hidden in the grave so soon. 

We have, as you say, lost a lively and sen- 
sible neighbor in Lady Austen, but we have 
been long accustomed to a state of retirement 
within one degree of solitude, and, being 
naturally lovers of still life, can relapse into 
our former duality without being unhappy at 
the change. To me indeed a third is not 
necessary, while I can have the companion I 
have had these twenty years. 

I am gone to the press again ; a volume of 
mine will greet your hands some time either 
in the course of the winter or early in the 
spring. You will hiid it perhaps on the 
whole more entertaining tluin the former, .as 
it treats a greater variety of subjects, and 
those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. 
It will consist of a poem in six books, called 
" The Task." To which u'iU be added an- 
other, which I tinished yesterday, called I 
believe " Tirocinium," on the subject of edu- 
cation. 

Y'ou perceive that I have taken your advice, 
and given the {len no rest. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Oliicy, Nov. 27, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — All the interest that you 
take in my new publication, and all the pleas 
that you urge in behalf of your right to my 



confidence, the moment I had read your let- 
ter, struck me as so many proofs of your re- 
gard : of a friendship in which distance and 
time make no abatement. But it is dithcult 
to adjust opposite claims to the satisfaction 
of all parties. I have done my best, and 
must leave it to your candor to put a just in- 
terpretation upon all that has passed, and to 
give me credit for it as a certain truth that, 
whatever seeming defects in point of atten- 
tion .and attachment to you my conduct on 
this occasion may have appeared to have been 
chargeable with, I am in reality as clear of 
all real ones as you would wish to find me. 

I send you enclosed, in the first place, a 
copy of the advertisement to the reader, which 
accounts for my title, not otherwise easily ac- 
counted for ; secondly, what is called aii ar- 
gument, or a summary of the contents of 
each book, more circumstantial and diffuse by 
far than that which 1 have sent to the press. 
It will give you a pretty accurate acquaint- 
ance with my matter, though the teoons and 
mortices, by which the several passages are 
connected, and let into each other, cannot be 
explained in a syllabus : and lastly, an extract, 
as you desired. The subject of it I am sure 
will please you : and, as I have admitted into 
my description no images but what are scrip- 
tural, and have aimed as exactly as I could 
at the plain and simjde sublimity of the scrip- 
ture language, I have hopes the manner of 
it may please you too. As far as the num- 
bers and diction are concerned, it may serve 
pretty well for a sample of the whole. But, 
the subjects being so various, no single pas- 
sage can in all respects be a specimen of the 
book at large. 

My princip.al purpose is to allure the read- 
er, by character, by scenery, by imagery, and 
such poetical embellishments, to the reading 
of what may profit him : sub(u-dinately to 
this, to combat that predilection in favor of a 
metropolis that beggars and exhausts the 
country, by evacuating it of all its principal 
inhabitants ; and collaterally, and, as far as 
is consistent with this double intention, to 
have a stroke at vice, vanity and folly, wher- 
e\er I find them. I have not spared the 
Universities. A letter which appeared in the 
"General Evening Post" of Saturday, s.aid 
to have been received by a general officer, 
and by him sent to the press as worthy of 
public notice, and which h.as all the appear- 
ance of authenticity, would alone justify the 
severest c-ensures of those bodies, if any such 
justification were wanted. By way of sup- 
plement to v^'hat I have written on this sub- 
ject, I h.ave added a poem, called " Tirocini- 
um," which is in rhyme. It treats of the 
scandalous relaxation of discipline that ob- 
tains in almost all schools universally, but es- 
pecially in the largest, which are so negligent 
in the article of morals that boys are de- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



207 



liauclu'd ill general the moment they are ca- 
[1 ilile of bciiijr so. It recommends the office 
of tutor to tlie father vvliere there is no real 
inii)e(linient, llie expedient of a domestic tu- 
tor where there is, and the disposal of boys 
into the hands of a respectable country cler- 
gyman, wlio limits his attention to two, in all 
eases where they cannot be conveniently 
educated at home. Mr. Unwin happily af- 
fordinif mean instance in point, the poem is 
inscribed to him. Vou will now I hope com- 
mand your hunger to be patient, and be satis- 
fied with the luncheon, that I send, till dinner 
conies. That piecemeal perusal of the work 
sheet by slieet, would be so disadvantageous 
to the work itself, and therefore so uncom- 
Tortable to me, that (1 dare say) you will waive 
your desire of it. A jioem thus disjointed 
cannot possibly be lit for anybody's inspec- 
tion but the author's. 

Tully's rule — Nulta dies sine lima — will 
make a volume in less time than one would 
.suppose. I adhered to it so rigidly that, 
though more than once I found three lines as 
many as I had time to compass, still I wrote; 
and, linding occasionally, and as it might 
happen a more fluent vein, the abundance of 
one day made me amcTids for the barrenness 
of ano'tlier. But I do not mean to write 
blank ver.se again. Not liaving the mu.sic of 
rhyme, it reipiires so close an attention to the 
pause and the cadence, and such a peculiar 
mode of expression, as render it, to me at 
least, the most ditiicult species of poetry that 
I have ever meddled with. 

I am obliged to you and to Mr. Bacon for 
your kind remembrance of me when you 
meet. No artist can excel, as he does, with- 
out the finest feelings; and every man that 
has the finest feelings is and must be amiable. 
Adieu, my dear friend ! 

Afl'ectionatelv yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, 1784. 
My dear William, — The slice which (you 
observe) has been taken from the top of the 
sheet, it lost before I began to write ; but, 
being a part of the paper which is seldom 
used, I thought it would be pity to discard, 
or to degrade to meaner purposes, the fair 
and ample remnant, on .account of so imma- 
terial a defect. I tliiTefore have destined it 
to be the vehicle of a letter, which you will 
accept as entire, though a lawyer perhaps 
would, without much dilHeulty, prove it to be 
but a fragment. The best recomi)ense I can 
make you for writing without a frank, is to 
propose it to you to take your revenge by 
returning an answer under the same predica- 
ment ; and the best reason I can give for do- 
ing it is the occasion following. In my last 
I recommended it to you to procure franks 



for the conveyance of " Tirocinium," d.ated 
on a day therein mentioned and the earliest 
which at that time 1 could \ enture to appoint. 
It has happened, however, tli.-it the poem is 
hnished a mouth sooner than I expected, and 
two thirds of it are at this time fairly tran- 
scribed ; an accident to which the riders of a 

! Parnassian steed are liable, who never know, 

I before they mount him, at what rate he will 
choose to travel. If he be indisposed to de- 

I spat'.'h, it is impossible to accelerate his pace; 

! if otherwi.se, eiinally impossible to slop him. 
Therefore my errand to you at this lime is 
to cancel the former assignation, and to in- 
form you that by whatever means you please, 
and as soon as you please, tlie piece in ipies- 
tion will be ready to attend you ; for, with- 
out exerting any extraordinary diligence, 
1 shall have con)i)leted tlu^ transeri])!, in a 
week. 

The critics will never know that four lines 
of it were composed while I had a dose of 
ipecacuanha on my stomach ; in short, that I 
was delivered of the emetic and the verses 
at the same moment. Knew they this, they 
would at least allow me to be a ])oet of sin- 
gular industry, and confess that I lose no 
time. I have heard of poets who have found 
cathartics of sovereign use, when they had 
occasion to Ix- particularly brilliant. Dryden 
.always used them, and, in commemoration 
of it, Bayes, in " The Rehear.sal," is made to 
inform the audience, that in a poetical emer- 
gency he always had recourse to stewed 
prunes. But I am the only poet who has 
dared to reverse the prescription, and whose 
enterprise, h.aving succeeded to admiration, 
warrants him to recommend an emetic to all 
future bards, as the most infallible means of 
producing a fluent and easy versification. 
My love to all your family. 

Adieu. VV. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UN^VIN. 

Olney, Nov. 29, 1784. 

My dear Friend, — I am happy that you are 
pleased, and accept it as an earnest that I 
shall not at least disgust the public. For, 
though I know your partiality to me, I know 
at the same time with what laudable tender- 
ness you feel for your own reputation, and 
that, for the sake of that most delicate part 
of your property, though you would not 
criticise me with an unfriendly and niulue 
severity, you would however beware of being 
satisfied too hastily, and with no warrant- 
able cause of being so, I called you the tu- 
tor of your two sons, in contemplation of 
the certainty of that event : it is a fact in sus- 
pense, not in Hction. 

My principal errand to you now is to give 
you ini'cirmalion on the ftdlowing subject: — 
The moment Mr. Newton knew (and I took 



208 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



care that he sliould learn it first from me) 
that I IkuI oomiiumicatcd to you what I had 
concealed from him, and that j'ou were my ! 
authorship's go-between with- Johnson on 
this occasion, he sent me a most friendly 
letter indeed, but one in every line of whicli 
I could hear the soft murmurs of something 
like mortification, that could not be entirely 
suppressed. It contained nothing however 
that yim yourself would have blamed, or 
that I had not every reason to consider as 
evidence of his regard lo me. He concluded 
the subject with desiring to know something 
of my plan, to be favored with an extract, by 
way of specimen, or (which he should like 
better still) witli wishing me to order John- 
son to send him a proof as fast as they were 
printed off. Determining not to accede to 
this last request for many reasons (but es- 
pecially because I would no more show my 
poem piecemeal than I would my house if I 
had one ; the merits of the structure in 
eitiier case being equally liable to suffer by 
such a partial view of it), I have endeavored 
to compromise the diH'crence between us, 
and to satisfy him without disgracing myself. 
The proof-sheets I have absolutely, though 
civilly refused. But I have sent him a copy 
of the .arguments of each book, more dilated 
and circumstantial than those inserted in the 
work ; and to these I have added an extract, 
.as he desired ; selecting, as most suited to 
his taste, the view of the restoration of all 
things — which you recollect to have seen 
near the end of the last book. I hold it 
necessary to tell you this, lest, if you should 
call upon him, he should st.artle you by dis- 
covering a degree of inljjrmation upon the 
subject which you could not otherwise know 
how to reconcile or to account for. 

You have executed your commissions rl 
merreille. We not only approve but admire. 
No apology was wanting for the balance 
struck at the bottom, which we accounted 
rather a beauty than a deformity. Pardon a 
poor poet, who cannot speak even of pounds, 
shillings, and pence, but in his own way. 

I have read I.unardi with pleasure. He is 
a lively, sensible young fellow, and I sup- 
pose a very fivorable sample of tlie Italians. 
When I look at his picture, I can fancy that 
I can sec in him that good sense and courage 
that no doubt were legible in tlie face of a 
young Roman two thousand years ago. 

Your affectionate W. C. 



TO JOSEril HILL, ESQ.* 

Olncy, Dec. 4, 1781. 

My dear Friend,— You have my hearty 

thanks for a very good barrel of oysters; 

which necessary acknowledgment once made, 

I might perhaps show more kindness by cut- 

* Private coiTespondunce. 



ting short an epistle than by continuing one, 
in which you are not likely to Hjid your ac- 
count, either in the way of information or 
amusement. The season of the year indeed 
is not very friendly to such communications. 
A damp atmosphere and a sunless sky will 
have their efi'cct ujjon the spirits ; and when 
the spirits are cliecked, farewell to all hojic 
of being good company, either by letter or 
otherwise. I envy those happy voyagers, 
who with so mucli ease ascend to regions 
unsullied with a cimul, and date their epistles 
from an extra-mundane situation. No won- 
der if they outshine us, who poke about in 
the dark below, in the vivacity of their s.allies, 
as much as they soar above us in their ex-_ 
cursions. Not but that I should be very sorry 
to go to the clouds for wit: on the contrary, 
I am satisfied that I discover more by con- 
tinuing where I am. Every man to his busi- 
ness. Their vocation is to see fine pros- 
pects, and to make pithy observations upon 
the world below ; such as these, for instance : 
that the earth, beheld from a height that one 
trembles to think of, has the .appearance of a 
circular plain ; tliat England is a very rich 
and cultivated country, in which every man's 
property is ascertained by the hedges that 
intersect the lands; and that London and 
Westminster, seen from the neighborhood of 
the moon, make but an insignificant figure. 
I admit the utility of these remarks ; but, in 
the meantime, I .say chacun u son govt ; and 
mine is rather to creep than fly, and to carry 
with me, if possible, an unbroken neck to the 
grave. 

I remain, as ever, 

Your affection.ate W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 

Olney, Doc. 13, 1734. 
My dear Friend, — Having imitated no man, 
I may reasonably hope that I shall not incur 
the disadvantage of a comparison with my 
betters. Milton's manner was peculiar. So 
is Thomson's. He that should write like 
either of them would in my judgment de- 
serve the name of a copyist, but not a poet. 
A judicious and sensible reader therefore, 
like yourself, will not say that my maimer is 
not good, because it does not resemble theirs, 
but will rather consider what it is in itself. 
Blank verse is susceptible of a much greater 
diversification of manner than verse in rhyme : 
and, why the modern writers of it have ail 
thought proper to cast their numbers alike, I 
know not. Certainly it was not necessity 
that compelled Ihein to it. I flatter myself 
however that I have .avoided that sameness 
with others, which would entitle me to 
nothing but a share in one common oblivion 
with them all. It is possible that, as a re- 
viewer of my former volume found cause to 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



209 



say, tliat he knew not to wlial elass of writ- 
ers to refer me, the reviewer of tlii.s, wlio- 
ever he shall he, may see occasion to remark 
tlie same siiii^iihirity. At any rate, tlioiigli as 
little apt to he sanguine as most men, and 
more prone to fear and de^^pond than to 
overrate my own productions, I am per- 
suaded that I shall not forfeit anything by 
this volume that I gained by the last. As to 
the titk', I take it to be the best that is to be 
had. It is not ])ossihle that a book including 
such a vilriely of subjects, and in which no 
particular one is predominant, should find a 
title adapted to them all. In such a ease it 
seemed almost necessary to accommodate 
the name to the incident that gave birth to 
the poem ; nor does it appear to me that, be- 
cause I performed more than my task, there- 
fore "The Task" is not a suitable title. A 
house would still be a house, though the 
builder of it should make it ten times as big 
as he at first intended. I might indeed, fol- 
lowing the example of the Sunday news- 
monger, call it the Olio. But I should do 
myself wrong: for, though it have much va- 
riety, it has I trust no confusion. 

For the same reason none of the inferior 
titles apply themselves to the contents at 
large of that book to which they belong. 
They are, every one of them, taken either 
from the le.uling (I should say the introduc- 
tory) passage of that particular book, or 
from that wliich makes tlie most conspicuous 
figure in it. Had I set off with a design to 
write upon a gridiron, and had I actually j 
written near two hundred lines upon that 
utensil, as I have upon the Sofa, the gridiron 
should have been my title. But the Sofa 
being, as I may say, the starting-post, from 
which I addressed myself to the long race 
that I soon conceived a design to run, it ac- 
quired a just pre-eminence in my accoimt, 
and was very worthily .advanced to the titu- 
lar honor it enjoys, its right being at least so 
far a good one, that no word in the language 
could pretend a better. 

The Time-piece appears to me (though by 
some accident the import of that title has 
escaped you) to have a degree of propriety 
beyond the most of them. The book to 
whieli it belongs is intended to strike the 
hour that gives notice of the approaching 
judgment : and, dealing pretty largely in the 
signs of the times, seems to bedetiominated, 
as it is, with a sufficient degree of accommo- 
dation to the subject. , 

As to the word icorm, it is the very appel- 
lation which Milton himself, in a certain pas- 
sage of the Paradise Lost, gives to the ser- 
pent. Not having the book at hand, I cannot 
now refer to it, but I am sure of the fact. I 
am mistaken, too, if Shakspeare's Cleopatra 
do not call the asp by which she thought fit 
to destroy herself by the same name: but, 



not having re:id the play these Hvc-and- 
twenty years, I will not affirm it. They 
are however, without all doubt, convertible 
terms. A worm is a small serpent, and ;i 
serpent is a large worm. Ai\d when an epi- 
thet significant of the most terrible species of 
those creatures is .adjoined, the idea is surely 
sufficiently ascert;iined. No animal of the 
vermicular or serpentine kind is crested but 
the most formidable of all. 

Y'ours afl'ectionatcly, W. C. 

The passages alliwied to by Cowper are as 
follows : 

O Eve, in evil hour thou didst give ear 
To that false vorm, of whomsoever taught 
To counterteit man's voice ; &c. 

Paradise Lost, book !' 

Hast thou the pretty tronn of Nilus there, 
That kills and pains noti 

SUAKspKARKs Anthony if* Cleopatra, Act 5. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Doc. 18, 1784. 

I\Iy dear Friend. — 1 condole with you that 
you ii;id the trouble to ascend St. Paul's in 
vain, but at the same time congratulate you 
that you escaped an ague. I should be very 
well pleased to have a fair prospect of a bal- 
loon under sail, with a pliilosopher or two on 
board, but at the same time should be very 
sorry to e.\pose myself, for any length of 
time, to the rigor of the upper regions at this 
season for the sake of it. The travellers 
themselves, I suppose, :ire secured from all 
injuries of the weather by that fervency of 
spirit and agitatiim of mind which must needs 
accompany them in their flight: advantages 
which the more composed and phlegmatic 
spectator is not ec|U:'.lly possessed of, 

The inscription of the poem is more your 
own aflfair than any other person's. Vou have 
therefore an undoubted right to fashion it to 
your mind, nor have I the le.ast objection to 
the slight alteration that you have made in it. 
I inserted what you have erased for a reason 
tliat was perhaps rather chimerical than solid. 
I fe:n-ed however that the reviewers, or some 
of mv sagacious readers luit more merciful 
than thev. might suspect that there was a se- 
cret design in th<' wi:id, and that author and 
friend had co:isulted in what maimer author 
might introduce friend to public notice as a 
clergyman every way <(ualiiied to entertain a 
pupil or two, if peradventure any gentleman 
of fortune were in want of a tutor for his 
children: I thcret'ore added the words "And 
of his two sons only," by way of insinuating 
lh:it you are perfectly satisfied with your 
present charge, and that you do not wish for 
more : thus nu-aning to obviate :in illiberal 
construction which we .are both of us incapa- 
14 



210 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



blc of deserving:. Bii% the same caution not 
having- appeared to you to be necessary, I 
:un very vvilliuy and ready to suppose that it 
is not so. 

I intended in ray hist to liave given you my 
reiisonsfor tlie compliment that I paid Bishop 
Bagot, lest, knowing tliat 1 have no personal 
connexion with liini, you should suspect me 
of having done it rather too much at a ven- 
ture.* In Ihe first place, then, I wished the 
world to know that I have no objection to a 
bishop, (;uiV( bishop. In the second place, the 
brothers were all five my schoolfellows, and 
very amiable and valuable boys thev were. 
Thirdly, Lewis, the bishop, had been rudely 
and coarsely treated in Ihe I\Ionthly Review, 
on account of a sermon which .appeared to 
me, when I read their extract from it, to de- 
■serve the highest commendations, as e.xhibit- 
ing explicit proof both of his good sense and 
his unfeigned ))iety. For these causes, me 
thereunto moving, I felt myself happy in an 
opportunity to do public honor to a worthy 
man w ho had been publicly traduced ; and 
indeed the reviewers themselves have since 
repented of their aspersions, and have travelled 
not a little out of their way in order to relr.-iet 
them, having taken occa.sion, by the sermon 
jireached at the bishop's visitation at Nor- 
wich, to s.ay everything handsome of his 
lordship, who, whatever might be the merit 
of the discourse, in tliat instance, at least, 
could himself lay claim to no other than that 
of being a hearer. 

Since I wrote, I have had a letter from Mr. 
Newton that did not please me, and returned 
an answer to it that possibly may not have 
pleased him. We shall come together again 
soon (I suppose) upon as amicable terms as 
usual: but at present he is in a state of mor- 
tification. He would have been pleased had 
the book passed out of his hands into yours, 
or even' out of yours into his, so that he 
had previously had opportunity to advise a 
measure which I pursued without his recom- 
mendation, and had seen the poems in manu- 
script. But my design was to pay you a 
whole compliment, and I have done it. If he 
says more on tlie subject, I shall speak free- 
ly, and perhaps please him less than I have 
done already. 

Yours, with our love to you all, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTO.N. 

Olnoy, Christmas-nvc, 17^4. 
My dear Fi'iend, — I am neither Mede nor 
Persian, neither am I the son of any such, but 
was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hert- 
fordshire, and yet I can neither find a new 
title for my book, nor please myself with 
any addition to the old one. I am, however, 
* Tirocinium, 



willing to hope, that when the volume shall 
east itself at your feet, you will be in some 
measure reconciled to the name it bears, es- 
pecially when you shall find it justified both 
by the exordium of the poem and by the con- 
clusion. But enough, as you say with great 
truth, of a subject very unworthy of so much 
consideration. 

Had I heard any anecdotes of poor dying 

, that would have bid fair to deserve your 

attention, I should ha\e sent them. The little 
that he is reported to have uttered,'of a spir- 
itual import, was not very striking. That 
little, however, I can give you upon good au- 
thority. His brother, asking him how he 
found himself, he replied, "I am composed, 
and think that I may safely believe myself 
entitled to a portion." The world has had 
much to say in his praise, and both prose and 
verse have been employed to celebrate him in 
" The Northampton Mercury." But Chris- 
tians, I suppose, have judged it best to be 
silent. If lie ever drank at the fountain of 
life, he certainly drank also, and often too 
freely, of certain other streams, which are not 
to be bought without money and without 
price. He had virtues that dazzled the nat- 
ural eye, and tailings that shocked the spirit- 
ual one. But is/e dies indicabil. 

W. C. 

In reviewing the events in Cowper's Life, 
recorded in the present volume, our remarks 
must be brief His pers<n;al history contin- 
ues to present the same afflicting spectacle of 
a man always struggling under the pressure 
of a load from which no effort, either on his 
own part, or on that of other.s, is able to ex- 
tricate him. We know nothing more touch- 
ing than some of the letters in the private 
correspondence in reference to this subject ; 
and we consider them indispensable to a 
clear elucidation of the state of his mind and 
feelings. Their deep pathos, their ingenuous 
disclosure of all that he feels, and still more, 
of all that he dreads; the delusion under 
which the mind evidently labors, and yet the 
fixed and unalterable integrity of principle 
that reigns within, form a sublime .scene, 
that awakens sympathy and commands ad- 
miration. 

That under circumstances of such deep 
trial, the powers of his mind should remriu 
free and uniniiKiired ; that he should be able 
to produce a work like "The Task," destined 
to sur\ ive so long as taste, truth, and nature 
shall exerci.se their empire over the heari, is 
not only a phenomenon in the history of the 
human mind, but serves to show that the 
greatest calamities are not without their al- 
levi.ation ; that God knows how to temper the 
wind to the shorn lamb, and that the bush 
may be on fire without being consumed. 

It is by dispensations such as these that the 



MFE OP COWPER. 



•2U 



Moral Governor of the world admonishes and 
instructs us; and that we leirn to adore his 
wisdom and ovcrriiliiiif power and love. We 
also see tlic value of mental resources, and 
tliat literature, and art, and science, when 
cK.isecrated !o the highest ends, not only en- 
noble our existence, but are a solace under its 
heaviest cu'es and dis(iuietudes. It was this 
divine ])liilo<o(ihy, so richly |)(nn-ed over the 
p.igcs of the Task, that streuirthencd and 
sustained the mind of Cowper. The Muse 
was his delight and refutre, but it was the 
Muse clad in the panoply of heaven, and 
soaring to the heights of Zion. He taught 
the school of poets a sublime moral lesson, 
not to deb ise a noble art by ministering to 
the corrupt passions of our nature, but to 
make it the vehicle of pure and elevated 
thought, l!ie honorable ally of virtue, and the 
handmaid of true religion: that it is not sufli- 
cient to captivate the taste, and to lead 
through the regions of poetic fancy; — 

"The still small voice is wanted." 

It is this characteristic feature that consti- 
tutes the charm of Cowper's poetry, and his 
title to imniorl.'ility. He approached the 
temple of fiine through the vestibule of the 
sanctuary, and sn itched the live coal from the 
burning altar. It is his object to reprove vice, 
to vindic.itc truth from error, to endear home, 
by making it the scene of our virtues, and the 
source of our joys, to enlarge the bounds of 
simple and harmless pleasure, to exhibit na- 
ture in all its attractive forms, and to traee 
(■oil in the works of his Providence, and in 
tlie mighty dispensation of his Gr.ice. 



The completion of the second volume of 
Cowper's poems formed an important period 
in his literary history. It was the era of the 
establishment of his poetical fame. His first 
volume had already laid the fonndaiion ; the 
second raised the supjrstructnre. which has 
.secured for him a reputation as honorable as 
it is likely to be lasting. He was more pir- 
licularly indebted for t!iis dlstinclion to his 
inimitable production, '-The Task," a work 
wliieh every succeeding yei'.r has increasingly 
stamped with the se.al of public approbation. 
If we inquire into the causes of its celebrity, 
thevare to be found not merely in the multi- 
tude of poetical beauties, scattered through- 
out the poem : it is the faithful delineation of 
naturl^ and of the scenes of real life ; it is the 
vein of pure and elevated morality, the e.\. 
(piisite sensibility of feeling, and the power- 
ful appeals to the heart and conscience, which 
constitute its great charm and interest. The 
court, the town, and the coimlry, all united 
in its praise, because conscience and nature 
never suffer their rights to be extinguished. 



except in minds the most perverted or de- 
praved. These rights are coeval with our 
birth: they grow with our growth, and yield 
only to that universal decree, which levels 
taste, perception, and every moral feeling 
with the dust; and which will fiu;dly dissolve 
the whole system of created nature, and 
merge time itself into eternity. 

Cowper's second volume, containing his 
" Task," and '• Tirocinium," to which some 
smaller pieces were afterwards att:iched, was 
ready for the press in November, 1784,* 
though its publication was delayed till June, 
1785. Tile close of a literary undertaking 
is always contempbited as an event of great 
interest to the feelings of an author. It is 
the termiiKitioi) of his labors and the com- 
mencement of his hopes and fear,s. Gibbon 
the historian has thought proper to record 
the ])recisc hour and d ly, in which he con- 
cluded his biborious work, of the " Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire," with feelings 
of a mingled and impressive character. 

'■ i ha\e presumed," he .says, "to mark the 
moment of conception : I shall now com- 
memorate the hour of my final deliverance. 
It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th 
of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven 
and twelve that I wrote the last lines of the 
last page, in a summer-house in my garden. 
After laying down my pen, I took several 
turns in a herceau, or covered walk of aca- 
cias, which eoram.ands a prospect of the 
country, the lake, and the mountains. The 
:iir was temperate, the sky w:i.s serene, the 
silver orb of the moon was reflected from the 
waters, and all nature was silent. 1 will not 
dissemble the first emotions of joy on the 
recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the 
establishment of my fame. But mv pride 
was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy 
was spre:id over my mind, by the ide:i that I 
h.ad taken an everlasting leave of an old and 
agreeable companion, and that, whatever 
might be the futurj fate of my history, the 
life of the historian might be short and pre- 
carious."! 

The-;e ch;istcned feelings arc implanted by 
a Diviiu' Pov,-er, to check the pride and exul- 
tation of genius, ;ind to m.aintain the mind in 
lowly humility. Nor is Pope's reflection less 
just and affecting : '• The morning after my 
exit," he observes, " the sun will rise as 
bright as ever, the (lowers smell as sweet, the 
phints spring as grwn. the world will proceed 
in its old course, and people laugh and marry 
as they were used to do."t 

What then ii the moral that is eonveved ? 
If life be so evanescent, if its toils and hibor.s, 
its .sorrows and joys, so iiuickly pass aw.ay, 
it becomes us to leave some memorial behind, 

* See n. IGB. 

t See \Afr iliid WritinTS r>f Eilward Cibbon, p. 30, jjro- 
(Ixed to his •• Di'cliiii! und Kail," tc 
t See Pope's Lelteni. 



212 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



that we have not lived unprofitably eitlier to 
others or to ourselves; to keep the mind free 
from prejudice, the heart from passion, and 
the life from error ; to enlighten the ignorant, 
to raise the fallen, and to comfort the de- 
pressed; to scatter around us the endear- 
ments of kindness, and diffuse a spirit of 
righteousness, of benevolence, and of truth ; 
to enjoy the sunshine of an approving con- 
science, and the blessedness of inward joy 
and peace ; that thus, when the closing scene 
shall at length arrive, the ebbings of the dis- 
solving frame may be sustained by the 
triumph of Christian hope, and death prove 
the portal of immortality. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.' 

Oliiey, Jan. 5, 178.). 

I have observed, and you must have had 
occasion to observe it oftener than I, that 
wlien a man who once seemed to be a Chris- 
tian has put oft' that character and resumed 
his old one, he loses, together with the grace 
which he seemed to possess, the most amiable 
part of the character that he resumes. The 
best features of his natural face seem to be 
struck out, that after having worn religion 
only as a handsome mask he may make a 
more disgusting appearance than he did be- 
fore ho assumed it. 

According to your reque.st, I subjoin my 
epitaph on Dr. Johnson ; at least I mean to 
do it, if a drum, which at this moment an- 
nounces the arrival of a giant in the town, 
will give me leave. 

Yours, W. C. 

KPITAPH ON Dr. JOHNSON. 

Here Johnson lies — a sage, by all allow'd, 
Whom to have bred may well make England 

proud : 
Wliose prose was eloquence by wisdom taught, 
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; 
Wiiose verse may claim, grave, masculine, and 

strong. , 

Superior praise to the mere poet's song; 
Wlio many a noble gill from Heaven possess'd. 
And faith at last — alone worth all the rest. 
O man immortal by a double prize, 
l^y fame on earth, by glory in the skies! 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. !.''>, 17,S:j. 
My de.ar William, — Your letters are always 
welcome. You can always eitiier find some- 
thing to say, or can amuse me and yourself 
with a sociable and friendly way of saying no- 
thing. I never found that a letter was the 
more easily written, because the writing of it 
had been long delayed. On the contrary, ex- 
perience has taught me to answer soon, that 
I m;iy do it without difliculty. It is in vain 

* Private correspondence. 



to wait for an accumulation of materials in a 
situation such as yours and mine, productive 
of few events. At the end of our expecta- 
tions we shall find ourselves as poor as at the 
begimnng. 

I can hardly tell you with any certainty of 
information, upon what terms Sir. Newton 
and r may lie supposed to stand at present. 
A month (I believe) has passed since 1 heard 
from him. But my friseur, having been in 
London in the cour.se of this week, whence 
he returned last night, and having called at 
Ilo.xton, brought me his love and an excuse 
for his silence, which, he said, had been oc- 
casioned by the frequency of his preachings 
at this season. He was not pleased that my 
manuscript was not first transmitted to him, 
and I have cause to suspect that he was even 
mortified at being informed that a certain in- 
.scribed poem was not inscribed to himself 
But we shall jumble together again, as people 
that have an aff'ection for each other at bot- 
tom, notwithstanding now and then a slight 
disagreement, .always do. 

I know not wliether Mr. has acted in 

consequence of your hint, or whether, not 
needing one, he transmitted to ns his bounty 
before lie had received it. He lias hotti'\cr 
send us a note for twenty pounds: with 
which we have performed wonders in behalf 
of the ragged and the starved. He is a most 
extraordinary young man, and, though I shall 
probably never see him, will always have a 
niche in the museum of my reverential re- 
membrance. 

The death of Dr. Johnson has set a thou- 
sand scribbers to work, and me among tlie 
rest. While I lay in bed, wahing till I 
could reasonably hope that the parlor might 
be ready for me. I invoked the Muse and 
composed the following epitaph.* 

It is destined, I believe, to the " Gentle- 
man's Magazine,'' Avhich I consider as a re- 
spect.able repository for small matters, which, 
when entrusted to a newspaper, can expect 
but the duration of a day. But, Nichols hav- 
ing at present a small piece of mine in his 
liand.s, not yet printed, (it is called the 
Poplar Field, and I suppose you have it,) I 
wait till his obstetricivl aid has brought that 
to light, before I send him a new one. In 
his last he published my epitaph upon 
Tiiiey ;f which, I likewise imagine, has been 
long in your collection. 

Not a word yet from Johnson : I am easy 
however upon the subject, being assured 
that, so long as his own interest is at stake, 
he will not want a monitor to remind him of 
the proper time to publish. 

* Tlie same which has been inserted in the preceding 
letter. 
t One of Cowper's favorite hares : 

" Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue. 
Nor swifter greyhound follow," &c. 

See Poems. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



213 



You and your family have our sincere love. 
Forget not to present my respectful eompli- 
ments to Miss (Jnwin, :ind, if you have not 
done it already, thanlc her on my part for the 
very aijreeahle narrative of Lunardi. He is a 
young man, I presume, of great good sense 
and spirit, (his letters at least and his enter- 
prising turn bespeak him such,) a man quali- 
lied to shine not only among the stars,* but 
in the more useful though liumbler sphere of 
terrestrial oeenpatiou. 

I have been crossing the channel in a bal- 
loon, ever since 1 read of that achievement 
by Blanehard.f I have an insatiable thirst to 
know the philosophical reason why his vehicle 
had like lo have talleii into the sea, when, for 
aught that api)ears, the gas was not at all e.\- 
hausted. Did not the extreme cold condense 
the inrtammable air, and cause the globe to 
collapse ! Tell rae, and be my Apollo for- 
ever. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

The incident connected with the Poplar 
Field, mentioned in the former part of the 
above letter, is recorded in tlie verses. The 
place where the poplars grew is called Laven- 
don Mills, about a mile from Olney ; it was 
one of Cowper's favorite walks. After a 
long absence, on revisiting the spot, he found 
the greater part of his beloved trees lying 
prostrate on the ground. Four only sur- 
vived, and they have recently shared the 
same fate. But poetry can dignify the mi- 
nutest events, and convert the ardor of hope 
or the pang of disappointment into an oc- 
cjusion for pouring forth the sweet melody 
of song. It is to the above incident that we 
are indebted for the following verses, which 
unite the charm of simple im.agery with a 
bejiutiful aiui affecting moral at the close. 

THE POl'LAR FIELD. 

The poplars arc fclleil. farewell to the shade, 
.■Vnd the whisporins; sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ousc on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years have elapsed, since I last took a 

view 
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they 

grew ; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid, 
And the tree is my scat, that once lent mc a 

shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, 
Where the hazels aflbrd him a screen from the 
heat, 

* I.ii[i:irdi*s name is luutoctatcd witti ttie atironauts of 
Ihnt time. 

t Bliuicliard, ncconipanicd by Dr. Joffrieg, took hia de- 
piirtiirc for (.'aliiis from Uic ni.>*lle .it Dover. When wittiin 
five «)r six milfs of tlie IVcncti coaMt, the balloon fell 
rapidly towurd,i the sea, and, had it not been lightened 
and a breeze 8priing up, they iniist have perished in the 
waves. 



.4nd the scene where his melody charm'd me 

be tore, 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive ycirs are hasting away 
And I iiuist ere long lie as lowly as they, 
Willi a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, 
Krc another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

The change lioth my heart and my fancy employs ; 
I reflect on the frailty of mun and his joys; 
Siiort-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, 
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 



TO JOSErH HILL, ESQ.' 

1 ilney, Jan. 22, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — The departure of the 
long frost, by which we were pinched and 
scjueczed together for three weeks, is a most 
agreeable eircuinstanee. The weather is now 
(to speak poetically) genial and jocund ; and 
the appearance of the sun, after an eclipse, 
peculiarly welcome. For, were it not that I 
h.ave a gravid walk .-ibout si.\ty yards long, 
where I take my daily exercise, I should be 
obliged to look at a fine day through the 
window, without any other enjoyment of it; 
a country rendered impassable by frost, that 
has been at last resolved into rottenness, 
keeps me so close a prisoner. Long live the 
inventors and improvers of balloons! It is 
always clear overhead, and by and by we 
shall use no other road. 

How will the Parliament employ them- 
selves when they meet ? — to any purpose, or 
to none, or only to a bad one ? They are 
utterly out of my favor. I despair of them 
altogether. Will they pass an act for the 
cultivation of the royal wilderness! Will 
they make an effectual provision for a north- 
ern lishery ! Will they establish a new sink- 
ing fund that shall infallibly pay otf the na- 
tional debt ; I say nothing about a more 
e(iual represeutatioii,t because, unless they 
bestow upon private gentlemen of no prop- 
erty the privilege of voting, I stand no 
chance of ever being reiuvsented myself. 
Will they achieve all these wonders or none 
of them ; And shall 1 derive no other a»l- 
vantage from the grt^at Witteiia-Gemot of 
the n.ation, than merely to re.-id their debates, 
for twenty folios of which I would not give 
one farthing ! 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Feb. 7, Via. 
My dear Friend, — We live in a state of 

* Private correspondenc<\ 

t Mr. Pitt bad intniduced, at tliis time, his celebrated 
bill for etfeelini; u reform in the national reprenenlation ; 
the leailinK feature of which wa-s to transfer the elective 
franchise tVom the smaller and decayed boroughs to the 
ianier towns. Tlie proposition was, however, rejected 
by a considerable minority. 



214 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



such uninterrupted retirement, in wliieh inci- 
dents wcirlhy to lie recorded occur so seldom, 
tliiit 1 always sit down to write with a dis- 
eollra^Mll^'■ eunviclion that I have nothing to 
s:iy. The event commonly jiistilies the pres- 
ay:e. For, when 1 have tilled my sheet, I 
tiiid that I have s:iid nothing. Be it known 
to you, however, Ihat I may now at least com- 
mii.iicate a piece of intelligence to which you 
will not he altogether indifferent : that I have 
received and returned to Johnson the two 
first proof-sheets of my new publication. 
The business was despatched indeed a fort- 
night ago, since when 1 have heard from him 
no further. Fi'om such a beginning, how- 
ever, I venture to prognosticate the progress, 
and in due time the conclusion of the matter. 
In the last Gentleman's Magazine my Pop- 
lar Field appeai-s. I have accordingly sent 
up two pieces more, a Latin translation of it, 
which you have never seen, and another on 
a rose-bud, the neck of which I inadvertently 
broke, which whether you have seen or not 
I know not. As fast as Nichols prints off 
tiie poems I send him, I send him new ones. 
.My remittance usually consists of two; and 
he publishes one of them at a time. I may 
indeed furuish him at this rate, without put- 
ting myself to any great inconvenience. For 
my last supply was transmitted to him in 
August, and is but now exhausted. 

I communicate the following at your 
mother's instance, who will suffer no part of 
my praise to be sunk in oblivion. A certain 
hn-d has hired a house at Clifton, in our 
neighborhood, for a hunting seat.* Tliere 
he lives at pi-esent with his wife and daughter. 
They are au exemplary family in some re- 
spects, and (I believe) an amiable one in all. 
The Reverend Mr. Jones, the curate of that 
])arish, who often dines with them by invita- 
tion on a Sunday, recommended my volume 
to their reading ; and his lordship, after having 
perused a part of it, expressed an ardent de- 
sire to be acquainted with the author, from 
motives which my great modesty will not 
suffer me to particularize. Mr. Jones, how- 
ever, like a wise man, informed his lordship 
that, for certain special reasons and causes, I 
li.ad declined going into company for many 
years, and that therefore he nnist not hope 
for my ac<iuaintance. His lordship most 
civilly subjoined that he was sorry for it. 
"And is that all?" say you. Now were I to 
hear you say so, I should look foolish and 
say, " Yes." But, having yon at a distance, I 
snap my fingers at you and say, " No that is 

not all." Mr. , who favors us now 

and then with his company in an evening as 
usual, was not long since discoursing with 
that eloquence wiiich is so peculiar to him- 
self, on the many ]]rovidenlial interpositions 
that had taken place in his favor. "He liad 
* Lord Peterborough. 



wished for many things," he said, '■ which, at 
the lime when he formed Ihese wislies, seemed 
distant and iniiirobable, some of tl'.em indeed 
imijossiblc. Among otiicr wishes tliat he 
had indulged, one was that he might be eon- 
necied with men of genius and ability — and, 
in my coimexioii with this worthy gentleman," 
said he, turning to me, " that wish, 1 am sure, 
is amply gratilied." V'ou may suppose that 
I felt the sweat gush out u})on my forehead 
when I heard this speech ; and if you do, you 
will not be at all mis.aken. l^o much was I 
delighted with the delicacy of that incense. 

Thus far I proceeded easily enough ; and 
here I laid down my pen, and spent some 
minutes in recollection, endeavoring to hud 
some subject with which I might fill the little 
blank that remains. But none presents itself. 
Farewell therefore, and remember those who 
are mindful of you ! 

Present our love to all your comfortable 
fireside, and believe me ever mo.st afl'ection- 
ately yours, W. C. 

They that read Greek with the accents, 
would pronounce thet in (fnXcw as an n. But 
I do not hold with that practice, though edu- 
cated in it. I should therefore utter it just 
as I do tlie Latin word filio, taking the quan- 
tity for my guide. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEU'TOB.* 

Olncy, Feb. 19. ITSS. 

My dear Friend, — I am obliged to you for 
apprising me of the various occasions of de- 
lay to which your letters are liable. Fur- 
nished with such a key, I shall be able to ac- 
count for any .accidental tardine.s.s, without 
supposing anything worse than that you 
yourself have been interrupted, or that your 
messenger has not been punctual. 

I^lr. Teedon has just left us.f He came to 
exhibit to us a specimen of his kinsman's 
skill in the art ot book-binding. The book 
on which he had exercised his ingenuity was 
your life. You did not indeed make a very 
splendid appearance; but, considering that 
you were dressed by an untaught artificer, 
and that it was his first attempt, you had no 
cause to be dissatisfied. The young man has 
evidently the possession of talents, by which 
he might shine for the benefit of others and 
for his own, did not his situation smother 
him. He can make a dulcimer, tune it, play 
upon it, and with connnon advantages would 
undoubtedly have beeii able to make a harp- 
sicord. But nuforlunately he lives where 
neilher the one nor the other is at all in 
vogue. He can convert the shell of a cocoa- 
nut into a decent drinking-cup; but, when he 

* Private corre.spondoncc. 

t lie was an iutelligent schoolmaster at Oiney. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



215 



lus (lime, he must cillicr fill it at llic pmiip, 
or use it merely ;is mi oriiMinent of lii.s own 
inaiitel-trce. In like manner, lie can bind a 
book : but. it' lie would have books to bind, 
he must either make them or buy them, tor 
we have few or no literati atOliicy. ISonie 
men have talenis with which they do mis- 
chief; and others have talents witii which if 
they do no mischief to others, at least ihey 
can do but little njood to themselves. They 
are however always a blessinir, unless by our 
own folly we make I hem a curse; for, if we 
cannot turn lliern to a lucrative account, they 
may however furnish us, at many a dull sea- 
son, with the means of innocent amusement. 
SncU is the use that Jlr. Killingworth makes 
of his ; and this evening we have, 1 think, 
made him happy, having furnished him with 
two octavo volumes, in which the principles 
and practise of all ingenious arts are incul- 
cated and explained. I make little doubt 
that, by the help of them, he will in time be 
able to perform many feats, for which he 
will never be one f.n-lhing the richer, but by 
which nevertheles.>< himself and his kin will 
be much diveried. 

The winter returning upon us at this late 
season witli ^redoubled severity is an event 
unpleasant even to us who are well furnished 
with fuel, and seldom feel much of it, unless 
when we step into bed or get out of it ; but 
how much more formidable to the poor! 
When ministers talk of resources, that word 
never fails to send my imagination into the 
mud-wall cottages of our poor at Olney. 
There I lind assembled in one individual the 
miseries of age, sickness, and the e.xtremest 
penury. We have many such instances 
around us. The parish perhaps allows such 
a one a shilling a week ; but, being numbed 
with cold and crippled by disease, she cannot 
possibly earn herself another. Such persons 
therefore suffer all tli;it famine can inllict 
upon them, only that they are not actually 
sUirved ; a catastrophe which so many of 
them I suppo.se would prove ;i hapjiy release. 
One cause of all this misery is the exorbitant 
taxation with which the country is encum- 
bered, so that to the poor the few pence they 
are .able to procure have almost lost their 
value. Yet the budget will be opened soon, 
and soon we shiill hear of resources. But I 
could conduct the statesman who rolls down 
to the House in a chariot as splendid as that 
of Phaeton into scenes that, if he had any 
sensibility for the woes of others, would 
make him tremble at the mention of the 
word. — Tin ^, however, is not what I intended 
when I began this paragraph. I was going 
to observe that, of all the winters we have 
pissed at Olney, and this is the seventeenth, 
the present has confined us most. Thrice, 
and but thrice, since the middle of October, 
have we escaped into the fields for a little 



fresh air and a little change of motion. The 
last time indeed it was at some jicril that we 
did it, iMrs. Unwin having slipped into aditch, 
and, though 1 performed the part of an active 
"squire upon the occasion, escaped out of it 
upon her hands and knees. 

If the town allord any other news th.in I 
here send you, it has not reached me yet. I 
am in perfect health, at least of body, and 
iMrs. Uiiwiu is tolerably well. Adieu! We 
remcinlier you always, you and yours, with 
as inucli alicclion as you can dcsiri^ ; which 
being said, and said truly, leaves me quite at 
a loss for any other conclusion than that of 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olney, Feb. 27, 1785 

My dear Friend, — I write merely to in- 
quire after your health, and with a sincere 
desire to hear that you are better. Horace 
somewhere advises his friend to give his 
client the slip, and come and spend the even- 
ing with him. I am not so inconsiderate as 
to recommend the same measure to you, be- 
cause we are not such very near neighliors 
as a trip of th.it sort requires that we should 
be. But I do verily wish that you would fa- 
vor me with just five minutes of the time that 
properly belongs to your clients, and place 
it to my account. Employ it, I mean, in 
telling me that you are better at least, if not 
recovered. 

I have been pretty much indisposed myself 
since I wrote last; but except in point of 
strength am now as well as before. My dis- 
order was what is commonly called and best 
understood by the name of a thorough cold; 
which being interpreted, no doubt you well 
know, signifies shiverings, aches, hnrnings, 
lassitude, together with many other ills that 
llesh is heir to. James's powder is my nos- 
trum on all such occasions, and never fails. 
Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. 

The next letter discovers the playful and 
sportive wit of Cowper. 

TO THE REV. JOHN KEWTON.* 

Olney. March 10, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — You will wonder no 
doubt when I tell you that I write upon a 
card-table: and will be still more surprised 
when I add that we breakfast, dine, sup, 
upon a ciu'd-table. In short, it .serves all 
purposes, exce])t the only one for which it 
was origin.'illy designed. The solution of 
this mystery shall follow, lest it should run 
in your head at a wrong time, and should 
puzzle you perhaps when yon are on the 
point of asccuiding your pulpit: for I have 
* Private curreaiioudencc. 



316 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



heard you say that at such seasons your 
mind is often troubled with impertinent in- 
trusions. The round table which we for- 
merly had iu use was unequal to the pressure 
of my sujierincnnibent breast and elbows. 
When I wrote upon it, it creaked and tilted, 
and by a variety of inconvenient tricks dis- 
turbed the process. Tlie fly-table was too 
^liglit and too small ; the square dining-table 
too heavy and too large, occupying, when its 
leaves were spread, almost tlie whole parlor ; 
and the sideboard-table, having its station at 
too great a distance from the fire, and not 
being easily shifted out of its place and into 
it again, by reason of its size, was equally 
unfit for my purpose. The card-table, there- 
ibre, wliicli had for si.xtecn years been ban- 
ished as mere lumber; the card-table, which 
is covered witli gi-een baize, and is therefore 
preferable to any other tliat lias a slippery 
surface ; the card-table, that stands firm and 
never totters, — is advanced to the honor of 
assisting me upon my scribbling occasions, 
and, because we clioose to avoid the trouble 
of making frei|uent changes in the position 
of our liouseliold furniture, proves equally 
.serviceable upon all others. It h.is cost us 
now and tlien the downfall of a glass: for, 
when covered with a table-cloth, the fisii- 
ponds are not easily discerned ; and, not 
being seen, are sometimes as little thought 
of But, having numerous good qualities 
which abundantly compensate that single in- 
convenience, we spill upon it our coft'ee, our 
wine, and our ale, without murmuring, and 
resolve that it shall be o\n- table still to the 
exclusion of .all others. Not to be tedious, I 
will add but one more circumstance upon the 
subject, and that only because it will impress 
upon you, as much as anything that I have 
said, a sense of the value we set upon its es- 
critorial capacity. Parched and penetrated 
on one side by the he.at of the tire, it has 
oi)ened into a large fissure, which perv.ades 
not the moulding of it only, but the very 
substance of the plank. At the mouth of 
this aperture a sharp splinter presents itself, 
which, as sure as it comes in contact with a 
gown or an apron, tears it. It luippens un- 
fortunately to be on that side of this excel- 
lent and never-to-be-forgotton table which 
Mrs. Unwin sweeps with her api)arel, almost 
as often as she rises from her chair. The 
consequences need not, to use the fashion.able 
phrase, be given in detail : but the needle 
.sets all to rights; .and the card-table still 
holds possession of its functions without a 
rival. 

Clean roads and milder weather have once 
more released us, opening a way for our es- 
cape into our accustomed walks. We have 
both I believe been suftercrs by such a long 
confinement. Mrs. Unwin has had a nervous 
fever all the winter, and I a stomach that has 



quarrelled with everything, and not seldom 
even with its bread and butler. Her com- 
plaint I hope is at length removed; but mine 
seems more obstin.ate, giving way to nothing 
that I can oppo.se to it, except just in the 
moment when tlie opposition is made. I 
ascribe this malady — both our maladies, in- 
deed — in a great measure to our want of ex- 
ercise. We liave each of us practised more 
in other days than lately «e have been able 
to take ; and, for my own part, till I was more 
than thirty years old, it was almost essential 
to my comfort to be perpetually in motion. 
My constitution therefore misses, I doubt not, 
its usu.al aids of this kind; and, unless for 
purposes which I cannot foresee. Providence 
should intcrpo.se to prevent it, will probably 
reach the moment of its dissolution the 
sooner for being so little disturbed. A vitia- 
ted digestion I believe always terminates, if 
not cured, in the production of some chroni- 
cal disorder. In se\eral I have known it 
produce a dropsy. But no matter. Death is 
inevitable ; and whether we die to-day or to- 
morrow, a watery death or a dry one, is of no 
consequence. The state of our spiritual 
health is all. Could 1 discover a few more 
symptoms of convalescence tliere, tliis body 
might moulder into its original dust, without 
one sigh from me. Nothing of all this did 1 
mean to say ; but I have said it, and must now 
seek another subject. 

One of our most favorite walks is spoiled. 
The spinney is cut down to the stumps — 
even the lilacs and the syringas, to the stumps. 
Little did I think, (though indeed I might have 
thought it.) that the trees which screened me 
from the sun last summer would this winter 
be employed in roasting pot.atoes and boiling 
tea-kettles for the poor of Oluey. But so it 
has proved ; and we ourselves have at this 
moment more than two wagon-loads of them 
in our wood-loft. 

.Such various services can trees perfonii ; 
Whom once they screen'd from heat, in time they 
warm. 

A letter from Manchester reached our town 
last Sunday, addressed to the mayor or other 
chief magistrate of Oluey. The purport of it 
was to excite him and his neighbors to peti- 
tion Parliament against the concessions to 
Ireland that Government has in contempla- 
tion. Mr. Maurice Smith, as constable, took 
tlie letter. But whether that most respecta- 
ble ])ersonage amongst us intends to comjily 
with the terms of it, or not, I am ignorant. 
For myself, however, I can pretty well an- 
swer, that I shall sign no petition of the sort ; 
both because I do not think myself compe- 
tent to a riglit understanding of the question, 
and because it appears to me that, wliate\er 
be the event, no place in England can be less 
concerned in it than Olney. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



217 



We rejoice that you are all well. Our love 
attends Mrs. Newlou and your.-clf, and the 
young ladies. 

1 !un yours, my dear friend, as usual, 

\V. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

OIney, Marcli 2fl, 1785. 
My dear William, — I thank you for your 
letter. It made nie laugh, and there are not 
many things cnpahle of being rontained 
within the dimensions of a letter for Vhich I 
see eause to he more thankful. 1 was pleased 
too to see my opinion of his lordship's no)h- 
clinlaiice, njmn a snhjeet that you had so 
much at heart, eonii)letely verified. I do not 
know that the eye of a nohleman was ever 
dissected. 1 cannot help supposing, however, 
that were that organ, as it e,\ists in the head 
of such a personage, to he accurately ex- 
amined, it would be found to differ materi- 
ally in its construction from the eye of a 
commoner; so very dilferent is the view that 
men in an elevated and in an humble station 
have of the same object. What ajjpears 
great, sublime, beautiful, and important to 
you and to nu', when sulimitted to my lord 
or his grace, and submitted too witli the ut- 
most humility, is eillier too minute to be visi- 
ble at all, or, if seen, seems trivial and of no 
account. My supposition therefore seems 
not altogether chimerical. 

In two months I have corrected proof- 
sheels to the amount of ninety-three pages, 
and no more. In other words, I have re- 
ceived three packets. Nothing is quick 
enough for impatience, and I suppose that 
the imp:itience of an author has the quickest 
of all possible movements. It appears to me, 
however, that at this rale we shall not pub- 
lish till next autumn. Slunild von happen 
therefore to pass Johnson's door, pop in your 
head as you go, and just insinuate to him 
that, were his remittances rather more fre- 
quent, that fre(|uency would be no inconve- | 
nicnee to me. 1 much expected one this 
evening, a fortnight having now elapsed since 
the arrival of the last. IJnt none came, and 
I felt myself a little mortified. I took up the 
iiewsp:i()er, liowe\er, and rt^ad it. There I 
found that the emperor and the Dutch are, 
after all their negotiations, going to war. 
Such reflections as these struck me. A great 
part of Euro|)e is going to be involved in the 
greatest of all calamities: troops are in mo- 
tion — artillery is drawn together — cabinets 
are busied in contriving schemes of blood 
and devastation — thousands will perish who 
are incapable of understanding the dispute, 
and thousands who, whatever the event may 
Ik', are little more inlereslcd in it than my- 
self, will surt'er unspeakable hardships in the 
course of the quarrel. — WuW I Mr. Poet, and 



how then ? You h.ave composed certain 
verses, which you arc desirous to see in 
print, and, because the impression seems to 
be delayed, you are displeased, not to say 
dispirited, lie ashamed of yourself! you 
live in a world in which your feelings may 
find worthier subjects — be concerned for the 
havoe of nations, and mourn over your re- 
tarded volume when you find a dearth of 
more important tragedies 1 

Yon postpone certain topics of conference 
to our next meeting. When shall it t:ike 
place? 1 do not wish for you just now, be- 
cause the garden is a wilderness, and so is 
all the country around us. In May we shall 
have 'spiiragus, and weather in which wo 
may stroll to Weston; at least we mnv hope 
for it; therefore come in Jlay: yon will find 
us happy to receive you and asjnuch of your 
fair household as you can bring with you. 

We are very sorry for your inicle's indis- 
position. The approach of summer seems 
liowe\er to be in his favor, that season being 
of all remedies for (he rheumatism, I believe, 
the most effectual. 

I thank yon for your intelligence eoneern- 
ing the celebrity of John Gilpin. You may 
be sure that it was agreeable ; but your owii 
feelings, on occasion of that article, pleased 
me most of all. Well, my friend, be com- 
forted! You had iu)t an opporlnuity of say- 
ing publicly, '• I know the author." But the 
author himself will say as much for you 
sooiL ami perhaps will feel in doing so a 
gratification equal to your own.* 

In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely 
of your opinion. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTGN.-f 

Obicy, April 9, 1783. 

;\Iy dear Friend, — In a letter to the printer 
of the Northampton Mercury, we have the 
following history : — An ecclesiastic of the 
name of Ziehen, German superintendent or 
Lutheran bishop of Zctterfeldt, in the year 
1771) delivered to the courts of Hanover and 
Brunswick a prediction to the following pur- 
port: that an earth(|uake is at band, the 
greatest and most destructive ever known ; 
that it will originate in the Alps and in their 
neigliborhood, especially at Jlount St. Goth- 
ard ; at the foot of which mountain it seems 
four rivers have their source, of which the 
Rhine is onej — the names of the rest I have 
forgotten — they are all to be swallowed up; 

* He nlliulps lo the ponin ul' '•Tirocinium," whiili was 
in.«fritn'cl ft Mr. I'nwiii. 

t Privitlf corrcspoiulcnct". 

i This i.< a i,'<'i>'^ra|>liical error. Tlic Uliin.' Ijilica ila 
rise in llie cariUni of Ur- (iri^uns. It is llii- Itlmtu- wliich 
derivi's il» ixinrce from llii' wvsU-Tii Itarcli c>r Mount St. 
<M)tt»artl, wln-re then- an- ttirt,e spriniis, wliich unilo 
tlii'ir waliTS lo Uial lorrcnT. Tin: river Aiir rises not far 
distant, Ijut tlicrc is no other river.— Ed. 



218 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



that the earth will opcni into an iiiinicnse fis- 
sure, whieli will divide all Europe, reaching 
IVoin Ihe aforesaid raountaiu to the states of 
Ilullaiul; that the Zuyder f-ea will be ab- 
sorbed in the gulf; that the Bristol Channel 
will be no more ; in short, that the north of 
I'^urope will be separated from the soulh, and 
that seven thousand cities, towns, and vil- 
lages will be destroyed. This prediction he 
delivered at the aforesaid courts in the year 
seventy-nine, asserting that in February fol- 
lowing the commotion would begin, and that 
by Easter 1786 the whole would be accom- 
plished. Accordingly, between the 15th and 
;i7tli of February, in the year eighty, the pub- 
lic gazettes and newspapers took notice of 
several earthquakes in the Alps, and in the 
regions at their foot; particularly about 
Mount St. Gothard. From this partial ful- 
filment, Mr. O argues the probability of 

a complete one, and exhorts ihe world to 
watch and be prepared. He adds nioreo\er 
that Mr. Ziehen was a pious man, a man of 
science, and a man of sense ; and that when 
he gave in his writing he oftered to swear to 
it — I suppose, as a revelation from above. 
He is since dead. 

Notliing in the whole affair pleases me so 
much as that he has named a short day for 
the completion of his prophecy. It is tedious 
work to hold the judgment in suspense for 
U)any years ; but anybody metbinks uniy wait 
with patience till a twelvemonth shall pass 
away, especially when an earthquake of such 
magnitude is in question. I do not say that 
Mr. Ziehen is deceived ; but, if he be not, I 
will say that he is the first modern prophet 
who has not both been a subject of deception 
himself and a deceiver of others. A year 
will show. 

Our love attends all your family. Believe 
me, luy dear friend, affectionately yours, 

W. C. 



, TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, April 22, 178.'). 

My dear Friend, — When I received your 
account of the great celebrity of John Gilpin, 
I felt myself both flattered and grieved. 
Being man, and having in my composition 
all the ingredients of which other men are 
made, and vanity among the rest, it pleased 
me to reflect that I was on a sudden become 
so famous, ;nid that all the world was busy 
inquiring after me : but the next moment, 
recollecting my former self, and that thirteen 
years ago, as harmless as .lolnvs history is, I 
tlionld not then have written it, my spirits 
sank, and I w'as asliamed of my success. 
Your letter was followed the ne.xt post by 
one from Mr. Unwin. You tell me that I 
* Private correspondence. 



am rivalled by Mrs. Bellamy ;* and he, that 
I have a competitor for fame not less formid- 
able in the Learned Pig. Alas! what is an 
author's popnlarily worth in a world that can 
sutler a prostitute on one side, and a pig on 
the other, to eclipse his brightest glories? 1 
am therefore suthciently humbled by these 
considerations; and, unless I .'■hould here- 
after be ordained to engross the ind)lic atten- 
tion by means more magnificent than a song, 
am persuaded that I shall sutler no real de- 
triment by their ajipbiuse. I have produced 
many things, under the influence of despair, 
which hope would not have permitted to 
spring. But if the soil of that melancholy 
in which I have walked .--o long, has thrown 
up here and there an unprofitable fungus, it. 
is well at least that it is not chargeable with 
h.aving brought forth poison. Like you, 1 
see, or think I can see, that Gilpin may have 
his use. Causes, in appearance trivial, pro- 
duce often the most beneficial consequences; 
and perhaps my volumes may now travel to 
a distance, which, if they had not been ush- 
ered into the world by that notable horsc- 
jnan, they would never ha\e reached. Our 
temper differs some\\hat from that of the 
ancient Jews. They would neither dance 
nor weep. We indeed weep not, if a man 
mourn unto us ; but I must needs say that, 
if he pipe, we seem disposed to dance with 
the greatest alacrity. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEY. WILLIAM ^^■\^^N. 

Olney, April 30, 17Po. 
My dear Friend, — I return you thanks for 
a letter so warm with the intelligence of the 
celebrity of John Gilpin. I little thought, 
when I inontned him upon my Pegasus, that 
he would become so famous. I have learned 
also from Mr. Newton that he is eiiually re- 
nowned in Scotland, and that a lady there 
had undertaken to write a second part, on 
the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to Lon- 
don ; but, not succeeding in it as she wished, 
she dropped it. He tells me likewise Ihat 
the head master of St. Paul's school (who 
he is 1 know not) has conceived, in conse- 
quence of the entertainment that John has af- 
forded hiin, a vehement desire to write to m-e. 
Let us hope he will alter his mind ; for, 
should we even exchange civilities on the 
occasion, Tii'ocinium will spoil all. The 
great estimation however in which this 
knight of the stone-bottles is held may turn 
out a circumstance propitio\is to the volume, 
of which his history will make a part. Those 
events that prove the prelude to our greatest 
success are often apparently trivial in them- 

* A cclcliratod .actress, who wrote her mernnirv, whicli 
were much read al that time. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



2in 



selves, and such as seemed to promise no- 
ihini^. The disappointment that Horace moii- 
tions is reversed — We desijjn a nnifr, and it 
pro\es a hiji,'slie.id. It is a little hard tliat I 
alone sliould be unfurnished wiili a printed 
eoj))' of this facetious story. When you 
visit London next, you must huy the most 
elei^aiit impression of it, and bring it with 
you. I thaulv vou also for writinjr to John- 
son. I likeuise wrote to him myself Vour 
letter and mine together have operated to 
admiration. Tliere needs nothing more but 
that the eli'eel be la-.ting, and the wliole will 
soon be printed. We now draw towards 
ihe middle of the fifth book of '-The Task." 
The man, Johnson, is like unto some vicious 
hiirscs that I liavc known. They wo\dd nut 
budge till lliey were spurred, and when they 
^vere spurred they would kick. So did he — 
his temper was somewhat disconcerted; but 
his pace was quickened, and I was eon- 
tented. 

I was very much pleased witli the follow- 
ing sentence in Mr. Newton's last — '•! am 
perfectly satisfied with the propriety of your 
proceeding as to the publication." — Now, 
therefore, we are friends again. Now he 
once more inquires after the work, whicli, 
till he had disburdened himself of this ac- 
knowletlgmcnt, neither he nor I in any of 
our letters to each other ever mentioned, 
yonie side-wind has wafted to him a report 
of tlio.se reasons by which I justified my con- 
duct. . I never made a secret of them. Both 
your motlier and I have studiously deposited 
them witli Iliose wlio we tliought were most 
likely to transmit them to him. They wanted 
only a hearing, whieli once obtained, their 
solidity and cogency were such that they 
were sure to prevail. 

You mention . I formerly knew the 

man you mention, but his elder brother much 
better. We were scliool-fellows, and he was 
one of a club of seven Westminster men, to 
which I belonged, who dined together every 
Tlnirsday. >Slujidd it please God to give me 
ability to perform the poet's part to some 
purpose, many whom I once called friend.s, 
hut who have since treated me with a most 
magnificent indifl'erence, will be ready to 
tdvc me by tlie hand again, and some, whom 
I never held in that estimation, will, hke 

, who was but a boy when I left I^on- 

don, boast of a connexion with me which 
they never had. Had I the virtues, and 
gr.ices, and accomplishments of St. Paul 
him-elf I miglit have them at Olncy, and 
nobody would care a button about me, your- 
self and one or two more excepted. Fame 
begets favor, and one talent, if it be rubbed 
a btlle bright by u.se and practice, will pro- 
cure a man more friends than a thousand vir- 
tues. Dr. Johnson (I believe), in I lie life of 
one of our poets, says that he retired from 



the world flattering himself that he should 
be regretted. But the world never missed 
him. 1 lliink his observation upon it is, that 
the vacancy made by the retreat of any indi- 
vidual is soon filled up; that a man may al- 
ways be obscure, if he clioo.ses to be so ; and 
that he who neglects the world will be by the 
world neglected. 

Your mother and I walked yesterday in 
the Wilderness. As we entered the gati', a 
glimpse of something white, contaiiud in a 
little hole in llie gale-post, cauglit my eye. 
I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, 
with two tiny eggs in it. By-and-by they 
will be Hedged, and tailed, and get wing- 
feathers, and fly. iMy ease is somewhat simi- 
lar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in 
a little nook. Here I brood and hatch, and 
in due time my progeny takes wing and 
whistles. 

We wait for the time of your coming with 
pleasant expectations. 

Yours truly, W. C. 



The following letter records an impressive 
instance of the inslabilily of hunnni life ; and 
also contains some references, of deep pathos, 
to his own personal history and feelings. 

TO Tlli; REV. JOHN NKWTON.* 
1 Olncy, May, 17a'>. 

i My dear Friend, — I do not know that I 
shall send you news; but, whether it be 
news or not, it is necessary that 1 should re- 
late the fact, lest I should omit an article of 
intelligence important at least at Olncy. The _ 
event took place much nearer to you than to 
us, and yet it is possible that no account 'if 
it may yet have reached you. — .Mr. .Ysh- 
burner the elder went to London on Tues- 
day se'nnighl in perfect health ami in high 
spirits, so as to be remark:ibly cheerful ; and 
was brought home in a hearse the Friday 
following. Soon after his arrival in town, 
he complained of an acute pain in his elbow, 
then in his shoulder, then in both slioiilders: 
was blooded ; took two doses of such medi- 
cine as an apothecary thought niiglit do him 
good ; and died on Thur.sday in the UKU-ning 
at ten o'clock. When I first heard the ti- 
dings I could hardly credit llieni: and yet 
have lived long enough myself to have seen 
manifold and most convincing proofs that 
neither health, great strength, nor even youth 
1 itself, afl'ord the least security from the stroke 
' of death. It is not common, however, for 
I men at the age of thirty-six to die so sud- 
I denly. I saw him but a few days before, 
with a bundle of gloves and hatbands under 
his arm, at the door of (Jeary Ball, who lay 
at that timfc a corpse. The following day I 
* Privulc correspoiMleiMX'. 



220 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



saw him march before the coffin, and lead 
the procession that attended Geary to the 
n^ravc. He might be truly said to march, for 
liis stop was licroic, his figure atliletic, and 
his countenance as firm and confident as if 
he had been born only to bury others, and 
was sure never to be buried himself. Such [ 
lu! a|)peared to me, while I stood at the win- - 
dow and contemplated his deportment : and 
then he died. 

I am sensible of the tenderness and affec- 
tionate kindness with wliich you rccoUeel our 
past intercourse, and express your liopes of 
my future restoration. I too, within tlie last 
eight months have had my hopes, tliough 
tliey have been of short duration, cut off like 
tlie foam upon the waters. Some previous 
adjustments indeed are necessary, before a 
lasting expectation of comfort can have place 
in me. There are those persuasions in my ; 
mind whidi either entirely forbid the en- 
trance of hope, or, if it enter, immediately 
eject it. They are incompatible witli any 
such inmate, and must be turned out them- i 
selves befVire so desirable a guest can possi- 
bly have secure possession. This, you say, 
will be done. It may be, but it is not done 
yet ; nor has a single step in the course of 
God's dealings with me been taken towards 
it. If I mend, no creature ever mended so 
slowly that recovered at last. I am like a 
slug or snail, that has fallen into a deep well: 
slug as he is, he performs his descent with an 
alacrity proportioned to his weight ; but he 
does not crawl up again quite so fast. Mine 
was a. rapid plunge ; but my return to day- 
light, if I am indeed returning, is leisurely 
enough. I wish you a sw'ift progress, and a 
jileasant one, through the great subject that 
you have in hand ;* and set that value upon 
your letters to which they are in themselves 
entitled, but wliich is certainly increased by 
that peculiar attention whicli the writer of 
them pays to me. Were I such as I once 
was, I sliould say that I liave a claim upon 
your particular notice which nothing ought 
to .supersede. Most of your other connex- 
ions you may fairly be said to have formed 
by your own act ; but your connexion with 
me was the work of God. The kine that \ 
went up with the ark from Bethshcniish left 
what they loved behind them, in obedience to 
an impression which to them was perfectly 
dark and unintelligible.f Your jouruey to 
Huntingdon was not less wonderful. He 
indeed u'ho sent you knew well wh.erefore, 
but you knew not. That dispensation there- 
fore would furnish me, as long as we can. 
both remember it, with a plea for some dis- 
tinction at your hands, had I occasion to use 

* Mr. Nowton v/n^ at this time preparing? two volumes 

of St'rmous for tin; press, on the subject of the Messiah, ' 

preached on the occasioa of the Commemoration of I 

llandel. j 

t See 1 Sara. vi. 7—10. I 



and urge it, which I have not. But I am al- 
tered since that time ; and if your aft'ection 
for me has ceased, you might very reason- 
ably justify your change by mine. I can say 
nothing for myself at present ; but this I can 
venture to foretell, that, should the restonv 
fion of which my friends assure me obtain, I 
shall undoubtedly love those who have con- 
tiinied to love me, even in a state of trans- 
formation from my former self, mucli more 
than ever. I doubt not that Nebuchadnezzar 
had friends in his prosperity ; all kings have 
many. But when his nails became like 
eagles' claws, and he ate grass like an ox, I 
suppose he had few to pity him. 

We are going to pay Mr. Pomfret* a morn- 
ing visit. Our errand is to see a fine bed of 
tulips, a sight that I never saw. Fine paint- 
ing, and God the artist. Mrs. Unwin has 
something to say in the cover. I leave her 
therefore to make her own courtesy, and 
only add that I am yours and Jlrs. Newton's 
Affectionate W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.-f 

Olney, June 4, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — Mr. Greatheed had your 
letter the day after we received it.J He is a 
well-bred, agreeable young man, and one 
whose eyes have been opened, I doubt not, 
for the benefit of others, as well as for his 
own. He preached at Olney a day or two 
ago, and I have reason to think with accept- 
ance and success. One person, at least, wlio 
had been in prison some weeks, received his 
enlargement under him. I should have been 
glad to have been a hearer, but that privilege 
is not allowed me yet. 

My book is at length printed, and I re- 
tm-nedthe last proof to Johnson on Tuesday. 
I have ordered a copy to Cliarles Square, and 
have directed Johnson to enclose one with it, 
addressed to John Bacon, Esq. I was obliged 
to give you this trouble, not being sure of 
the place of his abode. I have taken the 
liberty to mention him, as an artist, in terms 
that he well desi^rves. The passage was 
written soon after I received the engraving 
with which he favored me,'5 and while the 
impression that it made upon me was yet 
warm. He will therefore excuse the liberty 
that I have taken, and place it to the accoant 
of those feelings whieli he himself excited. 

» Tlie rector at that time of Emberton, near Olney. 

t Privale correspondence. 

} The Rev. Mr. tirealheed was a man of piety and 
talent, and much respected in his day. He wrote a short 
and inl<T(sliim nienioir of Cowper. 

^ Tile eiiuravin;.' of Bacon's celebrated monument of 
Lord C'hiitbani, in Westminster Abbey. 

The passage alluded to is as follows ;— 

" Bacon there 

Gives more than female beauty to n stone 

And Chatham's eloquence to marl)le lips." 

Tlic Task, Book 1. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



221 



The walkiii!,' season is returned. We 
visit tlie W'ililemess dailj'. Mr. 'riiroclcinor- 
ton last siiniiner presented me willi tlie ]<ey 
of his ijarden. Tlie I'amily iirc all absent, 
c.vcept the priest and a servant or two; so 
that the honeysuckles, lil.ies, and syringa.s, 
are all our own. 

We are well, and our united love attends 
yourselves and the youn<r ladies. 
Yours, my dear friend, 

With much atl'ection, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Oliiey, Juno 2.5, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I write in a nook that I 
c.ill my Ixiudiiir. It is a summer-house not 
much i)ij,'i,'er than a sedan-chair, the door of 
which opens into the crarden, that is now 
crowded with ])inks, roses, and honeysuckles, 
and the window into my ncii);hbor's orchard. 
It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, 
as a smokinij-room ; and under ray feet is a 
trajMloor wliich once covered a hole in the 
tjround, where he ke|)t his bottles ; al pres- 
ent, however, it is dedicated to sublimer 
uses. IlaviniT lined it with garden-mats, and 
furnished it with a table and two chairs, here 
I write all that I write in summer time, 
whether 1o my friends or to the public. It 
i-* secure from all noise, and a refuire from 
all intrusion ; for intruders sometimes trouble 
me in the winter evenings at Ohiey : but 
(thaidvs to my baurhiir '.) I can now hide my- 
self from them. A.poet's retreat is sacred : 
they iicknowledge the truth of that proposi- 
tion, and never presume to violate it.* 

The last sentence puts me in mind to tell 
you that I have ordered my volume to your 
door. .My bookseller is the most dilatory of 
all his fraternity, or you would have re- 
ceived it long since. It is more than a month 
since I returned him the last proof, and con- 
.se(|uenlly, since the printing was linished. I 
sent him the manuscript at the beginning of 
1 1st November, that he might publish while 
the town was full, and lu^ will hit the exact 
moment when it is entirely empty. I'atience 
(you will perceive) is in no situation e.\- 
cmplcd from the severest trials: a remark 
that may serve to comfort you under the 
numberless trials of vour own. 

W. C. 

* rowpfr'n siiinmer-hoii-te is still in cxii^ti^ncc. It is a 
sm ill. Iiiinible buililin'/, silu;itp nt the Imfk (if ihc prum- 
IsiM whicli he ocriipirrt nt olin'v. and coinniiiii<lins n full 
View of tlif church and of the vicariute-huiiso. Jliiinhle 
huwover a» it nppiMrs, it is appriiarhfd with those feol- 
inns of veneration which the scene of so many interest- 
ing recollections cainiot fail to inspire. There ho wrote 
''Tile TjLsk," and most of his IVieins, except durini; the 
rigor of the winter months. There too he carried on 
that opistolatory correspondt-nce, which is <listins(uished 
hy so much wi(, ease and gnicefulncss, and by the ovcr- 
Il.iwiiii.'s of a warm and allectionate heart. No traveller 
seems In enter without considering it to lie l\w shrine of 
llio muses, atid leaving behind a poetical tribute to 
thy in^'mory of sj distitiijuislied an author. 



Cowper again feelingly alludes in the let- 
ter which folloivs, to that absence of mental 
comfort under which he so habitually la- 
bored. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, June 25, I7K5. 
My dear Friend, — A note that we received 
from Mr. Scott, by your de.sirc, informing us 
of the amendment of .Airs. Newton's health, 
demands our thanks, having rclievetl us from 
no little anxiety upon her account. The 
welcome pnriiort of it was soon after con- 
firmed, so that at pre.sent we feel ourselves 
at liberty to hope that by this time Mrs. 
Newton's recovery is comjjlcte. Sally's looks 
do credit to the air of lloxton. She seems 
to have lost nothing, either in complexion or 
dimensions, by her removal hence ; and, 
which is still more to the credit of your 
great town, she seems in spiritual things 
iilso to be the very same Sally whom we 
knew once at Olney. Situation therefore is 
nothing. They who have the means of grace 
and an art to use them, will thrive anywhere; 
others, nowhere. More than a few, who 
were formerly ornaments of this garden 
which you once w'atered, here nourished, and 
here have seemed to wilher. Others, trans- 
planted into a soil apparently less favor.dile 
to their growth, either tind the exchange an 
.•idvantage, or at least are not impaired by i!. 
Of myself, who h.id once both leaves and 
fruit, but who have now neither, 1 say noji- 
ing. or only this — that when I am over- 
whelmed with despair I repint^ at my barren- 
ness, and think it hard to be thus blighted; 
but when a glimpse of hope breaks in upon 
me, I am contented to be the .sapless thing I 
am, knowing that He who has commanded 
me to wither can command me to llourish 
.again when He pleases. My experiences 
however of this latter kind are rare and tran- 
sient. The light that reaches me cannot be 
compared either to that of the sun or <if the 
moon. It is a Hash in a dark night, during 
which the heavens seem opened only to shut 
again. 

We inquired, lint could not learn, that 
anything memorable ptissed in the last mo- 
ments of poor Nathan. I li.stencd in expec- 
tation that he would at least acknowledge 
wlnit all who knew him in his more lively 
days had so long seen and lamented, his 
neglect of the best things, and his eager pur- 
suit of riches. But he was totally silent 
upon that subject. Yet it was evident that 
the cares of the world had choked in him 
much of the good seed, and that he was no 
longer the Nathan whom we h.ave so often 
heard .at the old house, rich in spirit, though 
poor in expression : whose desires were un- 
utterable in every sense, both because they 

* Private correspondence. 



222 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



were too big for language, and because Na- 
than had no language for them. I believe 
with yim however that he is sate at home. 
He had a weak liead and strong passions, 
which He wlio made him well knew, and tor 
wliieli He would undoubtedly make great 
allowance. The forgiveness of God is large 
and absolute ; so large, that though in gen- 
eral He calls for confession of our sins. He 
sometimes dispenses with that preliminary, 
and will not suft'er even the delinquent him- 
self to mention his transgression. He has 
so forgiven it, that He seems to have forgot- 
ten it too, and will have the sinner to forget 
it also. Such instances perhaps may not be 
common, but I know that there have been 
such, and it might be so with Nathan. 

1 know not what Johnson is .about, neither 
do I now inquire. It will be a montli to- 
morrow since I returned hira the last proof. 
He might, I suppose, have published by this 
time without hurrying himself into a fever, 
or breaking liis neck through the violence of 
his despatch. But having never seen the 
book advertised, I conclude th.it he h.as not. 
Had the Parliament risen at the usual time, 
he would have been just too late, and though 
it sits longer tlum usu.al, or is likely to do 
so, I should not wonder if he were too late 
at hist. Dr. Johnson laughs at Savage for 
charging tlie still-birth of a poem of his 
upon the bookseller's delay ; yet, when Dr. 
Johnson had a poem of his own to publish, 
no man ever discovered more anxiety to 
meet the market. But I have taken thouglit 
about it till I am grown weary of the subject, 
and at last have placed myself much at my 
ease upon the cushion of tiiis one resolution, 
that, if ever I have dealings hereafter with 
r.iy ])resent manager, we will proceed upon 
oilier terms. 

Mr. Wright called here last Sunday, by 
wliom Lord Dartmouth made obliging inqui- 
ries after the volume, and was pleased to say 
that he was impatient to see it. I told him 
that I had ordered a copy to his lordship, 
wliieh 1 hoped he would receive, if not soon, 
at least before he should retire into the 
country. I have also ordered one to Mr. 
Barham. 

We suffer in this country very much by 
drought. The corn, I believe, is in most 
places thin, and the hay harvest amounts in I 
some to not more than the fifth of a crop. , 
Heavy ta.xes, e.vcessive levies for the poor, ■ 
and lean acres, have brought our farnu'rs al- t 
most to their wits' end ; and many who are 
not farmers are not very remoto from the 
same point of despondency. I do not de- 
spond, because I was never much addicted to 
anxious thoughts about the future in respect 
of temporals. But I feel myself a little an- 
gry with a minister who, when he imposed a 
tax upon gloves, was not ashamed to call 



them a luxury. Cap.s and boots lined with 
fur are not accounted a luxury in Russia, 
neither can gloves be reasonably deemed 
such in a climate sometimes hardly less se- 
vere than that. Nature indeed 'is content 
with little, and luxury seems, in some re- 
spect, rather relative than of any fixed con- 
struction. Accordingly it may become in 
time a luxury for an Englislunan to wear 
breeches, because it is possible to exist with- 
out them, and because persons of a moderate 
income may find them too expensive. I 
hope however to be hid in the dust before 
that day shall come : for, liaving worn them 
so many years, if they be indeed a luxury, 
they are such a one as I could very ill spare ; 
yet spare them I must, if I cannot afford to 
wear them. 

We are tolerably w'ell in health, and as to 
spirits, much as usual — seldom better, some- 
times worse. 

Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, 

W. c. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oluoy, July 9, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — You wrong your own 
judgment when you represent it as not to be 
trusted ; and mine, if you suppose that I 
have that opinion of it. Had you disap- 
proved, I should have been hurt and morti- 
fied. No man's disapprobation would have 
hurt me more. Your favorable sentiments 
of my book must consequently give nu' 
pleasure in the same proportion. By the 
post, last Sunday, I had a letter from Lord 
Dartmouth, in which he thanked me for my 
volume, of which he had read only a pan. 
Of that part however he expresses himself in 
terms with which my authorship has abun- 
dant cause to be satisfied ; and adds that the 
specimen has made him impatient for the 
whole. I have likewise received a letter 
from a judicioHs friend of mine in Loudon, 
and a man of fine taste, unknown to yon, 
who sijeaks of it in the same language. 
Fortified by these cordials, I feel myselt 
qualified to face the world without niueli 
anxiety, and delivered in a great measure 
from those fears which I suppose all men 
feel u])on the like occasion. 

Jly first volume I sent, as you may remem- 
ber, to the Lord Chancellor, accompanied by 
a friendly but respectful eiiistle. His Lord- 
ship however thought it not worth his while 
to return me any answer, or to take the least 
notice of my present. I sent it also to Col- 
man, with whom I once was intimate. He 
likewise proved .too great a man to recollect 
me; and, though he has published since, did 
not account it necessary to return tlie com- 
pliment. I have allowed myself to be a little 
* Private corrcsjioudencc. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



22» 



plca^od with an opportunity to show them 
that 1 ri'siMit tlicir treatment of mc, and have 
sent this booli to neither ot'theiii. Tliey in- 
deed ari' tlie former friends to whom I par- 
tieularly allude in my epistle to Mr. Ilill : 
and it is possibk' tliat they may take to 
iheniselves a eeiisurc that they so well de- 
serve. If not, it matters not; for I shall 
never have any eommunieation witli them 
liereaflcr. 

If .Mr. Biles has found it dillieult to fur- 
nish you with a motto to your volumes I 
have no reason to imagine that T shall do it 
easily. I shall not leave my books unran- 
saeked : lint there is somethinir so new and 
peeuliar in the oecasion that sutrafested yonr 
subjeet, that I question whether in all the 
classies ean be found a sentenee suited to it. 
Our sins and follies, in this eountry, assume 
a shape that heathen writers had never any 
opportunity to notiec. They deified the 
dead indeed, hut not in the Temple of Ju- 
])iter.* The new-made god had an altar of 
Ids own ; and they condueted the ceremony 
without saerilege or confusion. It is pos- 
sible however, and I think barely so, that 
somewhat may occur susceptible of aceom- 
r:Jod ition to your purpose ; and if it should, 
I shall be happy to serve you with it. 

I told you, I believe, that the spinney has 
been cut down ; and, though it may seem 
snilieient to have mentioned such an occnr- 
rence once, I cannot help recurring to the 
melancholy theme. Last night, at near nine 
oeloek, we entered it for the firvst time this 
summer. We had not walked many yards 
in it, before we perceived that this pleasant 
retreat is destined never to be a pleasant re- 
treat again. In one more year, the whole 
will be a thicket. That which was once the 
serpentine walk is now in a state of trans- 
formation, and is already become as woody 
as the rest. Poplars and elms without num- 
ber are springing in the turf. They are 
now as high as the knee. Bjfore the sum- 
mer is ended they will be twice as high; 
and the growth of another season will make 
them trees. It will then be in\possible for 
any bnt a sportsman and his dog to penetrate 
it. The desolation of the whole scene is 
such that it sank our spirits. The ponds are 
dry. The circular one, in front of the her- 
ntitage, is fdled with flags and rushes; so 
that if it contains any water, not a drop is 
visible. Tiie weeping v.'illow at the side of 

• CoTTiMT ulludc!^ in lliis piiesacf*. to the Commemorn- 
fiou of lluiulel, in Wcslininstcr Ahljcy, ami its ruscui- 
blance tu an acl or c;intmix.iti<in. His a'nsure is doubly 
rcconlcJ ; in poeln-, as well a.^ in prose : — 
Ten thoTif»aiid sit 

Palienlly present al a sacred sons, 

rnnune'moralion m;id : corite?il lo liear 

(() wonderful effect of Music's power!) 

Sle.^^iali's enloify lor Handel's sake. 

Hul less, motliiiitfs, Ihau sacrilege might serve," &c. 
Tlic Vo^ei, nouU VI. 



it, the only ornamental plant that has es- 
caped the axe, is dead. The ivy and the 
moss, with which the hermitage was lined, 
are torn away : and the very mats that cov- 
ered the benches have been .stri|)ped otV, 
rent in tatters, and trodden under foot. So 
farewell, spinney ; I have promised myself 
that I will never enter it again. VVe have 
both prayed in it: yon for me, and I for you. 
I!ut it is desecrated from this time forth, and 
the voice of prayer will be heard in it no 
more. The fate of it in this respect, how- 
ever deplorable, is not peculiar. The spot 
where Jacob anointed his pillar, and, which 
is more a|iposite, the spot once honored 
with the presence of Him who dwelt in the 
bush, have long since sulferi'd similar dis- 
grace, and are become common ground. 

There is great severity in the application 
of the te.\t you mention — I am Ihrir fiiiisic. 
But it is not the worse for that. We both 
approve it highly. The other in Ezekicl 
does not seem quite so pat. The prophet 
complains that his word was to the people 
like a jdeasant song, heard witli delight, bnt 
soon forgotten. At the ConimenuM-ation, I 
suppose that the word is nothing, but tlie 
music all in all. The Bible liowever will 
abnndantly supply you with applicable pas- 
sages.j All passages, indeed, that animadvert 
upon the i)rofanation of God's house and 
worship seem to present tliemselves upon 
the occasion. 

Accept our love and best wishes ; and be- 
lieve me, my dear friend, with warm and true 
alletition, 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Oliicy, .luly 27, I'fi'). 

My dear William, — You and yonr ])arty 
left me in a frame of mind that indisposed 
me much to company. I comforted mvself 
witli the liope that I should spend a silent 
day, in which I .shouUi find abundant leisure 
to indulge senstition.s, which, though of the 
mehiiK-holy kind, I yet wished to nourish. 
But that hope proved vain. In less than an 

hour after your depirture, Mr. made 

his appearance at the greenhouse door. We 
were obliged to ask him to dinner, and he 
dined with us.- He js an agreeable, sensible, 
well-bred young man, but with all his recom- 
mendations I felt that on that occasion I 
could have spared him. Ho much better are 
the absent, whom we love much, than the 
present whom we love a little. I h.ive how- 
ever made myself amemls since, and, nothing 
else having interfered, have sent many a 
thought afier yon. 

You h.-id been gone two days, when a vio- 
lent thunder-storm came over ns. I was 
passing out of llie parlor into the hall, with 



224 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Mungo at my heels, when a flash seemed lo 
fill the room with fire. In the same instant 
came the clap, so that the explosion was, I 
suppose, perpendicular to the roof. IMungo's 
courage upon the tremendous occasion con- 
strained me to smile, in spite of the solemn 
impression that sucli an event never fails to 
atl'ect nic with — ^the moment tiiat he heard 
the thunder (which was like the burst of a 
gi'cat gun) with a wrinkled forehead, and 
with eyes directed to the ceiling, whence the 
sound seemed to proceed, he barked ; but he 
barked exactly in concert with the tliunder. 
It thundered once, and he barked once, and 
.so precisely the very instant wlien the thun- 
der happened, that both sounds seemed to 
begin and end together. Some dogs will 
clap their tails close, and sneak into a corner 
at such a time, but Mungo it seems is of a 
more fearless family. A house at no great 
distance from ours was the mark to which 
the lightning was directed ; it knocked down 
the chimney, split the building, and carried 
away the corner of the next house, in which 
lay a fellow drunk and asleep upon his bed. 
It roused and terrified him, and he promises 
to get drunk no more : but I have seen a 
woeful end of many such conversions. I 
remember but one such storm at Olney since 
I have known the place, and I am glad tliat 
it did not happen two days sooner for the 
sake of the ladies, who would probably, one 
of them at least, have been alarmed by it. I 
have received, since you went, two very flat- 
tering letters of thanks, one from Mr. I5acon, 
and one from Mr. Barham, such as might 
make a lean poet plump and an humble poet 
j)roud. But, being myself neither lean nor 
humble, I know of no other eft'ect they had 
than that they pleased me; and I communi- 
cate the intelligence to you, not without an 
assured hope that you will be pleased also. 
We are now going to walk, and thus far I 
have written before I have received vour 
letter. 

Friday. — I must now be as compact as 
possible. When I began, I designed four 
sides, but, my packet being tranformed into 
two single epistles, I can consequently afford 
you but three. I have filled a large sheet 
with animadversions upon Pope. I am pro- 
ceeding with my translation — 

" Veils et remis, omnibus nervis."' 

as Hudibras has it; and if God give me 
hcMlth and ability, will put it into your hands 

when I see you next. Mr. has just left 

us. He has read my book, and, as if fearful 
that I had overlooked some of them myself, 
has pointed out to me all its beauties. I do 
assure you the man has a very acute discern- 
ment, and a taste that I have no fault to find 
with. I hope that you are of the same opinion. 
Be not borry that your love of Christ was 



excited in you by a picture. Could a dog or 
a cat suggest to me the thouglit that Christ 
is precious, I would not despise that thought 
because a dog or cat suggested it. The 
meanness of the instrument cannot debase 
the nobleness of the principle. He that 
kneels before a picture of Christ is an idola- 
ter. But he in whose heart the sight of a 
picture kindles a warm remembrance of the 
Saviour's sufferings, must be a Christian. 
Suppose that I dream, as Garcbuer did, that 
Christ w.alks before me, that be turns and 
smiles upon me, and fills my soul with inef- 
fable love and joy, will a man tell me that I 
am deceived, that I ought not to love or re- 
joice in him for such a reason, because a 
dreaiji is merely a picture drawn upon the 
imagination ! I hold not with such divinity. 
To love Christ is the greatest dignity of man, 
be that aflfection wrought in him how it may. 
Adieu I May the blessing of God be upon 
you all ! It is your mother's heart's wish 
and mine. 

Yours ever, W. C. 

The humble and unostentatious spirit and 
the fine tone of Christian feeling which per- 
vade the following letter, impart to it a pe- 
culiar interest. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Aug. 6, 17S5. 
My dear Friend, — I found your account of 
what you experienced in your state of 
maiden authorship very entertaining, because 
very natural. I suppose that no man e\er 
made his first sally from the press wilhnut a 
conviction that all eyes and ears would be 
engaged to attend him, at least, without a 
thousand anxieties lest they should not. 
But, however arduous and interesting such 
an enterprise may be in the first instance, it 
seems to me that our feelings on the occa- 
sion soon become obtuse. I can answer at 
least for one. Mine are by no means what 
they were when I published my first volume. 
I am even so indifferent to the matter, that I 
can truly assert myself guiltless of the very 
idea of my book, sometimes whole days to- 
gether. God knows that, my mind having 
been occupied more than twelve years in the 
contemplation of the most distressing sub- 
jects, the world, and its opinion of what I 
write, is become as unimportant to me as the 
whistling of a bird in a busli. Despair mode 
amusement necessary, and I found ]ioetry the 
most agreeable amusement. Had I not en- 
deavored to perform my best, it would not 
have amu.sed me at all. The mere blotting 
of so much paper would have been but indif- 
ferent sport. God gave me grace also to 
wish that I might not write in vain. Ac- 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



225 



cordinglj' I have mingled much tnith with 
much tritle; niid siieh tnillis as deserved at 
least to be elad iis well and as handsmnely as 
I coidd elotlie tliein. If the world approve 
me not, so iinu-h the worse for them, but not 
for me. I have only endeavored to serve 
tliem. and the loss will be their own. And 
as to tlieir eommendations, if I should ehance 
to win them. I feel myself equally invulner- 
able there. The view that I have h.id of 
myself, for many years, has been so truly 
hurniliatinjr, that I think tlie praises of all 
mankind eould not hurt me. God knows 
that 1 speak my present sense of the matter 
at least most truly, when I say that the ad- 
miration of creatures like myself seems to 
me a weapon the least dangerous tluit my 
worst enemy ecuild employ against me. I 
am fortified against it by sueh solidity of real 
self-abasement, that I deceive myself most 
cgregiously if I do not heartily despise it. 
Praise belongeth to God; and I seem to my- 
self to eovet it no more than I covet divine 
honors. Could I assuredly hope that God 
would at last deliver me. I should have rea- 
son to thank him for all that I have suftcred, 
were it only for the .sake of this single fruit 
of my affliction — that it has taught me how 
much more contemptible I am in myself than 
I ever before suspected, and has reduced my 
former sliare of self-knowledge (of wliich at 
that time I had a tolerably good opinion) to 
a mere nullity, iu comparison with what I 
liave aei|uired since. Self is a subject of in- 
scrutable misery and mischief, and can never 
be studied to so much advantage as in the 
dark ; for as the bright beams of the sun 
seem to impart a beauty to the foulest ob- 
jects, and can make even a dunghill smile, 
so the light of God's countenance, vouch- 
safed to a fallen creature, so sweetens him 
and softens him for t'le time, that he seems, 
both to others and to himself, to have noth- 
ing sav.agc or sordid about him. Tiiil the heart 
is a n?!sl of aiTpenis, and icill 4^ .s-»r/i whilst 
it corUinues to beat. If God cover the mouth 
of that nest icith his hand, the;/ are hush and 
snug; but if he ifithdra;e liis hand, the whole 
family lift up their heads and hiss, aiu} are as 
actiie.and venomous as ever. This I always 
professed to believe from the time that I had 
embr.ieed the truth, but never knew it as I 
kiu)w it now. To what end I have been 
made to know it as I do, whether for (he 
benefit of others, or for my own. or for 
Ijoth, or for neither, will appenr hereafter. 

What I hav(r written leads me ualurally to 
the menti<ni of a matler that I had forgot. I 
should blame nobody, not even my in'.imate 
friends, and those who have I he most favor- 
.•ible opinion of nie, were they to charge the 
publication of .lohn Gilpin, at (he end of so 
much solemn and serious truth, to the score 
of the author's vanity ; and to suspect that, 



however sober I may be upon proper occa- 
sions. I have yet that itch of popularity that 
would not sutler me to sink my title to a jest 
that had been so successful. But the case is 
not sueh. When I aint the copy of "The 
Task" to Johnson, I desired, indeed, Mr. 
Unwin to ask him the queslion whether or 
not he would choose to make it a part of the 
volume? This I did merely with a view to 
promote the sale of it. Johnson answered, 
" By all means." Some months afterwards 
he enclosed a note to me in one of my p;u;k- 
ets, in which he expressed a change of mind, 
alleging, tliat to print John Gilpin would 
only be to print wluit had been hackneyed in 
every magazine, in every shoji, aiui at the 
corner of every street. I answered that I 
desired to bi^ entirely governed by his opin- 
ion ; and that if he chose to waive it, I 
should be better pleased with the omission. 
Nothing more passed between us upon the 
subject, and I concluded that I should never 
have the immortal honor of being generally 
known as the author of John Gilpin. In the 
last packet, however, down came John, very 
fairly printed and equipped for public ap- 
pearance. The business having taken this 
turn, I concluded th.at Johnson had .adopted 
my original thouglif, that it might prove ad- 
vantageous to the sale ; and as he had had 
the trouble and expense of printing it, I cor- 
i reeled the copy, and let it i)ass. Perhaps, 
however, neither the book nor the writer 
may be m:ide much more famous by John's 
good company than they would have been 
without it: tor the volume has never yet 
been advertised, nor can I learn th.at Johnson 
intends it. He fears the expense, and the 
consefpience must be prejudicial. Many who 
woidd purchase will remain uninformed: but 
I am perfectly content. 

I have considered your motto, and like the 
pnri)or; of it : but the best, beciiuse the most 
laconic manner of it, seems to be this — 
Cum talis sis, sis noster ; 

uliiuim being, in my account of it, unneccs- 
.sary.* 

Yours, my dear friend, most truly. W. C. 



TO THi: REV. roilN NEWTON.f 

Oliiey, Aug. 17, 1785. 

My dear Friend. — I did very warmly and 
very sincerely th.ank .Mr. B.icon for his most 
friendly and obliging letter ; but, having writ- 
ten my aeknowledgements in the cover, I 
suppose that they escaped your notice. I 
should iu)t have conteute<l myself with tran.s- 
initling tlu'm through your hands, but should 

o Tlie urif^lrml jiassace is na fuIlow:» ; — 

Cum talis si?, titiii.im nostor esses. 
If intended. Ilierefore, as a (luoluliun, it should bu quoted 
williuut ulternlioii. 

t Private correspondence. 

15 



havo addressed tlicra iminedialoly to himself, 
but that I t'tiresMW ])lainly tliisiiieonvenienee: 
that ill wi'ilinj; to liim on sueh an occasion, I 
must almost unavoidably make self and selfs 
book the subject. Tljerefore it was, as Mr. 
Uuvvin can vouch for ine, tiiat I denied myself 
tiiat pleasure. I place this matter now in the 
van of all that I have to say: fir.st, that you 
may not overlook it; secondly, because it is 
uppermost in my consideration ; and thirdly, 
because I am impatient to be exculpated from 
the seemini,' omission. 

You told me, I think, that you seldom read 
the papers. In our last we had an e.\tract 
from Johnson's Diary, or whatever else he 
called it. It is certain that the publisher of 
it is neither much a friend to the cause of re- 
liLHon, nor to the author's memory; for, by 
the specimen of it that has reached us, it 
seems to contain only such stuff as has a direct j 
tendency to o.\pose both to ridicule. His , 
prayers for the dead, and his minute account 
of the rigor with which he observed church 
fasts, whether lie drank tea or cotfee, whether 
with sugar or without, and whether one or 
two dishes of either, arc the most important 
ilenis to be found in this childish register of 
the great Johnson, supreme dictator in the 
chair of literature, and almost a driveller in 
his closet; a melancholy witness to testify ; 
how much of theAvisdom of this world may ' 
consist with almost infantine ignorance of the 
afi'airs of a better. I remember a good man 
at Huntingdon, who, I doubt not, is now with 
God, and he also kept a Diary. After his 
death, through the neglect or foolish wanton- 
ness of his executors, it cjme abroad for the 
amusement of his neighbors. All the town 
saw it, and all tiie town found it liiglily di- 
verting. It contained niucli more valuable 
matter than the poor Doctor's journal seems 
to do ; but it contained also a faithful record 
of all his deliverances from wind, (for he was 
much troubled with Halulence,) totretlier with 
pious acknowledgments of the mercy. Tiiere 
is certainly a call for gratitude, whatsoever 
benetit we receive; and it is equally certain 
that we ought to be humbled under the re- 
collection of our least otl'ences ; but it would 
have been as well if neither my old friend 
had recorded his eructations, nor the Doctor 
his dishes of sugarless tea, or tlie dinner at 
which he ate too much. I wonder, indeed, 
that any man of such learned eminence as 
Jolinson, who knew that every word he ut- 
tered was deemed oracular, and that every 
scratch of his pen was accounted a treasure, 
should leave behind him what he w'ould have 
blushed to exhibit while he lived. If Virgil 
would have burnt his yEneid, how much more 
reason bad these good men to have burnt 
their journals! 

Mr. Perry will leave, none such behind him. 
He is dying, as I suppose you have heard. 



Dr. Kerr, who, I think, has visited him twice 
or thrice, desired at his last visit to be no 
more sent for. He pronounced his case hope- 
less ; for that his thigh and leg must mortify. 
He is however in a most comfortable frame 
of mind. So long as he thought it possible 
that he might recover, he was much occupied 
with a review of his ministry; and, under a 
deep impression ot. his deliciencies in that 

function, assured Mr. R that he intended, 

when he should enter upon it again, to be 
much more diligent than he had been. He 
was conscious, he said, that many tine things 
had been said of him ; but that, though he 
trusted he had found grace so to walk as not 
to dishonor his office, he was conscious at the 
same time how little he deserved them. This, 
with much more to the same purport, passed 

on Sunday last. On Thursday, Jlr. R 

was with him again ; and at that time Mr. 
Perry knew that he must die. The rules and 
cautions that he had before prescribed to 
himself, he then addressed directly to his 
visitor. He exhorted him by all means to be 
earnest and aft'ectionate in his applications to 
the unconverted, and not less solicitous to 
admonish the careless, with a hc.id full of 
light, and a heart alienated from the ways of 
God ; and those, no less, who being wise in 
their own conceit, were much occupied with 
matters above their reach, and very little with 
subjects of immediate and necessary concern. 
He added tliat he had received from God, 
during his illness, other views of sin than he 
had ever been favored with before ; and ex- 
horted him by all means to be watchful. 

Mr. R being himself the reporter of these 

conversations, it is to be supposed that they 
impressed bim. Admonitions from such lips, 
and in a dying time too, must have their 
weight ; and it is well with the hearer, when 
the instruction abides with him. But our 
own view ot these matters is, I believe, that 
alone which can eft'ectually serve us. The 
representations of a dying man may strike us 
at the time ; and, if they stir up in us a spirit 
of self-examination and inijuiry, so that we 
rest not till we have made his views and ex- 
perience our own, it is well ; otherwise, the 
wind that passes us is hardly sooner gone 
than the effect of the most serious exhorta- 
tions. 

Farewell, my friend. My views of my 
spiritual stale are, as you say, altered; but 
they arc yet far from being such as they must 
be, before 1 can be eiiduringly comforted. 
Yours unfeignediy, W. C. 

The Diary of Dr. Johnson, adverted to in 
the last letter, created both surprise and dis- 
appointment. The great moralist of the age 
there appears in his real character, distinct 
from that external .splendor with which popu- 
lar admiration always encircles the brow of 



genius. The portrait Is drawn by liis own 
li in>l. We cannot witliliold our praise from 
tin- inijeniiou-iness wiili wliicli iK^diselo.^estlu' 
sei-ret roeesse^i of his Ijcart, and the lidelily 
wi:li wliicli ronseifnce overeiscs its inquisito- 
rial power over the life and aelions. We are 
also alfeeted by the deep humility, the eon- 
fes^.iori of sin, and the earnest appeal for 
nierey, discernible in many of the prayers 
and meditations. But viewed as a whole, this 
Diary creates painful feeliTig's, and affords oc- 
casion for much reflection. If therefore we 
induljfc in a i\;w remarks, f<iunded on .some 
of the extracts, it is not to detract from the 
hiijli f one of so distinguished a scholar, whom 
we consider to have enlarged the hounds of 
British literature, and to have acipiired a last- 
ing title to pulilic gr.Uitude and csleetu, but 
to perform a .-oleiun and conscientious duty.* 
We are now arrived at a period when it is 
high time to establish certain great and mo- 
mentous truths in the public mind; and, 
among those that are of primary importance, 
to prove that conver.sion is not a term, but a 
principle; not the designation of a party but 
the enjoined precept of a Saviour; the evi- 
dence of our claim to the title of Christiati, 
and indispensable to constitute our meetness 
for the e.ijoyiuent of heaven. 

We now extract the following pass.nges 
from the Diary of Dr. Johnson, with the in- 
tention of adding a few comments. 

Easter-d ly, I"ti5. — ■' Since the last Easter, 
I have ret'ormed no evil habit; my time has 
been iinprolKubly speiit, and seems as a dream, 
that has lefi nothing behind. My memory 
grows confused, and 1 know not how the 
days pa.ss over me." 

" I purpose to rise at eight, because, though 
I shall not yet rise eariy, it will be much 
earlier than I now rise, for I often lie till two; 
and will g.iin me much time, and tend to a 
conquest over idleness, and give time for j 
other duties." 

Sept. 18, 1768. — "I have now begun the | 
sixtieth year of my life. How the last year j 
has past I am unwilling to terrify myself , 
with thinking." 

Jan. 1, nii'J. — 'I am now about to begin 
another year: how the last has passed it j 
would be, in my stale of weakness, per- 
haps not prudent too solicitously to recol- I 
lect." I 

I77:J. — '• I resolved last Easter to read, 
within the year, the whole Bible, a very great 
part of which I had never looked upon. 1 
read the Greek Testament without constru- 

* '* If IhPrc is n rcjiu-'l dtif to llir mpmory of ttio duiul, 
Itiere is yet mort' respect to t>e puid to liiiowled;;e, to vir- | 
tiie, and to trntli.'* 

" II is ttie biisiiu's.s (tf a Iiio-^nlptler to pass liKtitly over ' 
Iho-^e iMirrormuruHM au'l aelions wliicli produce viiti,iir 
trrealncss; to lead llie tlioii'.:lil9 into domestic priv;icies, 
and display the minute details of daily lite, where ex- 
terior iippearunces are laid aside." — Hambler^ No. (iO, 
Vol. ii. 



ing, and this dtiy concluded the Apocalypse. 
I think that no part was mis.sed." 

'• -My jiurpose of reading the rest of the 
Bible w.is forgotten, till 1 took by chance the 
resolutions of last Easter in my hand." 

" I hope to read the whole JJible once a 
year, as long as I live." 

April 2fi. — " It is a comfort to me, that at 
last, in my sixty-third year, I have attained to 
know, even thus hastily, confusedly, and im- 
perfectly, what my Bible contains." 

1775. — " V'esterday, I do not recollect that 
to go to church came into my thoughts; but I 
.sat in my chamber preparing for preparation: 
interrupted I know not how. I was near two 
hours at dinner." 

1777. — 'I have this year omitted church 
on most Sunday.s, intending to supply the 
dehciency in the week. So that I owe twelve 
atteiiiliincss on wnrship."" 

" When I look back upon resolutions of 
improvement and amendment which h.ave, 
year after year, been made and broken, either 
by negligence, forgetfulness, vicious idleness, 
casual interruption, or morbid inlirmity ; when 
I find that so much of my life has stolen un- 
prolitahly awtiy, and that I can descry, by re- 
trospection, .scai'cely a few single days prop- 
erly tind vigorously employed, why do 1 yet 
try to resolve again ? 1 try, because reforma- 
tion is necessary, and despair criminal ; I try 
in humble hope of the help of God."* 

Our sole object, in tiie introduction of 
the.se extracts, is to found upon them an ap- 
peal to those who question the necessity of 
conversion, in that higher sense and accepta- 
tion which implies an inward principle of 
gr.tce, changing and transforming the heart. 
We would beg to ask whether it was not the 
want of the vital jiower and energy of this 
principle, that [iroduced in Johnson the vacil- 
lation of mind and purpose, which we have 
just recorded; the hours lost: the resolu- 
tions broken; the Sabbaths violated; and 
the s,acred volume not read.lill the shades of 
evening advanced upon him.' What instance 
can be adduced lh.it more clearly demon- 
strates the insuliiciency of the highest ac- 
quirements of human learning, and that noth- 
ing but a Divine power can illumin.ate the 
mind, and convert the heart? Ilajipilv, 
Johnson is known to have at length found 
what he needed, and to have died with a full 
hope of immortality. f 

But we would go further. We maintain 
that all men, without resjiect of character or 
person, need conversion : for "all have sinned, 
and come short of the glorv of God;" all par- 
take of the corruption and inlirmities of a 
fallen nature, and inherit the primeval cur.se. 
Shall reason, shall philosophy effect the cure ? 
Re:ison sees what is right; erring nature, 
in despite of reason, follows what is wrong. 
* See Diary of Dr. Johnson. f Sco p. 191. 



228 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Philosophy can penetrate into the abstrusest 
mysteries, ascertain by what laws the uni- 
verse is governed, anil trace tlie lieavenly 
bodies in tlieir courses, but cainiot eradicate 
one evil passion from the soul. Where then 
lies the remedy? The Gospel reveals it. 
And what is the Gospel ? The Gospel is a 
d!>pensation of grace and mercy, for the re- 
covery of fallen man, mul the a]iplica/ion of 
litis remedy In the heart and conscience effecls 
that conxcrsion of which we a?-e speaking. 
But by whom or by what applied ? By Hiui 
who holds "the keys of heaven and of hell," 
who " openeth, and no man shuttelh," and 
whose prerogative it is to say, " Behold, I 
make all things new."* And how ? By his 
«ord, and by his Spirit. " He sent Iris nvirJ 
and healeil tliem."f " Being born again, not 
of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by 
the word of (r.'it/, which livetli and abideth for- 
ever."! '■^''"-' "oi'fl '^ '1"' appointed instru- 
ment, the Spirit, the mighty agent which 
gives the quickening power:) not by any su- 
pernatural revelation, but in the ordinary op- 
erations of divine grace, and consistently with 
the freedom and co-operation of man as a 
moral agent ; speaking pardon and peace to 
the conscience, and delivering from the 
tyranny of sense and the slavery of fear, by 
proclaiming " liberty to the captive, and 
the openiug of the prison to them that are 
bound." 

The last subject for reflection suggested 
by tlie Diary of Dr. .Johnson, is the frequent 
neglect of the Sabb.ath, and his confession that 
he had lived a stranger to the greater part of 
the contents (fhis Bible till the sixty-third year 
(f his age. This is an afflicting record, and 
we notice the fact, from a deep conviction 
that piety can never retain its power and as- 
cendancy in the heart, where the Bible is not 
read, and the ordinances of God are fre(|uent- 
ly neglected. When will genius learn tlint 
its noblest attribute is to light its fires at the 
lamp of divine truth, and tint the union of 
])iety and learning is the highest perfection 
of our nature '. We beg to commend to the 
earnest attention of the student the following 
eloquent testimony to tlie sacred volume from 
the pen of Sir William Jones. 

"I have carefully and regularly perused 
these Holy Scriptures, and am of opinion 
that the Volume, independenily of its divine 
origin, contains more sublimity, purer moral- 
ity, more inipcu'tant history, and finer strains 
of elocpienee, than can be collected from all 
other books, in whatever language they may 
have been written."]] 

* Rov. xxi. ."). f Psalm cvii. 20. 

} 1 Pet. i.2:t. See also Heb. iv. 12. 

§ " It is the spirit that ciiMi-t<enetli." John vi. 63. The 
union of the Word and Ilu- Sj>iril in impiirlins spiritual 
lire to llie soul is forciljly expressed in the same verse: 
"The wtjrds that I apeak unto you, they are spirit and 
they are life.'' 

I] See Lord Toignmouth's Life of Sir William Jones. 



Having quoted Sir William Jones's testi- 
mony, we conclude by urging his example. 

" Before thy mystic altar. Heavenly Truth, 
I kneel in manhood, as I knelt in youth : 
Thus let me kneel, till this dull Ibrni decay, 
And lite's last shade be brighten'd by thy ray. 
I'heii shall tny soul, now lost in clouds below, 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. 

Olney, Augusts?, 1785. 

My dear Friend, — I was low in spirits yes- 
terd.ay, when your parcel came and raised 
them. Every proof of attention and regard 
to a man who lives in a vineg.ir-bottle is wel- 
come from his friends on the outside of it ; 
accordingly your books were welcome (you 
must not forget, by the way, that I want the 
original, of which you have sent me the trans- 
lation only), and the ruffles from IMiss Shut- 
tleworlh most welcome. I am covetous, if 
ever man was, of living in the remembrance 
of absentees, whom I highly value and es- 
teem, and consequently felt myself much gr.at- 
ified by her very obliging present. I have 
had more comfort, fiir more comfort, in the 
conne.vions that I have formed within the last 
twenty years, than in the more numerou.s 
ones th.at I had before. 

Memorandum. — The latter are almost all 
Unwins or Unwinisms. 

You are entitled to my thanks also for the 
facetious engravings of John Gilpin. A se- 
rious poem is like a swan : it flies heavily, ;ind 
never far ; but a jest has the wings of a swal- 
low that never tire, and that carry it into 
every nook and corner. J am perfectly it 
stranger, however, to the reception that my 
volume meets with, and, I believe, in respect 
of my nonchalance upon that subject, if au- 
thors would but copy so fair an exriinple, am 
a most exemplary character. I must tell yon 
nevertheless that, although the laurels tlint I 
gain at Olney will never minister much to my 
pride, I have acquired some. The Rev. Mr. 
Scott is my admirer, and thinks my second 
volume superior to my first. It ought to be 
so. If we do not improve by practice, then 
nothing can mend us; and a man has no more 
cause to be mortified at being told that he has 
e.xeelled himself.than the elephant had, whose 
praise it was that he was the greatest elephant 
in the world, himself excepted. 

If it be fair to judge of a book by an extract, 
I do not wonder that you were so little edi- 
fied by Johnson's Journal. It is even more 

ridiculous than was poor 's, of flatulent 

memory. The portion of it given to us in 
this day's paper contains not one sentiment 
worth one farthing except the last, in which 
he resolves to bind himself with no more un- 
♦ Ibid. 



LIFE OF COW PER. 



229 



bidden obligations. Poor m.in ! one would | 
tliink lluit to pray for liis diMil wiCc, iind to i 
piiu-!i himself with church-fasts had been al- 
most the whole of his religion. I am sorry 
that lie who was so manly an advocate for 
the cause of virtue in all other places was so 
childishly employed, and so siiperstltiously, 
too, in his closet. Had lie studied his Bible 
more, to which, by his own confession, he 
was in great pirt a stranger, he had known 
better what use to m.ike of his retired hours, 
and had triHed less. His lucubr.itions of this 
sort have r.tther the appearance of religious 
dotiigc than of any vigorous exertions to- 
wards God. It will be well if the publication 
prove not hurtful in its effects, by exposing 
the best cause, already loo much despised, to 
ridicule still more profane. On the other 
side of the same paper, I find a long string 
of aphorisms, and maxims, and rules for the 
conduct of life, which, though they appear 
not with his name, arc so much in his man- 
ner, with the above-mentioned, that I suspect 
them for his. I have not read them all, but 
several of them I read that were trivial 
enough : for the sake of one, however, I for- 
give him the rest — he advises never to banish 
hope entirely, because it is the cordial of life, 
although it be the greatest flatterer in the 
world. Such a measure of hope as may not 
endanger ray peace by a disappointment I 
would wish to cherish upon every subject in 
which I am interested : but there lies the dif- 
liculty. A cure, however, and tlie only one, 
for all the irregularities of hope and fear, 
is found in submission to the will of God. 
Happy tliey that have it. 

This last sentence puts me in mind of your 
reference to Blair in a forni'T letter, whom 
you there permitted to be your arbiter to ad- 
just the respective claims of «'.'io or thai. I 
do not rashly differ from so great a gramma- 
rian, nor do, at any rate, dilier from him al- 
together — upon solemn occasions, as in pray- 
er or preaching, for instance, I would be 
strictly correct, and upon stately ones ; for 
instance, were I writing an epic poem, I 
would be so likewise, but not upon familiar 
occasions. God, wko heareth prayer, is right : 
Hector, n-hn saw Patroelns, is right: and the 
man, tlint dresses me every day, is in my 
mind,rig!it also: because the contrary would 
give an air of stilfness and pedantry to an ex- 
pression that, ill respect of the matter of it, 
cannot be too negligently made up. 

-Vdieu, my dear William ! I have scribbled 
with all my might, which, breakfast-time ex- 
cepted, has been my employment ever since 
I rose, and it is now past one. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Sept. 34, IISS. 
.My dear Friend, — I am sorry that an ex- 
cursion, which you would otherwise have 
found so agreeable, was attended with so 
great a drawback upon its pleasures as iSIiss 
Cunningham's illness must needs have been. 
Had she been able to bathe in the sea, it 
might have been of service to her, but I knew 
her weakness and delicacy of habit to be such 
as did not encourage any very sanguine hopes 
that the regimen would suit her. I remem- 
ber Southampton well, having spent much 
time there ; but, though I was young, and 
h.ad no objections, on the score of conscience, 
either to d.nicing or cards, I never was in the 
ass;.'mbly-room in my life. I never was fond 
of company, ;ind especially disliked it in the 
country. A walk to Ne'tley Abbey, or to 
Freemantle, or to Rcdbridge, or a book by 
the fire-sid(', had always more charms for me 
than any other amusement that the place af- 
forded. I«vas also a s:ulor, and, being of 
Sir Tliomas Ilesketh's party, who was him- 
self boru one, was often pressed into the 
service. But, though I gave myself an air 
and wore trowsers, I had no genuine right 
to that honor, disliking much lobe occupied 
in gre;it waters, unless in the finest weather. 
How they continue to elude the wearisome- 
ness tliat attends a sea life, who take long 
voyages, you know better than I ; but, for 
my own part, I seldom have sailed so far as 
from Hampton river to Portsinnu'Ji without 
feeling the confinement irksome, and some- 
times to a degree that was almost insupport- 
able. There is a certain perverseness, of 
which I believe all men have a share, but of 
which no man has a larger share than 1 — I 
] mean that temper, or humor, or whatever it 
is to be called, that indisposes us to a situ:i- 
[ tion, though not unpleasant in itself, merely 
because we cannot get out of it. I could 
not endure the room in ^hicli I now write, 
were I conscious that the door were locked. 
In less than live minutes I should feel myself 
a prisoner, though I can spend hcnirs in it 
under an assuranci' that I may leave it when 
I please without experiencing any tedium at 
all. It was for this reason, I suppose, that 
the yacht was alw.ays dis:igreeable to me. 
Could I have ste|i|)ed out of it into a corn- 
field or a garden, I should have liked it well 
enough, but, being snrniu.ided with water, I 
was as much confined in it as if 1 had been 
surrounded by fire, .and did not find that it 
made me any adeipiate compensation for such 
an abridgment of my liberty. 1 make little 
doubt but Noah was glad when he was en- 
larged from tin; ark : and we are sure that 
Jon.ali was, when he came out of the fish ; and 
so w;is I to escape from the good sloop the 
Hiirrict. 

* Private correspondence. 



230 



COWPER'S WORKkS. 



In my last, I wrote you word that Mr. Per- 
ry was Efiven over by his friends, and pro- 
nounced a dead man by Ids physieian. Just 
wlien I li:id reached the end of the foregoinjj 
piiai;i\ii)h, he earae in. His errand liither 
was lo bring two letters, wliieh I enclose ; 
one is to your.M'lf', in whicli he will give you, 
I doubt not, such an account, both of his body 
and mind, as will make all that 1 might say 
upon those subjects superHuous. The only 
con.sequences of his illness seem to be that 
ha looks a little pale, and that, though al- 
ways a most excellent man, he is still more 
angelic than he was. Illness sanctified is 
better than health. But I know a man who 
has been a suft'erer by a worse illness than 
his, almost these fourteen years, and who,. at 
present, is only the worse for it. 

Mr. S<-ott called upon us yesterday ; he is 
much inclined to set up a Sunday School, if 
he can raise a fund for the pnrpose. Mr. 
Jones has had one some time at Clifton, and 
Mr. Unwin writes me word, that lie has been 
thinking of nothing else day and night, for a 
fortnight. It is a wholesome measure, that 
seems to bid fair to be pretty generally adopt- 
ed, and, for the good effects that it promises 
deserves well to be so. I know not, indeed, 
while the spread of the gospel continues so 
limited as it is, how a reformation of manners 
in the lower class of mankind can be bronglit 
to pass ; or by what otiier means the utter 
abolition of all principle among them, moral 
as well as religious, can possibly- be prevent- 
ed. Heathenish parents can only bring up 
heathenish children ; an assertion nowhere 
oftener or more clearly illustrated than at 
Olney ; where children, seven years of age, 
infest the streets every evening with curses 
and with songs, to which it would be un- 
seemly to give their proper epithet. Such 
urchins as these could not be so diabolically 
accomplished, uidess by the connivance of 
their parents. It iit well indeed if, in some 
inst.inces, their parents be not themselves 
their instructors. Judging by their proli- 
eiency, one can hardly suppose any other. 
It is therefore, doubtless, an act of the great- 
est charity, to snatch them out of such hands 
before the inveteracy of the evil shall have 
made it desperate. " Mr. Teedon, I should 
imagine, will be employed as a teacher, should 
this e.'vpedient be carried into efiect. I know 
not at least that we have any other person 
among us so well qualified for the service. 
He is'indisputably a Christian man, and mis- 
erably poor, whose revenues need improve- 
ment', as much as any children in the world 
can possibly need instruction. 
Believe me, my dear friend, 
With true affection, yours, 

W. C. 

The first establishment of Sunday schools 



in England, which commenced about this 
time, is too important an era to be passed 
over in silence. The founder of this system, 
so beneficial iii its consequences to the rising 
generation, was Robert Raike.s, Esq., of 
Gloucester, and from whose lips the writer 
once received the history of their Hr.st insti- 
tution. He had observed in going lo divine 
worship on tiu' Sabbath, that the streets were 
generally filled with gi-oups of idle and rag- 
ged children, playing and blaspheming in a 
manner that showed their utter unconscious- 
ness of the sacred obligations of that d.iy. 
The thought suggested itself, that, if these 
children couhl l)e collected together, and the 
time so misapplied be devoted to instruction 
and attendance at the house of God, a happy 
ch.ange might be effected in their life and con- 
duct. He consulted the clergyman of the 
parisli, who encouraged the attempt. A re- 
spectable and pious female was immediately 
selected, and twelve children, who were short- 
ly afterwards decently clothed, were placed 
under her care. Rules and regulations were- 
formed, and the school opened and closed 
with pr.ayer. The ignorant were taught to 
read, the word of God was introduced, and 
tlie children walked in orderly procession to 
church. The visible improvement in their 
moral habits, and their proficiency in learn- 
ing, led to an extension of the plan. The 
principal inhabitants of the town became in- 
terested in its success, and in a short time 
the former noisy inmates of the streets w'ere 
found uniting in the accents of prayer and 
praise in the temple of Jehovah. The exam- 
ple manifested by the city of Gloucester 
soon attracted public attention. The queen 
of George the Third requested to be furnished 
with the liistory and particulars of tiie un- 
dertaking, and was so impressed with its im- 
portance as to distinguish it by her .sanction. 
The result is well kiunvn. Sunday schools 
are now universally established, and have 
been adopted in Europe, in America, and 
wherever the traces of civilization are to be 
discerned. Their sound has gone forth into 
all lands, and, so long as knowledge is neces- 
sary to piety, and both constitute the grace 
and ornament of the young and the safeguard 
of society, the venerable name of Raikes 
will be enrolled with gratitude among the 
friends and benefactors of mankind.* 

* The editor, once conversill!^ witli the tale Rev. .An- 
drew Fuller, the well-known s*^cret.lry of Uie Serampore 
IMissionarv Society, on the subject of Sunday schools in 
coiiMixicni with liiiit noble institution, the British ,ind 
FcirelL'ii Hible S.iiielv. Ilie hitter observed, "Yes; if the 
liihle Society hud conimenijed its openitions earlier, its 
usefulness would have Lieen comparatively limited, be- 
cause the faculty of readini:: would not have been so 
generally acquired. Each institution is in the oi-<ler of 
Providence:— tied first raised up Sunday scImujIs, and 
children were thereby taught to read ; afterwards, when 
this facidty was obtained, in order that it miLiln not bo 
perverted to wrong ends, God raised up the itibie So- 
ciety, that the best of all possible books miglit be put 
into their hands. Yea, sir," he added in his emphatic 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



231 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Olnty, Oct. 11, 1785. 

My floar Sir, — Vou began your letter with 
an apoloiry for lonjr silonco. and it is now in- 
cnnihent upon me to do the same; and the 
rather, as your kind invitation to Wargrave 
entitled you to a .speedier answer. The 
truth is that I am become, if not a man of 
business, yet a busy man, and have been en- 
gaged almost this twelvemonth in a work 
that will allow of no long interruption. On 
this aceonnt it was impossible for me to ac- 
cept your obliging sunnnons; and, having 
only to tell you that I could not, it appeared 
to me as a matter of no great moment whe- 
ther you received that intelligence soon or 
late. 

You do me justice when you ascribe my 
printed epistle to you to my friendship for 
you; though, in fact, it was equally owing 
to the opinion that I have of yours for me.f 
Having, in one part or other of my two vol- 
umes, distinguished by name the majority of 
those few for whom I entertain a friendship, 
it seemed to me that it would be unjustitiablc 
negligence to omit yourself; and, if I took 
that step without comnninicating to you my 
intention, it was only to gratify myself the 
more with the hope of surprising you agree- 
ably. I'oets are dangerous persons to be 
acquainted with, especially if a man have 
that in his character that promises to shine 
in verse. To that very circumstance it is 
owing that you are now tiguring away in 
mine. For, notwithstanding what you say 
on the subject of honesty and friendship, 
that they are not spleiulid enough for pub- 
lic celebration, I must still think of them 
as I did before, — that there are no ([ualities 
of the mind and heart that can deserve it 
better. I can, at least for my own part, look 
round about upon the generality, and, while 
I see them deticient in those grand requi- 
sites of a respectable character, am not able 
to discover that they possess any other of 
value enough t<i alone for the want of them. 

I beg that you will present my respects to 
Mrs. Hill, and believe me 

Ever alTeetionately yours. W. C. 

The period at which we are now arrived 
was marked by the renewal of an intimacy, 
long suspended indeed, but which neither 
time nor circumstances could efface from the 

inaiiiier, '-thf wisdom of fiod is visible io both ; they fit 
each other like ti:in<l ntid i^luve.'^ 
* Priv;ite eorresimndence. 

I The epi-ille in which he commemorates his friendship 
for Mr. Hill l)ei,Nns as follows: — % 

" Dear .Joseph — Kive-aml-twenty yean* a:;o — 
Alas, how time escapes ! 'lis oven so — '' fcc. kc. 
Wo add the two concluding lines, as descriptive of bis 
person and characler. 

"An honest man, close button'd to the chin. 
Broadcloth without, and a wann heart within.*' 
See Poems, 



affectionate heart of Cowper. The person 
to whom we allude is Lady Ileskcth, a near 
relative of the poet, and whose name has 
already appeared in the early pari of his his. 
tory. 

Their intercourse had been frequent, and 
endeared by reciprocal esteem in their youth- 
ful years; but the vicissitudes of life had 
scparatcil them far from each other. During 
Cowper's long relirement, his accomplished 
cousin had ))assed some years with her hu.s- 
band abroad, and others, after her return, in 
a variety of monrnfiil duties. She was at 
this time a widow, and her indelible regard 
for her poetical relation being agreeably stim- 
ulated by the publication of his recent v\'orks, 
sh(^ wrote to him, on that occasion, a very 
affectionate letter. 

It gave rise to many from him, which we 
shall now introduce to the nolice of the 
reader, because they give a minute account 
of I heir amiable author, at a very interesting 
period of his life ; tind because they rcHect 
lustre on his character and genius in various 
points of view, and cannot fail to inspire the 
conviction that his letters are rivals to his 
l)oeuis, in the rare excellence of representing 
life iind nature with graceful tind endearing 
lidelity. 



TO LADY HESKETII. 

Olney, OcU 12, 1785. 
My dear Cousin, — It is no new thing with 
you to give pleasure. But I will venture to 
say that you do not often give more than you 
gave me this morning. When 1 came down 
to breakfast, and found upon the table a let- 
ter franked by my uncle,* and when opening 
that frank I found that it contained a letter 

from you, I .said within my,self — "This is 
just as it should be. We .are all grown 

! young again, and the days that I thought I 
should see no more are actually returned." 

j You perceive, therefore, that you judged 

} well, wdien you conjectured that a line from 
you would not be disagreeable to me. It 
could not be otherwise than as in fact it 
proved — :i most agreeable surj)rise, for 1 can 
truly boast of an ati'eclion for you, th.at nei- 
ther years nor interrupted intercourse have 
at all abated. I need only recollect how 
much 1 valued yon once, and with how mucli 
cause, inunediately to feel a revival of the 
same value; if tliat can be said to revive, 
which at the most has only been dormant for 
want of employment. But I slander it when 
I say that it has slept. A thousand times 
have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which 
our two selves have formed the whole of the 
drama, with the greatest pleasure; at times 
too when I had no reason to suppose that I 
should ever bear from you again.* I have 

• Ashley Cowper, ICsq. 



232 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



lauglied with you at the Arabian Nights' En- 
tertainments, wliich afforded us, as you well 
know, a tijiul of merriment that deserves 
never to be forgot. I have walked with yon 
to Netley Abbey, and have serambled with 
you over hedges in every direelion, and many 
other feats we have performed logetlier upon 
the field of my remembranee, and all within 
lliese few years. Should I say within this 
twelvemonth, I should not transgress the 
truth. The hours that I have spent with 
you were among the pleasantest of my for- 
mer days, and are therefore ehronieled in my 
mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Nei- 
ther do I forget my poor fViend, Sir Thomas; 
I should remember him indeed at any rate, 
on aeeount of his personal kindness to my- 
self, but the last testimony that he gave of 
his regard for you endears him to me still 
more. With his uneommon understanding 
(for with many peculiarities he had more 
sense than any of his acquaintanee,) and with 
his generous sensibilities, it was hardly pos- 
.sible lh.it he should not distinguish you as 
he has done. As it was the last, so it was 
the best proof that he coidd give of a judg- 
ment that never deceived him, when he would 
allow himself leisure to consult it. 

You say that you have often heard of me; 
that puzzles nie. I cannot imagine from 
what quarter, but it is no matter. I must 
tell you, howe\'er, my cousin, that yotir in- i 
formation has been a little defective. That 
I am happy in luy situation is true; I live, 
and have lived these twenty years, with i\Irs. 
Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, 
during the far greater part of that time, it is, 
under Providence, owing that I live at all. 
But I do not account myself happy in h.aving 
been, for thirteen of these years, in a state 
of mind that has made all that care and at- 
tention necessary; an attention and a care 
that have injured her health, and which, had 
she not been uncommonly supported, must 
have brought her to the grave. But I will 
p.iss to another subject ; it would be cruel 
to particularize only to give pain, neither 
would I by any means give a sable hue to 
the first letter of a correspondence so une.x- 
pecledly renewed. 

I am delighted with what you tell me of 
my uncle's good health. To enjoy any meas- 
ure of cheerfulness at so late a day is much. 
But to have that late day enlivened with the 
vivacity of youth is much more, and in these 
])ostdiluviau times a rarity indeed. Happy 
for the most p.:rt are parents who have i 
daughters. Dauglitcrs are not apt to out- 
live their natural aflections, which a son has 
generally survived, even before his boyish 
years are e.\[)ired. I rejoice particidarly in 
ray uncle's felicity, who has three female de- 
secndanft from his little person, who leave 
him nothing to wish for upon that head. 



My dear Cousin, dejection of spirits which 

(I suppose) may have prevented many a man 
from becoming an autluir, made me one. I 
find constant employment necessary, and 
therefore take care to be constantly em- 
ployed. Manual occupations do not engage 
the mind sufficiently, as I know by expe- 
rience, having tried many. But composition, 
especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I 
write therefore generally three hours in a 
morning, and in an evening I transcribe. I 
read also, but less than I write, for I must 
have bodily e.xercise, and therefore never 
pass a day without it. 

You ask me \vhere I have been this sum- 
mer. I answer, at Olney. Should you ask 
me where I sjient the last seventeen sum- 
mers, I should still answer, at Olney. Av, 
and the winters also. I have seldom left it, 
except when I attended my brother in his 
last illne.ss; never 1 believe a fortnight to- 
gether. 

Adieu, my beloved Cousin, I shall not 
always be thus nimble in reply, but shall 
always have great pleasure in answering you 
when I can. 

Yours, my dear friend and Cousin, 

W. C. 



The letters addressed to J\Ir. Newton by 
Cowper are frequently characterized by a 
plaintiveness of feeling ih.at powcj-fully awak- 
ens the emotions of the heart. The follow- 
ing contains some incidental allusions of this 
kind. 

TO THE IlEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Oct. 10, 1785. 
My dear Friend, — To have sent a child to 
heaven is a great honor and a great blessing, 
and your feelings on such an occasion may 
well be such as render you rather an object 
of congratulation than of condolence. And 
were it otherwise, yet, having yourself fi'ee 
access to all the sources of genuine consola- 
tion, I feel that it would be little better than 
impertinence in me to suggest any. An 
escape from a life of sufTering to a life of 
happiness and glory is such a deliverance as 
leaves no room for the sorrow of survivors, 
unless they sorrow for themselves. We can- 
not, indeed, lose what we love without re- 
gretting it; but a Christian is in possession 
of such alleviations of that regret asthe world 
knows nothing of Their beloveds, when 
they die, go they know not whither; and if 
they suppose them, as they generally do, in 
a state of hilfpiness, they have yet but an 
indifferent prospect of joining them in that 
stale hereafter. But it is not so with you. 
You both know whither your beloved is gone, 
and you know th.at you shall follow her; and 
* pi-ivate correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



233 



yon know also that in the meantime slie is j 
iiicoiiipiir.ibly happier tlian yoi'.rself. So far, 
tluTi't'ore, as slie is eoiiccriii'd, nothing lias 
come to pass but wliat was most IVrvciUly to 
be wished. I do not liiiow th.it 1 am .siii<jidarly 
sellish ; but one of the lir.st tlioiii,'hts lliat your 
account of .Miss Cunningham's dying moments 
and deparlnre suggested to nie had self for its 
object. It struck nie that she was not born 
when I sank into darkness, and that she is 
gone to heaven before I have emerged again. 
What a lot, said I lo myself, is mine ! whose 
lielmet is fallen from my head, and wliose 
sword from my hand, in the midst of the 
battle: wlio wa.s stricken down to the earth 
when I least expected it; who had just be- 
gun to cry victory! when I was defeated my- 
self: and who have been trampled upon .«o 
long, that others have had time to conquer 
and to receive their crown, before 1 have been 
iible to make one successful effort to escape 
from under the feet of my enemies. It 
seemed to me, therefore, that if you mourned 
for Miss Cunningham you gave those tears 
to her to which 1 only had a riglit, and I was 
almost ready to exclaim, " I am the dead, and 
not she ; you misplace your sorrows." I 
have sent you the history of my mind on this 
subject without any disguise : if it does not 
please you, pardon it at least, for it is the 
truth. The unhappy, I believe, are always 
.sellish. I have, 1 confess, my comfortable 
moments: but they are like the morning 
de\v, so suddeidy do they p:iss away and are i 
gone. ! 

It should seem a matter of small moment ; 
to luc, who never hear him, whether Mr. 
Scott shall be removed from Olney to the [ 
Ixjck, or no; yet, in fact, I believe, that few 
interest themselves more in that event than 1. 
He knows my manner of life, and h.is ceased 
long since to wonder at it. .\ new minister 
would need information, and I am not ambi- | 
tioiis of having uiy tale told to a .stranger. 
He would also periiaps think it necessary to 
iLssail me with arguments, which woiihl be 
more profitably disposed of, if he should dis- 
charge them against the walls of a lower. 
I wish, therefore, for the continuance of iMr. 
Scott. He honored me so far as to consult 
nut twice upon the subject. At our first in- 
terview, he seemed to discern but little in the 
proposal that entitled it to his approbation. 
iJut, when he came the second time, we ob- 
seried that his views of it were considerably 
altered. He was warm — he was animated; 
dilliculties li:id disappeared, and alUiicmcrits 
Inul started up in their place. I could not 
say to him. Sir, you are naturally of a s:ui- 
gnine temper ; and he th.-it is so cannot too 
much distrust his own judgment: — but I am 
gild th;it he will have the benefit of your.s. 
It seems to me, however, that the minister 
who .shall re-illuminc the faded glories of the 



Lock must not only practise great fidelity in 
liis preaching, lo which task Mr. Scott is per- 
I'eetly equal, but must do it with much ad- 
dress; and it is liarilly worth while lo ob- 
serve lliat his excellence does not lie that 
way, becau.se he is ever ready to acknowledge 
it himself. IJnl 1 have nothing to suggest 
upon this subject that will be new to you, 
and therefore drop it ; the rather, indeed, be^ 
cau.se I may reasonably suppose that by this 
time the point is decided. 

I have reached that part of my ytnpcr 
which I generally fill with intelli.gcnce, if I 
can find any : but there is a great dearth of it 
at present ; and Mr. Scott has ]U'obabIy anti- 
cipated me in all the little that there is. Lord 

1' having dismissed Mr. Jones from his 

service, llie people of Turvey* have burnt him 
[Mr. Jones] in elligy, with a bundle of quiek- 
thornt under his arm. Wh.at consequences 
are to follow his dismission N uncertain. 
His lordship threatens him with a lawsuit; 
and, unless their disputes can be settled by 
arbitration, it is not unlikely that tiie jirofits 
of poor Jones's stewardship will be melted 
down at We-tminster. He has Labored hard, 
and no doiiI)t with great integrity, and has 
been rewarded with hard words and scandal- 
ous treatment. 

Mr. Scott (wliicli perh.aps he may not have 
told you, for he diil not mention it here) has 
met w'ith similar treatment at a place in this 
country called Ilinksey, or liy some such 
name.} 13ut he sutl'ered in elligy for the Gos- 
pel's sake ; — a cause in which i. presume he 
would not be unwilling, if need were, to be 
burnt in propria persona. 

I h.avc nothing to add, but that we are well, 
and remember you witli much affection ; and 
that 1 am, my dear friend. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



The following letters communicate various 
interesting particulars respecting Cowper's 
laborious undertaking, the new version of 
Homer's Iliad. 

TO THE UF.y. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

01ne.V, "cl. M, I7«. 

My dear William, — You might well sup- 
pose that your letter had miscarried, though 
in fact it was duly received. I am not often 
so long in arrear, and you may assure your- 
self that when at any time it happens that I 

* 'i'lip r*'ti'rl)ornut:h famil.v liad formerly a mansion 
and larec relate inllic paristi ol'Tnrve.v. Il is nictilioiied 
in Ciimdi'ii's itrtlannia, so far l)acl( as in llu' tirno of 
Ilrnry Vlll. Thi-ru nrc surni- marble munninents in tlio 

f>ariah chnrcli, executed with ^real inatiiiiUcence, and in 
liilli pre.Hrrvalion, rccordinii llie heroes of foreign times 
bel<ini;inu to llial luirient l>al now extinct race. 

t The dispnle oriirinated respectin:; llic enctosurc of 
ttie niirisli ; and, il* lliis act w;ls nnpopillnr with tlie poor, 
llie bundle of(|uict,'-lliorn w;is intended to Ik," expressive 
of their indii^nant feelinirs. 
} The proper lumie of tlic place ia Tingowiclt. 



234 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



am so, neither neglect nor idleness is the 
cause. I have, as yoii well know, a daily oc- 
cupation, forty lines to translate, a task whicli 
I never exeu e myself, wlien it is possible to 
peWbrm it. Ei|nally sedulous 1 am in the 
nia;ter of tranhcribing, so that between l)Olh 
my morning and evening are mo.>t part cojn- 
pletely engaged. Add to tliis that, though 
my spirits are seldom so bad bnt I can write 
verse, they are often at so low an ebb as to 
make the production of a letter impossible. 
So mucli for a trespass, which called for 
some apology, bnt for nhicli to apologize 
further would be a greater trespa-^s still. 

1 am now in the tuenliclh book of Homer, 
and shall assuredly proceed, because the fur- 
ther I go the more I hud myself justified in 
the undertaking ; and in due time, if I live, 
shall assuredly jiublish. In the whole I shall 
have composed about forty tliousaiid verses, 
■ibout wliich forty thousand verses I shall 
have taken great ])ains, on no occasion suf- 
fering a slovenly line to escape me. I leave 
you to guess therefore whether, such a labor 
once achieved, I shall not determine to turn 
it to some account, and to gain myself profit 
if I can, if not at least some credit for my 
reward. 

I perfectly a])prove of your coiu"se with 
John. The most entertaining books are best 
to begin with, and none in the world, so far 
as entertainment is concerned, deserves the 
preference to Homer. Neither do I know 
that there is anywhere to be found Greek of 
easier construction — poetical (ireek I mean; 
and as for pro.se, I should recommend Xeno- 
phon's Cyropa'dia. That also is a most amus- 
ing narrative, and ten times ea.sier to under- 
stand than the crabbed epigrams and scrib- 
blements of the minor poets that are gener- 
ally put into the hands of boys. I took i)ar- 
ticular notice of the neatness of John's Greek 
character, wliich (let me tell you) deserves 
its share of commendation : for to write the 
language legibly is not the lot of every man 
who can read it. Witness myself for one. 

I like the little ode of Huntingford'.s that 
you sent me. In such matters we do not ex- 
pect nnich novelty, or much dejith of thought. 
The expression is all in all, which to me at 
least appears to be faultless. 

Adieu, my de:n- William ! We are well, 
and yon and yours are ever the objects of 
our afiection. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHM NEWTON.* 

Olncy, Nov. 5, nS.^j. 

My dear Friend, — Were it with me as in 
days past, you should have no cau.se to com- 
plain of my tardiness in writing. You sup- 
posed that I would have accepted your packet 
as an answer to my last ; and so indeed I 
* Privatu correspondence. 



did, and felt myself overpaid; but, though 
! a debtor, and deeply indebted too, had not 
wlu'rewithal to discharge the arrear. You do 
i not know nor su.spect what a conquest I 
sometimes gain, when I only take up the pen 
with a design to write. Many a time have I 
resolved to say to all my few eoiTcspondenls, 
; — I take my leave of you for the present; if 
I I live to see better days, you shall hear from 
me again. — I have been driven to the very 
verge of this measure ; and even upon this 
occasion was upon the point of desiring Mrs. 
Unwin to become my substitute. She indeed 
offered to write in my .stead ; but, fearing that 
you would understand me to be even worse 
than I am, I rather chose to answer for my- 
self. — So much for a subject with which 1 
could easily fill the sheet, but with wliich 1 
have occupied loo great a p;irt of it already. 
It is time that I should thank you, and return 
you Mrs. Unwin's thanks for your Narrative* 
I told you in my last in what manner I felt 
myself aft'ected by the abridgement of it con- 
tained in your letter; and have therefore 
only to add, upon that point, that the im- 
pression m.ade upon me by the relation at 
large was of a like kind. 1 envy all that live 
in the enjoyment of a good hope, and much 
more all wdio die to enjoy the fruit of it: but 
I recollect myself in time: 1 resolved not to 
touch that chord again, and yet was just 
going to trespass upon my resolution. As 
to the rest, your history of your happy niece 
is just what it should be, — clear, affectionaie. 
and plain: worthy of her, and worthy of 
yourself How much more beneficial to the 
world might such a mcanorial of an unknown, 
but pious and believing child eventually 
prove, would the supercillious learned con- 
descend to read it, than the hi.story of all the 
kings and heroes that ever lived! But the 
world has its objects of admiration, and God 
has objects of his love. Tiiose make a noise 
and perish; and these weep silently for a 
short season, and live forever. I had rather 
have been your iieice, or the writer of her 
story, than any Cfesar that ever thundered. 

The v.anity of human attainments was 
never so conspicuously exemplified ;is in the 
present day. The sagacious moderns make 
discoveries, which, how useful they may 
prove to themselves I know not: certainly 
they do no honor to the ancients. Homer 
and V^irgil have enjoyed (if the dead have any 
such enjoyments) an unrivalled reputation as 
poefs, through a long succession of ages; 
but it is now shrewdly suspected that Homer 
did not compose the poems for which he has 
been so long applauded ;t and it is even as- 

* The narrative of Miss Eliza CunningJiain's last illness 
and h;ippy death. 

t In the IVulepomeiia to ViUoisson's Iliad il is staled, 
that Pisistratns, in etillectin;;; the works of Hoiner, was 
impnscd upon by spurious imitations oj" the Grecian 
bai-d's style ; and that not suspecting the fraud, he was 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



235 



serted by a certain Robert Heron, Esq., that 
Virion iii'vcr wrolu a line worth reading. He 
is a pitil'iil ])lui,fiary : lio is a servile imitator, 
a luiiijjlcr ill Ills plan, and has nol a thousrht 
in his whole work that will hear exaniina- 
tioii. In short, he is anything' hut what the 
literati for two thousand years have taken 
him to be — a man of genius and a fine writer. 
I fear that Homers case is desperate. After 
the lapse of so many generations, it would 
be a dillieult matter to elucidate a question 
which time and modern ingenuity together 
combine to puzzle. And 1 suppose that it 
were in vain for an honest plain man to in- 
quire, if Homer did not write the Iliad and 
Odyssey, who did ! The answer would un- 
doubtedly he — it is no matter; he did not: 
which is all that I undertook to prove. For 
Virgil, however, there still remains scnnc con- 
solation. The very same Mr. Heron, who 
finds 110 beauties in the -'Eneid, discovers not 
a single instance of the sublime in Scrip- 
ture. Particularly he says, speaking of the 
propliets, that Ezekiel, .although the fdthiest 
of all writers, is the best of them. He there- 
fore, being the first of the learned who has 
reprobated even the style of the Scriptures, 
may possibly make the fewer proselyte.s to 
his judgment of the Heathen writer. For 
my own part at least, had I been accustomed 
to doubt whether the yEneid were a noble 
composition or not, this gentleman would at 
once ha\'e decided the (piestion fur ine ; and 
I should have been immediately assured that 
a work must necessarily abound in beauties 
that had the hnppiness to displease a ceu- 
surer of the Word of God. What enter- 
prises will not an inordinate passion for fame 
suggest ! It prompted one man to lire the 
Temple of Ephesus; another, to fling himself 
into a volcano ; and now has induced this 
wicked and unfortunate S()uire either to deny 
his own feelings, or to publish to all the 
world that he has no feelings at all.* 

Mr. Seolt is pestered with anonymous let- 
ters, but he conducts himself wisely : and 
the question whether he shall go to the Lock 

led to incorpornip them as tho gunuinc production-s of 
Humpr. 

Ciiwper justly ridicules m» extravaiiant a supposition. 

• The pluyful spirit iu wliicii tlic writer advent to this 
suhject appears to iiave yielded afterwards to a feelinj; 
of indi'.{iiatioii ; the fullowiiii; lines in his own li.iud- 
writitiK having been found by Dr. Johnson amongst his 
papers : — 

OS THE AlTTnOR OF I.ETTKRS ON LITERATURE. 

Tlie Genius of th' Auciisljui age 
His he;id nmont; Rome's ruins rcar'd ; 
And, hnr^Iini; with heroic rauc, 
Wlien lileriiry Heron appeared. 
Thou liasl. he cried, like tiim of old 
Who set Ih' Kphesian dome on Are, 
By iH'inir scandalously biild, 
AltjiiiiM tiie mark of thy desire. 

And for traducinf; Virt;irs namo 
Shall'share his merited reward ; 
A perpiauily of lame. 
Tlial rotd, and stinkj, and Is abhorrM. 



or not, seems hasting to a decision in the af- 
firmative. 

We are tolerably well ; and Mrs. Unwin 
adds to mine her afl'eclionate remembrances 
of yourself and .Mrs. Newtcni. 

Vours, my dear friend, W. C. 

The work of Jlr. Heron is entitled, " I-et- 
ters on Literature," in which he spares neither 
things sacred nor profane. The author .seems 
to be a man of talent, but it is talent pain- 
fully misapjilicd. .\fler calling Virgil a ser- 
vile imitator of Homer, and indulging in 
various critiques. In' thus concludes his an- 
imadversions. " Such is the iTlneid, whicli 
the author, with good reason, on his death- 
bed, condemned to the flames ; and, had it 
suffered that fate, real poetry would have lost 
nothing by it. I have said that, notwith- 
standing all, Virgil deserves his fame ; for 
his fame is now confined to schools and 
academies: and his style (the pickle that has 
preserved his mummy from corruption) is 
pure and exquisite." 

Wit, em])loyed at the expense of taste and 
sound judgment, can neither advance the 
reputation of its author, nor promote the 
cause of true literature. This supercilious 
treatment of the noble productions of classic 
genius too much resembles that period in the 
literary hislury of Frmce. when the question 
was agitated ^with I'errault at its head) as to 
the relative superiority of the ancients or 
moderns. It was at that time fashionable 
with one of the contending p.arties to decry 
the pretensions of the ancients. One of 
their writers exclaims, 

'■ Depouillons ccs respects scrvilcs 
Que nous portons aux temps passes. 
Les Homeres ct les Virgiles 
Peuvent encore etre cjfaees.'^ — La Mottk. 

We trust that this corrupt spirit will never 
infect the Lyceums of British literature; but 
that they will be reserved ever to be the 
sanctuaries of high-tau'ght genius, cha.stened 
by a refined and discriminating taste, and 
embellished with the graces of a simple and 
noble eloquence, formed on the pure models 
of classic antiquity. 



TO JOSEPH niLL, ESQ.* 

DIncy, Nov. 7, 1783. 

Jly dear Friend, — Your time being so much 
occupied as to leave you no opportunity for 
a word more than the needful, I .-iin tlie more 
obliged to you that you have found leisure 
even for that, and thank you for the mile 
above acknowledged. 

I know not at present what subject I 
could enter upon, by which I should not put 
you to an expense of moments that you can 

• Private correspondence. 



236 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ill spare : I have often been displeased when 
a neighbor of mine, being liiinself an idle 
man, has delivered himself from the burden 
iif a vacant hour or two, by coming to repose 
his idleness upon me. Not to incur there- 
lore, and deservedlj', the blame that I have 
ch.n-ged upon him, by interrupting you, who 
;.re certainly a busy man, whatever may be 
!l;e case with myself, I shall only add that I 
am, with my respects to Mrs. Hill, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



The tried stability of Cowper's friendship, 
after a long interval of separation, and the 
delicacy with which he accepts Lady Hes- 
keth's otfer of pecuniary aid, are here de- 
picted in a manner that retlects honor on 
both parties. 

TO LADY HESKETIL 

Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. 

My dearest Cousin, — Whose last most af- 
fectionate letter has run in my head ever since 
I received it, and which I now sit down to 
answer, two days sooner than the post will 
serve me. I thank you for it, and with a 
warmth for which I am sure you will give 
me credit, though I do not spend many words 
in describing it. I do not seek »eic friends, 
not being altogether sure that I should find 
them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being 
slill beloved by an old one. I hope that now 
our correspondence has suffered its last in- 
terruption, and that we shall go down to- 
gether to the grave, chatting and chirping as 
merrily as such a scene of things as this will 
permit. 

I am happy that my poems have pleased 
you. Jly volume has afforded me no such 
pleasure at any time, either while I was writ- 
ing it or since its publication, as I have de- 
rived from yours and ray uncle's opinion of 
it. I make certain allowances for partiality, 
.and for that peculiar quickness of taste with 
which you both relish what you like, and, 
after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly 
made, lind myself rich in the measure of your 
approbation that still remains. But, above 
all, I honor John Gilpin, .since it was he who 
lirst encouraged you to write. I made him 
on purpose to laugh at, and he served his 
|iurpose well : but 1 am now indebted to him 
for a more valuable acquisition than all the 
laughter in the world amounts to, the re- 
covery of my intercourse with you, which is 
to me inestimable. My benevolent and gen- 
erous cousin, when I w'as once asked if ] 
wanted .anylhing, and given delicately to 
understand that the inquirer was ready to 
supply all my occasions, I thankfully and 
civilly, but ])ositively declined the favor. 1 
neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such in- 
conveniences as I had not much rather en- 



dure than come under obligations of that 
sort to a person comparatively with yourself 
a stranger to me. But to you I answer 
otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the 
liberality of your disposition, and have that 
consummate confidence in the sincerity of 
your wish to serve me, that delivers me from 
all av.kward constraint, and from all fe;ir of 
trespassing by acceptance. To you, there- 
fore, I reply, yes. Whensoever and whatso- 
ever, and in what manner soever you please; 
and add moreover that my affeciion for the 
giver is such as will increase to me tenfold 
the s.atisfaction that I shall have in receiving. 
It is necessary, however, I should let you a 
little into the state of my finances, that you 
may not suppose them more narrowly cir- 
eum.scribed than they are. Since Mrs. Un- 
win and I have lived at Olney, we have had 
but one purse, altliough during the whole 
time, till lately, her income was nearly dou- 
ble mine. Her revenues indeed are now in 
some measure reduced, and not much ex- 
ceed my own ; the worst consequence of 
this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves 
some things which hitherto we have been 
better able to afford, but they are such things 
as neither life, nor the well-being of life, de- 
pend upon. My own income has been bet- 
ter than it is, but when it was best, it would 
not h.ave enabled me to live as my connex- 
ions demanded that I should, had it not been 
combined with a better than itself, at least at 
this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full 
proof during thi-ee months that I spent in 
lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time, by 
the help of good management and a clear 
notion of economical matters, I contrived to 
spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, 
my beloved cousin, you are in possesrii n of 
the whole case as it stands. Strain no 
points to your own inconvenience or hurt, 
for there is no need of it, but indulge your- 
self in communicating (no matter what) that 
you can spare without missing it, since by 
so doing, you will be sure to add to the com- 
forts of my life one of the sweetest that I 
can enjoy — a token and jiroof of your affec- 
tion. 

In the affair of my next publication,* to- 
ward which you also ofl'er me so kindly your 
assistance, there will be no need that you 
should help me in the manner that you pro- 
pose. It will be a large work, consisting I 
should imagine of six volumes at least, 'i'he 
12th of this month I shall have spent a year 
upon it, and it will cost me more than 
another. I do not love the booksellers well 
enough to make them a present of such a 
labor, but intend to publish by subscription. 
Y(uu' vote and interest, my dear cousin, upon 
the occasion, if you please, but nothing more I 
I will trouble you with some papers of pro- 
* Ilis translation of IIoraer'.s Iliad. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



237 



posals when the time shall come, and am ' 
sure that you will circulate as many for ine 
as you can. Now, my dear, I am going to 
tell you a secret. It is a great secret, that 
you must not whisper even to your cat. No i 
creature is at tliis moment apprized of it but { 
Mrs. Unwin and lier son. 1 am making a 
new translation of Homer, and am on the 
point of finishing the twenty-first book of Ihc 
Iliad. Tlie reasons upon which I undertake ' 
this Herculean labor, and by which I justify I 
an enterprise in which I seem so elfectually 
anticipated by Pope, although in fact he has 
not anticipated me at all. I may possibly give 
yon, if you wish for them, when I can find 
nothing more interesting to say. A period 
which I do not conceive to be very near! I 
have not answered many things in your letter, 
nor can do it at present for want of room. I 
cannot believe but that I sliould know you, 
notwithstanding all that time may have done. 
There is not a feature of your face, could I 
meet it upon the ro.id by itself, that I should 
not instantly recollect. I .should .say, that is 
my cousin's nose, or those arc her lips and 
her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim 
them but herself. As for nic. I am a very 
smart youth of my years. I am not indeed 
grown gray so much as I am grown bald. 
No matter. There was more hair in the ! 
world than ever had the honor to belong to I 
me. Accordingly having found just enough 
to curl a little at my ears, and to intermi.\ 
with a little of my own that still hangs be- 
hind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, 
to have a very decent head-dress, not ca.sily 
distinguished from my natural growth, whicii 
being worn with a small b.ag, and a black 
riband about my neck, continues to me the 
charms of my youth even on the verge of 
age. Awav with the fear of writing too 
often. " W. C. I 

P. S. — Thai the view I give you of myself 
m.ay hr complete I add the two following 
items — That I am in debt to nobody, and 
that I grow fat. [ 



you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to 
my sensations. 1 perceive myself ii\ a stale 
of mind similar to that of the traveller df- 
scribed in I'ope's Messiah, who, as he passe ■ 
through a .sandy desert, .starts at the sudden 
and unexpected sound of a waterfall.* Voa 
have placed me in a situation new to me, 
.•md in which I feel mysalf somewhat puzzled 
how to behave. At the same time 1 would 
not grieve you by putting a check upon your 
bounty, I would be .as careful not to abuse 
it, as if I were a miser, and the <iuestion no: 
about your money but my own. 

.Mthough 1 do not suspect that a secret to 
you, my cousin, is any burden, yet, having 
maturely considered that point since I wrote 
my last, I feel myself altogether disposed to 
release you from the injunction to that cllcct 
under whicii 1 laid you. I have now in.idi' 
such a progress in my translation that I need 
neither fear that I shall stop short of the end, 
nor that any other rider of Pegasus should 
overtake me. Therefore, if at any time it 
should fall fiiily in your way, or you should 
feel yourself invited to say I am so occupied, 
you liave my poetshiji's free permission. Dr. 
Johnson read and recommended my first 
volume. VV. C. 



There is no date to the following letter, 
but it evidently refers to this period of time. 

TO LADV HESKETII. 

My dearest Cousin, — I am glad that I al- 
ways loved you as I did. It releases me 
from any occasion to suspect that inv pres- \ 
ent alfection for you is indebted for its ex- 1 
i.stence to any seltish considcr.ations. No, I j 
am sure I love you disinterestedly and for ' 
your own sake, because I never thought of 
you with any other sensations than those of 
the truest affection, even while I was under 
the persuasion that I should never hear from i 
you again. But, with my present feelings ] 
superadded to those that I always had for | 



TO THE r.EV. WALTER BAGOT.t 

OIno)-, .\ov. !), ITSr.. 

My dear Friend, — You desired me to re- 
turn your good brother the bishop's Charge.} 
as soon as I conveniently could, and the 
weather having forbidden us to hope for the 
pleasure of seeing you and Mrs. Bagot with 
you this morning, I return it now, lest, as 
you told me that your stay in this country 
would be short, you should be gone before 
it could reach you. 

I wish as you do. that the Charge in qucs- 
tion could find its way into all the parsonages 
in the nation. It is so generally applicable, 
and yet so pointedly enforced, llia.t it de- 
serves the most extensive spread, i find in 
it the happiest mixture of spiritual authority, 
the meekness of a Christian, and the good 
manners of a gentleman. It has convinced 
nic that the poet who, like myself, shall take 
the liberty to pay the author of such valu- 
able .admonition a compliment, shall do at 
least as much honor to himself as to his 
subject. 

■^'ours, VV. C. 

* The rulluwii);: b Ihc p;u»s.ij,-c atluded lo: — 
" T\\e swiiiii in (iTirrt-n (U'scrts wiili surprise 
Si'ff) lilii'^ ppriiii. and suddfMi verdure rise: 
And ittnrts. itniitlnt the thirsly wiltl», Ui hoar 
.New falls of water murnrnn^in liis car." 

Popc'jf Mfcsinh^ line 07, &c. 
t Cnwperwiu* at Wcitlminsler school with five hrrUhers 
of this name, lie retained Ihroiii^h life ilielriend^hip of 
llieesiiniabli* character to «-ho;n this leltr'r in juhlres^ed. 

t Lewis Biurnt. D.n. Me w.aM fnrnifHy Dean of Chrinl 
Church. Oxfoi-d; nfjcrward.s liishop tt( Norwich, aaJ 
fiuallv Itishop of SI. A^njih. 



238 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

OInoy, Dec. 3, 1785. 

My drar Friend,— I am glad to liear that 
there is such a demand for your last Narra- 
tive. If I may judge of their general utility 
by the etfeet that they have lieretofore had 
upon me. there are few things more edifying 
than death-bed memoirs. They interest every 
reader, because they speak of a period at 
which all mu.st arrive, and afford a solid 
ground of encouragement to survivors to 
expect the same, or similar, support and 
eomfort, when it shall be their turn to die. 

I also am employed in writing narr.ative, 
but not so useful. Employment, however, 
and with the pen, is through habit become 
essential to my well-being: and to produce 
always original poems, especially of consid- 
erable length, is not so easy. For some 
weeks after I had finished " The Task," and 
sent away the last sheet corrected, I was 
throuffli necessity idle, and suffered not a 
little m my spirits for being so. One day, 
being in su'ch distress of mind as was hardly 
supp°ortable, I took up the Ili.ad ; and, merely 



its chief bane, impelled me so effectually to 
the work, that ere long I mean to publish 
proposals for a subscription to it, having ad- 
vanced so far as to be warranted in doing 
so. I have connexions, and no few such, by 
means of which I have the utmost reason to 
expect that a brisk circulation may be pro- 
cured; and if it should prove a profitable 
enterprise, the profit will not accrue to a 
man who may be said not to want it. It is 
a business such as it will not indeed lie 
much in your w.iy to promote; but among 
your numerous connexions it is possible 
that you may know some who would suffi- 
ciently interest themselves in such a work to 
be not unwilling to subscribe to it. I do not 
mean — far be it from me — to put you upmi 
making hazardous applications, where you 
might possibly incur a refusal, that would 
give you though but a moment's pain. Vou 
know best your own opportunities and pow- 
ers in such a cause. If you can do but little, 
I sh.ill esteem it much ;' and if you can do 
nothing, I am sure that it will not be for 
want of a will. 

I have lately had three \ isits from my old 



to'divert attention, and with no more pre- | gdjooifVUow Mr. Bagot, a brother of Lord 
conception of what I was then entering upon i ^„go\, and of Mr. ("hester of riiicheley. At 
than I have at this moment of what 1 shall [ iiis^h^st visit he brought his wife with him, a 
be doing this day twenty years hence, trans- ^ j^^^j.^ amiable woman, to see Mrs. Unwin. 
kted the twelve" first lines of it. The same j (^i^j j,;,,, ,„y purpose and my progress, 
necessity pressing me again, I had recourse [ jj^. i.p^.gjved the news with great pleasure; 
to the same expedient and translated more. , jn„„L.diately subscribed a draft of twenty 
Every day bringing its occasion for employ- I poj,„(is ; and promised me his whole iieart, 
■"■ ■ " " " " '''■"' d his whole interest, which lies principally 



raent' with it, eveiy day consctiuently added 
something to the work ; till at last I began 
to rcflcct^thus :— The Iliad and the Odyssey 
together consist of about forty thousand 
verses. To translate these forty thousand 
verses will furnish me with occupation for a 
considerable time. I have already made 
some progress, and I find it a most agree- 
able amusement. Homer, in point of purity 
is a most blameless writer ; and though he 
was not an enlightened man, has inter- 
spersed many great and valuable truths 
throughout both" his poems. In .short, he is 
in all respects a most venerable old gentle- 
man, by an ac(|uaintance with whom no man 
can disgrace himself The literati are all 
agreed to a man th.at, although Pope has 
given us two pretty poems under Homer s 
titles, there is not to be found in them the 
le.ast portion of Homer's spirit, nor the least 
resemblance of his manner. I will try there- 
fore whether I cannot copy him somewhat 
more happily myself. I have at least the 
advantage of Pope's faults and failings, 
which, like so many buovs upon a dangerous 
coast, will serve me to steer by, and will 
make my chance for success more probable. 
These and many other considerations, but 
especially a mind that abhorred a vacuum as 

* Private correspondence. 



among people of the first fashion. 

My correspondence luas Lately also been 
renewed with my dear cousin, Lady Hes- 
keth, whom I ever loved as a sister, (for we 
were in a manner brought up together,) and 
who writes to me as affectionately as if she 
were so. She also enters into my views 
and interests upon this occasion with a 
warmth that gives me great encouragement. 
The circle of her .accinaintance is likewise 
very extensive ; and I have no doubt that 
she will exert her influence to its utmost pos- 
sibilities among them. I have other strings 
to my bow, (perhaps, as a translator of Ho- 
mer, I should say, to my lyre,) which I can- 
not here enumerate ; but, upon the whole, 
my prospect seems promising enough. I 
have not yet consulted Johnson upon the 
occasion, but intend to do it soon. 

My spirits are somewhat better than they 
were. In the course of the last )nonth, I 
have perceived a very sensible amendment. 
The hope of better days seems again to 
dawn upon me ; and I have now and then an 
intimation, though slight aiul transient, that 
God has not abandoned me forever. 

Having been for some years troubled with 
an inconvenient stomach ; and lately with a 
stom.ach that will digest nothing without 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



239 



lii'lp ; and we liaviinf reached tlie Imtloin of 
our own medical skill into wliicli we have 
dived to little or no purpose ; I have at 
length eonsented to consult Dr. Kerr, and 
expect to see him in a day or two. Kn- 
gaged as I am .and am likely to hii, so long 
as I am capable of it. in writing for the 
press, I cannot well atVord to entertain a 
malady thai is such an enemy to all mentid 
operations. 

This morning is heautifnl, and tempts me 
forth into the garden. It is all the walk 
that I can have at this season, but not all 
the exercise. I ring a peal every day upon 
the dumbbells. 

1 am, my dear friend, most truly, 
Vours and .Mrs. Newton's, VV. C. 



TO THE EKV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Ohipy, Due 10, I7Sj. 

My dear Friend. — What you say of my 
liist volume gives me the sincerest pleasure. 
] have heard a like favorable report of it 
from several different (|uarters, but never 
any (for obvious reasons) that has gratilied 
mo more than your.s. I have a relish for 
moderate praise, because it bids fair to be 
judicious ; but praise excessive, such as our 

poor friend '.s, (I have an uncle also 

who celebrates me exactly in the same lan- 
guage.) — such praise is rather too big for an 
ordinary swallow, f .set down nine-tenths 
of it to the account of family partiality. I 
know no more than you what kind of a mar- 
ket my book has found ; but this I believe, 
that had not Henderson died,f and had it 
been worth my while to have given him a 
hundred pounds to have read it in public, it 
would have been more popular than it is. 1 
am at least very unwilling to esteem John 
(iilpin as better worth than all the rest that I 
have written, and he has been ])i)i)nlar enough. 

Your sentiments of Pope's Homer agree 
perfectly with those of every competent judge 
with whom I have at any time ci-nversed 
about it. I never saw a copy so indike the 
original. There is not I believe in all the 
world to be found an uninspired poem so 
simple as those of Horner, nor in all the 
world a poem more bedizened with orna- 
ments than Pope's translation of them. .Ac- 
cordingly, the sublime of Homer in the hands 
of Pope becomes bloated and tumid, and his 
description tawdr)'. Neither had I'ope the 
f.iintcst conception of those exquisite dis- 
criminations of ch::racter for which Homer 
is so remarkable. .Ml his persons, and 
equally upon all occasions, speak in an in- 
dated and strutting phraseology as Pope hiis 

* Private correspoiid^nrc. 

t A public n^citur. wiill 1,'nown in his day, wlio de- 
livered his recitiiliorw wiUi all Itiu uQud of tomi, cmptiii- 
Hid, aud graceful eluculiuo. 



managed them ; although in the original the 
dignity of their utterance, even when they 
are most majestic, consi.sts principally in the 
simplicity of their sentiments and of their 
language. Another censure I must needs 
pass upon our Anglo-CJrecian, out of many 
that idjtrude themselves upon me, but for 
which 1 have neither time to spare, nor room, 
which is, that with all his great abilities he 
was defective in his feelings to a degree th.at 
some passages in his own poems make it dif- 
ticult to account for. No writer more pa- 
thetic than Houicr, because none more luit- 
nral ; and Ix'cause none less natur.d th.an 
Pope in his version of Homer, therefore than 
he none less [lathetic. But I shall tire you 
with a theme with which I would not wish to 
cloy you beforehand. 

If the great change in my experience, of 
which you express so lively an expectation, 
shoidd take place, and whenever it shall take 
place, you may securely depend upon receiv- 
ing the lirst notice of it. But. wlielhcr you 
come with congratulations, or whether with- 
out them, I, need not say that yon and yonrs 
will always be most welcome here. Mrs. 
Unwin's love both to yourself and to Mrs. 
Newton joins itself as usual, and as warmly 
as usual, to that of 

Yonrs, ray dear friend, 

^ Affectionately and faithfully, W. C. 

The following this moment occurs to me 
as a possible motto for the Messiah, if you 
do not think it too sharp :^ 

Nunquaniinrlucunt animutncautarc,ro«-a/i; 

Injiissi, nunquuni dcsistunL 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Dec. 24, 17H.5. 

My dear Friend, — You would have found a 

letter from me at Mr. 's, according to 

your assignation, had not the post, setting 
out two hours .sooner than the usual time, 
prevented me. The Odyssey that you sent 
has but one fault, at least but one that I have 
discoveri'd, which is that I cannot read it. 
The very attempt, if persevered in, would 
soon make me as blind as Homer was him- 
self. I am now in the last book of the Iliad, 
shall he obliged to yon therefore for a more 
legible one by the (irst opportunity. 

I wrote to Johnson latch', desiring him to 
give me advice and iiifonnation on the subject 
of proposals for a siibs<M-iption, and he desired 
me in his answer not to u^e that mode of 
l)nblicalion, but to treat with him, .adding that 
he could make me such offers as (he believed) 
I should approve. I have replied to his let- 
ter, but abide by my lirst pui-pose. 

Having occasion to write to Mr. ,*con- 

* Juliu TliurDtun, E*tq. 



cerning his princely benevolence, extended 
this year also to the poor of Olney, I put in 
n good word for my poor self likewise, and 
have received a very obliging and encounig- 
ing answer. He promises nie six names in 
particular, that (he says) will do me no dis- 
credit, and expresses a wish to be served 
with papers as soon as they sliall be printed. 

I meet with encouragement from all ipiar- 
ters, such as I find need of indeed in an en- 
terprise of such length and moment, but such 
as at the same time 1 find effectual. Homer 
is not a poet to be translated under the dis- 
advantage of doubts and dejection. 

Let me sing the praises of the desk which 

has sent me. In general it is as elegant 

as possible. In particular it is of cedar beau- 
tifully lacquered. When put together, it as- 
sumes the form of a handsome small chest, 
and contains all sorts of accommodations: it 
is inlaid with ivory, and serves the purpose 
of a reading desk.* 

Your affectionate VV. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Dec. 24, 1785. 
Itfy dear Friend, — Till I had made such a 
progress in my present undertaking as to put 
it out of all doubt that, if I li\ed, I should 
proceed in and finish it. I kept tiie matter to 
my.self. It would liave done me little honor 
to have told my friends that I had an arduous 
enterprise in luuid, if afterwards I must have 
told tlicm that I had dropped it. Knowing 
it to have been universally the opinion of tlic 
literati, ever since they have allowed them- 
selves to consider the matter coolly, that a 
translation, properly so called, of Homer is, 
notwithstanding what Pope has done, a de- 
sideratum in the English language; it struck 
me that an attempt to supply the deficiency 
would be an honorable one, and having made 
myself, in former years, somewhat critically 
a master of the original, I was by this double 
consideration induced to make the attempt 
myself I am now translating into blank 
verse the last book of the Iliad, and mean 
to publish by subscription. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Doc. 31, 17M. 

My dear William, — You ha\-e learned from 
my last that I am now conducting myself 
upon the plan that you recommended to me 
in the summer. But since I wrote it I have 
made still farther advances in my negociation 
with Johnson. The proposals are adjusted. 
The proof-slieet has been printed off, cor- 

* This interestinq: relic was bequeathed to Dr. Johnson, 
and is now in the possession of his lamily. It w.as pre- 
sented to Cowjier by Lady Heskcth. 



rected, and returned. They will be sent 
abroad, as soon as I make up a complete list 
of the personages and persons to whom I 
would have them sent, which in a few days I 
hope to he able to accomplish. Johnson be- 
haves very well, at least according to my 
conception of tlie matter, and .seems sensible 
that 1 dealt liberally with him. He wishes 
me to be a gainer by my labors, in bis own 
words, "to put something hand-ome iuto my 
pocket," and recommends two large ([uarlos 
for the whole. He would not, he .says, by 
any means advise an extravagant price, and 
has fixed it at three guineas, the half, as 
usual, to be paid at the time of subscribing, 
the remainder on delivery. Five hundred 
names, he adds, at this price will put above 
a thousand pounds into my purse. I am 
doing my best to obtain them. Mr. Newton 
is warm in my service, and can do not a little. 
I have of course written to iMr. Bagot, who, 
when he was here, with niucli earnestness 
and affection intreated me so to do as soon 
as I could have settled the conditions. If I 
could get Sir Richard Sutton's address, I 
would write to him also, though I have been 
but once in his company since I left West- 
minster, where he and I read the Iliad and 
Odyssey through together. I enclose. Lord 
Dartmouth's answer to my ajiplication, which 
I will get you to show to Lady lleskelh, be- 
cause it will please her. I shall be glad if 
you can make an opportunity to call on her 
during your present stay in town. .You ob- 
serve therefore that I am not warning to mv- 
se!f. He that is so has no just claim on llie 
assistance of otiiers, neither shall mvscif have 
cause to complain of me in other resjjcct.s. I 
thank you for your friendly hints and pre- 
cautions, and shall not fail to give them the 
guidance of my pen. I respect the public 
and I respect myself, and had rather want 
bread than expose myself wantonly to the 
condemnation of either. I hale the affecta- 
tion, so frequently found in authors, of neg- 
ligence and slovenly slightness, and in the 
present ease am sensible how neces.sary it is 
to shun them, when I undertake the vast and 
invidious labor of doing better than Pope has 
done before me. I thank you for all that 
you have said and done in my cause, and be- 
forehand for all tliat you shall do and say 
hereafter. I am sure that there will be no 
deficiency on your part. In particular I 
titanic you for taking such jealous care of my 
honor, and respectability, when the man you 
mentioned applied for samples of my trans- 
lation. When I deal in wine, cloth, or cheese, 
I will give samples, but of verse never. No 
consideration would have induced me to 
comply with the gentleman's demand, unless 
he could litive assured me that liis v\'ife had 
longed. 

I have frcquendy thought with pleasure of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



241 



the summer that you have liad in your heart, 
while you have heen employed in softening 
the severity of winter in behalf of so many 
who must otherwise have been exposed to it. 
I wish that you eould make a f;feneral gaol- 
delivery, leaving only those behind who eaii- 
iiot elsewhere be so properly disposed of. 
You never said a better thing in your life 
than when you assured Mr. of the ex- 
pedience of a gift of bedding to the poor of 
()lney. There is no one article of this world's 
comforts with wliich, as Falstaff says, they 
are so heinously unprovided. When a poor 
woman, and an honest one, whom we know 
well, carried home two pair of bhmket.s, a 
pair for herself and husband, and a pair for 
her six cliildren ; as soon as the children saw 
them, they jumped out of their straw, caught 
them in their arms, kissed them, blessed 
them, and danced for joy. An old woman, a 
very old one, the first night that she found 
herself so comfortably covered, could not 
sleep a wink, being kept awake by the con- 
trary emotions of transport on the one Iiand, 
and the fear of not being thankful enough on 
the other. 

It just oceurs to me to say that this mai\u- 
script of mine will be ready for the press, as 
I hope, by the end of Febru.iry. I shall have 
finished the Iliad, in about ten days, and shall 
proceed immediately to the revisal of the 
whole. You must if possible come down to 
Olney, if it be only that you may take 
charge of its safe delivery to Johnson. For, 
if by any accident it should be lost, I am un- 
done — tiic first copy being but a lean coun- 
terpart of the second. 

Your mother joins with me in love and 
good wishes of every kind to you and all 
yours. 

Adieu, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, .Ian. 10, 1786. 

It gave me great pleasure that you found 
my friend Unwin, what I was sure you would 
find him, a most agreeable man. I did not 
usher him in with the marrow-bones and 
cleavers of high-sounding ininegyric, both be- 
cause I was certain that, whatsoever merit he 
had, your discernment would mark it, and 
because it is possible to do a man material 
injury by making his praise his harbinger. 
It is easy to raise ex|iectation to such a pitch 
that the reality, bo it ever so excellent, must 
necessarily fall below it. 

I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , 

of whom I have the first information from 
yourself, both for his friendly disposition to- 
wards me, and for the manner in which he 
marks the defects in my volume. An author 
must be tender indeed to wince on being 



touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he 
says, and as you and my uncle say, you can- 
not be all mistaken, neither is it at all prob- 
able that any of you should be so. I take il 
for granted, therefore, that there are inequal- 
ities in the composition, and I do assure you. 
my dear, most faithfully, that, if it should 
reach a second edition, I will spare no pain;, 
to improve it. It may serve me for an agree- 
able amusement perhaps when Homer shall 
be gone, and done with. The first edition 
of poems has generally been susceptible ol' 
improvement. Pope I believe never pub- 
lished one in his life th.at did not undergci 
variations, and his longest pieces many. I 
will only observe that inequalities there must 
be always, and in every work of length. 
There are level parts of every subject, parts 
which we cannot with propriety attempt to 
elevate. They are by nature humble, and 
can only be made to assume an awkward and 
uncouth appearance by being mounted. But 
again I take it for granted that this remark 
does not apply to the matter of your objec- 
tion. You were sufficiently aware of it be- 
fore, and have no need that I should suggest 
it as an apology, could it have served that 
office, but would have made it for me your- 
self. In truth, my dear, had you known in 
what anguish of mind I wrote the whole ol' 
that poem, and under what perpetual inter- 
ruptions from a cause that has since been re- 
moved, so that sometimes I had not an op- 
portunity of writing more than three lines at 
a sitting, you would long since have won- 
dered as much as I do myself that it turned 
out anything better than Grub-street. 

My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find 
out any of the magi to scrutinize my Ilomer. 
I can do without them ; and, if I were not 
conscious that I h.ave no need of their help, 
I would be the first to call for it. Assure 
your.self that I intend to be careful to the ut- 
most line of all possible caution, both with 
respect to language and versification. I will 
not send a verse to the press that shall not 
have undergone the strictest examination. 

A subscription is surely on every account 
the most eligible mode of publication. When 
I shall have emptied the purses of my friends 
and of their friends into my own, I am still 
free to levy contributions upon the world at 
large, and I sli.ill then have a fund to defray 
the exi)cnses of .'i new edition. I have ordered 
Johnson to print the proposals immediately, 
and hope that they will kiss your hands be- 
fore the \\ eek is expired. 

I have had the kindest letter from Josephus 
that I ever had. He mentioned my purpose 
to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, 
that "such a work is much wanted." 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



16 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. 

My dear William, — I am glad that you 
have seen Lady Hesketh. I knew that you 
would find her everything that is amiable and 
elegant. Else, being my relation, I would 
never have shown her to you. She was also 
delighted with her visitor, and expects the 
greatest pleasure in seeing you again ; but is 
under some apprehensions that a tender re- 
gard for the drum of your car may keep you 
from her. Never mind! You have two 
drums, and if she should crack both, I will 
buy you a trumpet. 

General Cowper having much pressed me 
to accompany my proposals with a specimen, 
1 have sent him one. it is taken from the 
twenty-fourth book of tlie Iliad, and is |)art 
of the interview between Priam and Achilles. 
Tell me, if it be possible for any man to tell 
me — -why did Homer leave off at the burial 
of Hector ? Is it possible, that he could be 
determined to it by a conceit so little worthy 
of him as that, having made the number of 
his books completely the alphabetical num- 
ber, he would not for the joke's sake proceed 
any further ? Why did he not give us the 
death of Aeliilles, with the destruction of 
Troy 1 Tell me also if the critics, with Aris- 
totle at their head, have not found that he 
left off exactly w'here he should, and that 
every epic poem to all generations is bound 
to conclude with the burial of Hector? I do 
not in the least doubt it. Therefore if I live 
to write a dozen epic poems, I will always 
take care to bury Hector, and to bring all 
matters at that point to an immediate con- 
clusion. 

I had a truly kind letter from Mr. , 

written immediately on his recovery from the 
fever. I am bound to honor James's powder, 
not only for the services it has often ren- 
dered to myself, but still more for having 
been the means of preserving a life ten times 
more valuable to society than mine is ever 
likely to be. 

You say, "\Vhy should I trouble you with 
my troubles V I answer, " Why not ? What 
is a friend good for, if we may not lay one 
end of tlie sack upon his shoulders, while we 
ourselves carry the other?" 

You see your duty to God, and your duty 
to your neighbor, and you practise both with 
your best ability. Yet a ccrt.iin person ac- 
counts you blind. I would, that all tlie world 
were so blind even as you are. But there 
are some in it who, like the Chinese, say, 
'• We have two eyes ; and other nations have 
but one!" I am glad however that in your 
one eye you have sight enough to di.scover 
that such censures are not worth minding. 

I thank you heartily for every step you 
take in the advancement of my present pur- 
pose. 



Contrive to pay Lady H. a long visit, for 
she has a thousand things to say. 
Yours, my dear William, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Jan. 14, 1766. 

My dear Friend, — My proposals are al- 
ready printed. I ought rather to say that 
they are ready for printing; having near ten 
days ago returned the correction of the proof 
But a cousin of mine, and one who will I 
dare say be very active in my hterary cause, 
(I mean General Cowper,) having earnestly 
recommended it to me to anne.\ a specimen, 
I have accordingly sent him one, extracted 
from tlie latter part of the last book of the 
Iliad, and consisting of a hundred and seven 
lines. I chose to extract it from that part of 
the poem, because if the reader should happen 
to find himself contejit with it, he will natu- 
rally be encouraged by it to hope well of the 
part preceding. Every man who can do any- 
thing in the translating way is pretty sure 
to set off with spirit ; but in works of such a 
length, there is always danger of flagging 
near the close. 

My subscription I hope will bo more pow- 
erfully promoted than subscriptions generally 
are. I have a warm and atiectionate friend 
in Lady Hesketh ; and one equally disposed, 
and even still more able to serve me, in the 
General above mentioned. The Bagot fam- 
ily all undertake my cause with ardor ; and 
I have several others, of whose ability and 
good will I could not doubt without doing 
them injustice. It will however be necessary 
to bestow yet much time on the revisal of 
this work, for many reasons; and especially, 
because he who contends w"ith Pope upon 
Homer's ground can of all writers least 
afford to be negligent. 

Mr. Scott brought me as much as he could 
remember of a kind message from Lord Dart- 
mouth ; but it was rather imperfectly de- 
livered. Enough of it however came to 
hand to convince me that his lordship takes 
a friendly interest in my success. When his 
lordship and I .sat side by side, on the sixth 
form at Westminster, we little thought that 
in process of time one of us was ordained to 
give a new translation of Homer. Yet at 
that very lime it seems I was laying the 
foundation of this superstructure. 

Much love upon all accounts to you and 
yours. 

Adieu, my friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, Jan. 15, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I have just time to give 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



343 



you a hasty line to explain to you the delay 

that tlip publication of my proposals hius un- 
cxpoflodly cru'ountered, and at wliicli I sup- 
pose that you have been soinewbiit surprisej. 

I have a ne.ir relation in London, and a 
warm friend in General Cowper; lie is also a 
person as able as willinfj to render me mate- 
rial service. I lately made him aeiinainted 
with my design of .sendinjf into the world a 
new Translation of Ilomer.and told him that 
my papers would soon attend him. He soon 
after desired that I would annex to them a 
specimen of the work. To this I at tirst ob- 
jected, f<ir reasons that need not be enume- 
rated here, but at last acceded to his advice ; 
and accordingly the day before yesterday 1 
sent him a specimen. It eonsi.sts of mu' 
hundred and seven lines, and is taken from 
the interview between I'riam and Achilles in 
the last book. I chose to extract from the 
latter end of the poem, and as near to the 
close of it as possible, that I miglit encourage 
a hope in the readers of it,th:it if they found 
it in some degree worthy of their approbation, 
they would lind the former parts of the work 
not less so. For if a writer Hags anywhere, 
it must be when he is near the end. 

My subscribers will have an option given 
them in the proposals respecting the price. 
My predecessor in the same business was 
not quite so moderate. You may say, per- 
haps (at least if your kindness for me did not 
prevent it, you would be ready to say,) '• It is 
well — but do you place yourself on a level 
with Pope ?"' I answer, or rather shoulil 
answer, '• By no means — not as a poet ; but 
as a translator of Homer, if I did not expect 
and believe that I should even surpa.ss him, 
why have I meddled with this matter at all ! 
If I confess inferiority, I reprobate my own 
undertaking." 

When I can hear of the rest of the bishops 
that they preach and live as yoiu' brother docs, 
I will think more respectfully of them tlian I 
feel inclined to do at present. They may be 
le.'irned, and I kiunv tlnit some of them are; 
but your brother, learned as he is, h.-is other 
more powerful recommendations. Persuade 
him to |)ublish his poetry, and I pronii.se you 
that he shall find as warm and sincere an ad- 
mirer in nie as in any man that lives. 
Yours, my dear fiieud. 

Very alfectionatcly, VV. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olnoy, .Ian. 33, I'X. 

5Iy dear and faithful friend, — . 

The paragraph that I .am now beginning 
will contain information of a kind that I am 
not very fond of communicating, and on a 
subject that I am not very foiul of writing 
about Only to you I will open my budget 



without any reserve, because I know that in 
what (■oneerns my authorship you takc^ an in- 
terest that demands my confidence, and will 
be pleased with every occurrence that is at all 
propitious to my endeavors. Lady Ilesketh, 
who, had she as many mouths as Virgil's 
Fame, uilli a tongue in each, would employ 
thein all in my service, writes me word that 
Dr. Maty, oftheMuseiim, has readmy "Task." 
I cannot, even to you, relate what he says of 
it, though, when I began this story, I thought 
I had courage enough to tell it boldly. He 
designs, however, to give his opinion of it in 
his next .Monthly Review; and,beinginformed 
that I w.as about to finish a tr.anslation of 
Homer, asked her ladyship's leave to mention 
the circumstance on that occasion. This in- 
cident pleases me the more, because I have 
authentic intelligence of his being a critical 
character, in all its forms, acute, sour, and 
blunt, and so incorruptible withal, and so un- 
susceptible of bias from undue motives, th.it, 
as my correspondent informs me, he would 
not praise his own mother, did he not think 
she deserved it. 

The said " Task" is likewise gone to O.v- 
ford, conveyed thither by an intiinate friend 

of Dr. , with a purpose of putting it into 

his hands. JMy friend, what will they do with 
me at Oxford ? Will tliey burn me at Carfax, 
or will they antheinatize me with bell, book, 
and candle? I can say with more truth than 
Ovid did — Parce, nee inviileo. 

Tlie said Dr. has been heard to say, 

and I give you his own words, (stop both 
your ears while I utter them,) "that Homer 
has never been translated, and that Pope was 
a fool." Very irreverend language, to be sure, 
but, in consideration of the subject on which 
he used tliein, we will pardon it, even in a 
dean.* One of the masters of Eton told a 
friend of mine lately, that a translation of 
Homer is much wanted. So now you have 
all my news. 

Yours, my dear friend, cordially, 

W. C. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, .Ian. ni, ITSfi. 
It is very pleasant, my dearest Cousin, to 
receive a present so delicately conveyed as 
that which I received so lately from 'Anony- 
mous; but it is also very painful to have 
nobody to thank for it. I lind myself, there- 
fore, driven by stress of neees.sity to the fol- 
lowing resolutions, viz., that I will constitute 
you my thanks-reeeiver-geiieral, for whatso- 
ever gilt 1 shall receive hereafter, as well as 
for tho.se that I have already received from a 
nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, 

* Tho pprson Iii-ri^ nlliided to is Dr. Cyril .Tackson. dt'an 
of Ctirisl ("inircti. ''xlunl. a man of prulbuntl ac<)Uiro- 
menl8 and of i,'riMt rl.i-^Hical lasli'. Hi- wa-^ foriniTly pre- 
ceptor to the Prin.-.,' ul" Wales, ntterwards George I V. 



244 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



my cousin, for a most elegant present, includ- 
ing the most elegant compliment that ever 
poet was honored with ; for a snuff-box of 
tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on 
the lid of il, glazed with crystal, having the 
figures of three hares in tlie fore ground, and 
inscribed above with these words, The Peas- 
ant's Nest — and below with these, Tiiiey, 
Fuss, and Bess. For all and every of these 
I thank you, and also for standing proxy on 
this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank 
you, that so soon after I had sent you tlie 
first letter of Anonymous, 1 received another 
in the same hand. — There ! Now I am a little 
easier. 

I h.avc almost conceived a design to send 
up half a dozen stout country fellows, to tie 
by the leg to their respective bed-posts, tlie 
compiiny that so abridges your opportunity 
of writmg to me. Your letters are tlie joy 
of my heart, and I cannot endure to be 
robbed, by I know not whom, of half my 
treasure. But there is no comfort without a 
drawback, and therefore it is that I, who have 
unknown friends, have unknown enemies also. 
Ever since I wrote last, I find myself in better 
health, and my nocturnal spasms and fever 
considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. 
Kerr on Thursday, that I may gratify him 
with an account of my amendment : for to 
him I know that it will be a gratification. 
Were he not a physician, I should regret that 
he lives so distant, tor he is a most agreeable 
man ;t but, being what he is, it would be im- 
possible to have hiscompany, even if he were 
a neighbor, unless in time of sickness, at 
which time, whatever charms he might have 
himself, my own must necessarily lose much 
of their eii'cct on him. 

When I write to you, my dear, what I have 
already related to the General, 1 am alw.ays 
fearful lest I should tell you that for news 
\vith which you are well acquainted. For 
once, however, I will venture. On Wednes- 
day last I received from Johnson the MS. copy 
of a specimen that I had sent to the General, 
and inclosed in the same cover Notes upon it 
by an unknown critic. Johnson, in a short 
letter, recommended him to me as a man of 
unquestionable learning and ability. On pe- 
rusal and consideration of his remarks, I 
found him such, and, having nothing so much 
at heart as to give all possible security to 
yourself and the General that my work shall 
not come forth unfinished, I answered John- 
son that I would gladly submit my MS. to 
his friend. He is in truth a very clever fellow, 
perfectly a stranger to me, and one who, I 
promise you, will not .spare for severity of 
animadversion, where he shall find occasion. 
It is impossible for you, my dearest cousin, 
to express a wish that I do not equally feel a 

* Dr. Kerr was an eminent ptiysiciiin, in great prac- 
tice, ftud resident at Northampton. 



wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty 
should see a book of my Homer, and for that 
reason, if Maty u-ill sec a book of it. he shall 
be welcome, although time is likely to be 
precious, and consecjuently any delay that is 
not absolutely necessary as much as possible 
to be avoided. I am now revising the " Iliad." 
It is a business that will cost me four months, 
perhaps five : for I compare the very words 
as I go, and, if much alteration should occur, 
must transcribe the whole. The first book I 
h;tve almost transcribed already. To these 
five months Johnson says that nine more must 
be added for printing, and upon my own ex- 
perience, I will venture to assure you that the 
tardiness of printers will make those nine 
months twelve. There is danger therefore 
that my subscribers may think that I make 
them wait too long, and that they who know 
me not, may suspect a bubble. How glad 
shall I be to read it over in an evening, book 
by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you 
and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touch- 
stone always, and without reference to her 
taste and judgment I have printed nothing. 
With one of you at each elbow, I should 
think myself the happiest of all poets. 

The General and I, having broken the ice, 
are upon the most comfortable terms of cor- 
respondence. He writes very affectionately 
to me, and I say everything th.at comes up- 
permost. I could not write frequently to any 
creature living upon any other terms than 
tho.se. He tells me of infirmities that he has, 
which make him less active than he was. I 
am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas ! 
alas ! he was young when I saw him, only 
twenty years ago. 

I have the most affectionate letter imagina- 
ble from Colman, who writes to me like a 
brother. The Chancellor i.s yet dumb. 

May God have you in his keeping, my be- 
loved cousin. 

Farewell, W. C. 



Lady Hesketh having announced her in- 
tention of paying a visit to Cowper, the fol- 
lowing letters abound in all that delightful 
anticipation which the prospect of renewing 
so endeared an intercourse naturally sug- 
gested. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

OIney, Feb. 9, 1780. 
My dearest Cousin, — I have been impa- 
tient to tell you that I am impatient to see 
you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me 
in all my feelings upon this subject, and 
longs also to see you. I should have told 
you so by the last post, but have been so 
completely occupied by this tormenting speci- 
men, th.at it was impossible to do it. I sent 
tlie General a letter on Monday that would 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



245 



distress and alarm him ; I sent Rim another 
yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet hiin again. 
Jolinson has apologized very eivilly tor the 
iniiltitiulc of liis friend's strietiires; and Ids 
tVieiid lias promised to eoiitiiie liiiiiself in 
fntnre to a eomparison with the cn-ii^inal, so 
tliat (I doubt not) we sliall jog on merrily 
together. And now, my dear, let me tell 
you once more that your kindness in prom- 
ising us a visit has charmed us both. 1 shall 
see you again. I shall hear your voice. We 
shall take walks together. I will show you 
my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the 
Ouse, and its banks, everything that I have 
described. I anticipate the jileasure of those 
days not very far distant, and feel a part of 
it at this moment. Talk not of an inn I 
Mention it not for your life ! We have 
never had so many visitors but we could 
easily accommodate them all, though we 
have received Unwin, and his wife, and his 
sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I 
will not let you come till the end of May, or 
beginning of June, because, hefore that time 
my green-house will not be ready to receive 
us, and it is the only pleasant room belong- 
ing to us. When the plants go out, we go 
in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor 
with mats ; and there you shall sit, with a 
bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge 
of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine ; and 1 
will make you a bouquet of myrtle every 
day. Sooner than the time I mention the 
country will not be in complete beauty. 
And I will tell you what you shall find at 
your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as 
you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a 
look on cither side of you, you shall see on 
the right hand a box of my making. It is 
the bo.\ in which have been lodged all my 
hares, and in wliich lodges Puss at present. 
But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, 
and promises to die before you can see him. 
On the right hand stands a cupboard, the 
work of tlic same author ; it was once a 
dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite 
to you stands a table, wliich I also made. 
But, a merciless servant having scrubbed it 
until it became paralytic, it serves no jiur- 
pose now but of ornament ; and all my clean 
shoes stiilid under it. On the left hand, at 
the farther end of this superb vestibule, you 
will find the door of the parlor, into which I 
will conduct you, and where I will introduce 
you to Mr.s. Unwin, unless w^e should meet 
her before, and where we will be as liajipy 
as the day is long. Order yourself, my 
cousin, to tlie Swan, at Newport, and there 
you shall find me ready to conduct you to 
Oliiey. 

My dear, I have told Homer what you say 
about casks and urns, and have asked him 
whether he is sure that it is a cask in which 
Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is 



a cask, and that it will never be anything 
better than a cask to eternity. So if the god 
is content with it, we must even wonder at 
his taste, and be so too. 

Adieu ! my deai-est, dearest Cousin, 

w. c. 



TO LADV HESKETH. 

OIney, Feb. 11, 1786. 

My dearest Cousin, — It must be, I sup- 
pose, a fortnight or thereabout since I wrote 
hist, I feel myself so alert and so ready to 
write again. Be that as it may, here I come. 
We talk of nobody but you, what we will do 
with you when we get you, where you shall 
walk, where you shall sleep, in short every- 
thing that bears the remotest relation to your 
well-being at Olney occupies all our talking 
time, which is all that I do not spend at 
Troy. 

I have every reason for writing to y(ni as 
ofliMi as I can, but I ha\e a particular reason 
for doing it now. I want to tell you, that 
by the diligence on Wednesday next, I mean 
to send you a quire of my Homer for Maty's 
perusal. It will contain the first book, and 
as much of the second as brings us to the 
catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel 
of the revised copy that I have transcribed. 
My dearest cousin, read it yourself, let the 
General read it, do what you please with it, 
so that it reach Johnson in due time. But 
let Maty he the only Critic that has anything 
to do with it. The vexation, the perplexitj', 
that attends a multiplicity of criticisms by 
various "liands, many of which are sure to be 
futile, many of them ill-founded, and some 
of them contradictory to other.s, is incon- 
ceivable, except by the author whose ill-fated 
work happens to be the subject of them. 
This also appears to me .self-evident, that if 
a work have passed under the rmiew of one 
man of taste and learning, and have li.ad tlie 
good fortune to please him, his ajiprolKation 
gives security for that of all others qualified 
like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after 
having just escaped from such a storm of 
tr(nible, occasioned by endless remarks, liints, 
suggestions, and objeclion.s, as drove me al- 
most to despair, aiui to the very verge of a 
resolution to drop mv undertaking forever. 
With infinite dillicnliy I at last sifted the 
chalf from the wheat, availing myself of 
wli.'it appeared to nu! to be just, and rejected 
the rest, but not till the labor and anxiety 
had nearly undone all that Kerr had been 
doing for me. My beloved cousin, trust me 
for it, as you .safely may, that temper, vanity, 
and self-importance, liad nothing to do in all 
this distress that I sutlered. It was merely 
the elTect ol' an alarm that I could not help 
talking, when 1 I'ompared the great trouble I 
had with a few lines only, thus handled, with 



246 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



that which I foresaw such handling of tlie 
Avhole must necessarily ffive me. 1 felt be- 
foreliand th.at my constitution would not 
l)c:ir it. I shall send up this second speci- 
men in a box that I have made on purpose: 
and when Maty has done with the copy, and 
you have done with it yourself, then you 
must reluru it in said box to my translator- 
ship. Tlioujfh Johnson's friend has teased 
me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have 
no more such cause to complain of liim. 
We now understand one another, and I 
firmly believe that I miglit have gone the 
world througli before I had found his equal 
in an accurate and familiar acquaintance with 
the original. 

A letter to Mr. Urban in the hist Gentle- 
man's Magazine, of which I's book is the sub- 
ject, pleases me more than anything I have 
seen in the way of eulogium yet. 1 have no 
guess of the author. 

I do not wish to remind the Chancellor of 
his promise. Ask you why, my Cousin? 
Because I suppose it would be impossible. 
He has, no doubt, forgotten it entirely, and 
would be obliged to take my word for the 
truth of it, which I could not bear. We 

drank tea together with Mrs. C e, and 

her sister, in King-street, Bloomsbnry, and 
there was the promise made. I said, " Thur- 
low, I am nobody, and shall be always no- 
body, and you will be Chancellor. Vou shall 
provide for me when you are." He smiled, 
and replied, " I surely will." " These ladies," 
said I, " are witnesses." He still siniled, and 
said, '• Let them be so, for I certainly will do 
it." But alas ! tw-enty-four years have passed 
since the day of the date thereof; and to 
mention it now would be to upbraid him 
with inattention to his plighted troth. Nei- 
ther do I suppose that he could easily serve 
such a creature as I am, if he would. 
Adieu, whom I love entirely, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, Feb. 18, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — I feel myself truly 
obliged to you for the leave that you give me 
to be less frequent in my writing, and more 
brief than heretofore. I have a long work 
upon my hands ; and standing engaged to 
the public (for by this time I suppose my 
subscription papers to be gone abroad, not 
only for the performance of it, but for the 
performance of it in a reasonable time), it 
seems necessary to me not to intermit it 
often. My correspondence has also lately 
been renewed with several of my relations, 
and unavoidably engrosses now and then 
one of the few opportunities that I can find 

* Private correspondence. 



for writing. I nevertheless intend, in the 
exchange of letters with you, to be as reg- 
ular as I can be, and to use, like a friend, 
the friendly allowance that you have made 
me. 

Jly reason for giving notice of an Odyssey 
as well as an Iliad, was this ■ I feared that 
the public being left to doubt whether I 
should ever translate the former, would be 
unwilling to treat with me for tlie latter ; 
wliich they would be apt to consider as an 
odd volume, and unworthy to stand upon 
their shelves alone. It is hardly probable, 
however, that I should begin the Odyssey for 
some months to come, being now closely en- 
gaged in the revisal of my translation of the 
Iliad, which I compare as I go most minutely 
with the original. One of the great defects 
of Pope's translation is that it is licentious. 
To publish therefore a translation now, that 
should be at all chargeable with the same 
fault, that were not indeed as close and as 
faithful as possible, would be only actum 
agcrc, and had therefore better be left un- 
done. Whatever be said of mine when it 
shall appear, it shall never be said that it is 
not faithful. 

I thank you heartily, both for your wishes 
and prayers that, should a disappointment 
occur, I may not be too much hurt by it. 
Strange as if may seem to say it, and un- 
willing as I should be to say it to any person 
less candid than yourself, 1 will nevertheless 
say that I have not entered on this work, un- 
connected as it must needs appear with the 
interests of the cause of God, without the 
dirccti(m of his providence, nor altogether 
unassisted by liim in the jierformanee of it. 
Time will show to what it ultimately tends. 
I am inclined to believe that it has a ten- 
dency to which I myself am at present per- 
fectly a stranger. Be that as it may, he 
knows my frame, and will consider that I am 
but dust ; dust, into the bargain, that has 
been so trampled under foot and beaten, that 
a storm, less violent than an unsuccessful 
issue of such a business might occasion, 
would be sufficient to blow me quite away. 
But I will tell you honestly, I have no fears 
upon the subject. My predecessor has given 
me every advantage. 

As I know not to what end this uiy pres- 
ent occupation may finally lead, so neither 
did I know, when I wrote it, or at all suspect 
one valuable end at least that was to be an- 
.swered by " The Task." It has pleased God 
to prosper it ; and, being composed in blank 
verse, it is likely to prove as seasonable an 
introduction to a blank verse Homer by the 
s;ime hand as any that could have been de- 
vised; yet, when I wrote the last line of 
"The task," I as little suspected that I 
should ever engage in a version of the old 
Asiatic tale as you do now. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



247 



I should choose I'or your fjenenil motto: — 
Carmina turn melius, cum vcncrit ipse, cancmus. 

For Vol. I.— 

Unum pro multis ilabitur caput. 

For Vol. II.— 

Aspice, venturo laetentur ut omnia sedcIo. 

It seems to me that you cannot have bet- 
ter than these. 

Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, Feb. 18, 178li. 
My dearest Cousin, — Since so it must be, 
so it shall be. If you will not sleep under 
the roof of a friend, may you never sleep 
under the roof of an enemy! An enemy, 
however, you will not presently find. Mrs. 
Unwin bids me mention her ati'ectionately, 
and tell you that she willinffiy gives up a 
part, for the sake of tlie re.st. — willingly, at 
Iciist as far as willingly may consist with 
some reluctance: I feel my reluctance too. 
Our design was that you should have slept 
iu tlie room that serves me for a study, and 
its having been occupied by you would have 
been an additional recommendation of it to 
me. But all reluctances are superseded by 
the thought of seeing you ; and because we 
have nothing so much at heart as the wish 
to see you happy and comfortable, we are 
desirous therefore to accommodate you to 
your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Un- 
win has already secured for you an apart- 
ment, or rather two, just such as we could 
wish. The house in which you will find 
them is within thirty yards of our own, and 
opposite to it. The whole afiair is thus 
cominodiously adjusted; and now I have 
nothing to do but to wish for June : and 
June, my Cousin, was never so wished for 
since June was made. I shall have a thou- 
sand things to hear, and a thousand to say, 
and they will all rush into my mind together, 
till it will be so crowded with things im- 
patient to be said, that for some time I shall 
say nothing. But no matter — sooner or 
later they will all come out ; and since we 
shall hiivc you the longer for not having you 
under our own roof (a circumstance that 
more than anything reconciles us to that 
measure), they will stand the better chance. 
After so long a separation, — a separation 
that of late seemed likely to last for life — 
we shall meet each other as alive from tlie 
dead : and for my own p:u-t, I can truly say, 
that I have not a friend in the other world 
whose resurrection would give me greater 
pleasure. 

I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased 



you with what you have seen of my Homer. 
I wish that all English readers had your un- 
sophisticated, or rather unaduUerated taste, 
and could relish simplicity like you. But I 
am well aware that in this respect 1 am under 
a dteadvautagc, and that many, especially 
many ladies, missing many turns and pretti- 
nesses of expression, that they have admired 
in Pope, will account my translation in those 
particulars defective. But I comfort myself 
with the thought, that in reality it is no de- 
fect; on the contrary, that the want of all 
such embellishments as do not belong to the 
original, will be one of its principal merits 
with persons indeed capable of relishing Ho- 
mer. He is the best poet that ever lived for 
many reasons, but for none more than for 
that majestic plainness that distinguishes him 
from all others. As an accomplished person 
moves gracefully without thinking of it, in 
like manner the dignity of Homer seems to 
cost him no labor. It was natural to him 
to say great things, and to say them well, 
and little ornaments were beneath his notice. 
If Maty, my dearest cousin, should return to 
you my copy, with any such strictures as 
may make it necessary for me to see it 
again, before it goes to Johnson, in that case 
you shall send it to me, otherwise to John- 
son immediately ; for he writes me word he 
wishes his friend to go to work upon it as 
soon as possible. When you come, my dear, 
we will hang all these critics together; for 
they have worried me without remorse or 
conscience. At least one of them has. I 
had actually murdered more than a few of 
the best lines in the specimen, in compliance 
with his requisitions, but plucked up my 
courage at last, and, in the very last oppor- 
tunity that I had, recovered them to life 
again by restoring the original reading. At 
the same time I readily confess that the spe- 
cimen is the better for all this discipline its 
author has undergone, but then it has been 
more indebted for its improvement to that 
pointed accuracy of examination to which 
I was myself excited, than to any proposed 
amendments from Mr. Critic ; for, as sure as 
you are my cousin, whom I long to see at 
Olney, so surely would he have done me ir- 
reparable mischief, if I would have given him 
lc;ive. 

My friend Bagot writes to me in a most 
friendly strain, and calls loudly upon me for 
origin.-d jjoetry. When I shall have done 
with Homer, prob.ibly he will not call in vain. 
Having found the prime feather of a swan 
on the b:inks of the smug ami silver Trent, 
he keeps it for me. 

Adieu, dear Cousin, W. C. 

I am sorry that the General has such indif- 
ferent health. He must not die. I can by 
no means spare a person so kind to me. 



248 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olncy, Feb. 27, 1780. 
Alas ! alas ! my dear, deai- friend, may God 
himself comfort you ! I will not be so ab- 
surd as to attempt it.* By the close of^our 
letter, it should seem that in this hour of 
great trial he withholds not his consolations 
from you. I know, by experience, that they 
are neither few nor small ; and thouLfh I 
feel for you as I never felt for man before, 
yet do I sincerely rejoice in this, that, where- 
as there is but one true comforter in the uni- 
verse, under afflictions such as yours, you 
both know Him, and know where to seek 
Him. I thought you a man the most happily 
mated that Thad ever seen, and had great 
pleasure in your felicity. Pardon me, if 
now I feel a wisli that, sliort as my ac- 
quaintance with her was, I had never seen 
her. I should have mourned with you, but 
not as I do now. Mrs. Unwin sympathizes 
with you also most sincerely, and you nei- 
ther are nor will be soon forgotten in sucli 
prayers as we can make at Olney. I will 
not detain you longer now, my poor afflict- 
ed friend, than to commit you to the tender 
mercy of God, and to bid you a sorrowful 
adieu ! 

Adieu ! Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, JImcll 6, 1780. 

My dearest Cousin, — Your opinion has 
more weight with me than that of all the 
critics in the world ; and, to give yon a proof 
of it, I make you a concession that I would 
hardly have made to them all united. I do 
not indeed absolutely covenant, promise, and 
agree, tliat I will discard all my elisions, but 
I hereby bind myself to dismiss as many of 
them as, without sacrificing energy to sound, 
I can. It is incumbent upon me in the mean- 
time to s.iy something in justification oi the 
few that I sliall retain, tliat I may not seem 
a poet mounted rather on a mule than on 
Pegasus. In the first place. The is a barba- 
rism. We are indebted for it to tlie Celts, 
or tlie Goths, or to the Saxons, or perhaps to 
them all. In the two best languages that 
ever were spoken, the Greek and the Latin, 
there is no similar incumbrance of expres- 
sion to be found. Secondly, tlie perpetual 
use of it in our language is, to us miserable 
poets, attended with two great inconve- 
niences. Our verse consisting only of ten 
syllables, it not unfrequenly happens that 
the fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, 
and necessarily too, unless elision prevents 
it, by this abominable intruder, and, which is 
worse on my account, open vowels are con- 
tinually the consequence — The element^ — 
* Mr. BtigoL had receutly Bustained the lo33 ol" his wife. 



The air, &c. Thirdly, the French, who are 
equally with the English chargeable with 
barbarism in this particular, dispose of their 
Le and their La witliout ceremony, and al- 
ways take care that they shall be absorl>ed, 
both in verse and in prose, in the vowel that 
immediately follows them. Fourthly, and I 
believe lastly, (and for your sake I wish it 
inav prove so,) the practice of cutting short 
The is warranted by Milton, who of all Eng- 
lish poets that ever lived, had certainly the 
finest ear. Dr. W.arton indeed has dared to 
say that he had a bad one, for wliich he de- 
serves, as far as critical demerit can deserve 
it, to lose his own. I thought I had done, 
but there is still a fifthly behind ; and it is 
this, that the custom of abbre\iating The, 
belongs to the style in whicli, in my adver- 
tisement annexed to the specimen, I profess 
to write. The use of that style would have 
warranted me in the practice of much greater 
liberty of this sort than I ever intended to 
take. In perfect consistence with that style, 
I might say, I' th' tempest, 1' th' doorway, 
&c., which, however, I would not allow my- 
self to do, because I was aware that it would 
be objected to, and with reason. But it seems 
to me, for the causes above-said, that when I 
shorten The, before a vowel, or before wh, as 
in the line you mention, 

" Than th' whole broad Hellespont in all its 
parts," 

ray license is not equally exceptionable, be- 
cause W, though he rank as a consonant, in 
the word whole, is not allowed to announce 
himself to the ear ; and H is an aspirate. But 
as I said in the beginning, so say I still, I am 
most willing to conform myself to your very 
sensible observation, th.it it is necessary, if 
we would please, to consult the taste of our 
own day ; neither would I liave pelted you, 
my dearest cousin, with any part of this vol- 
ley of good reasons, had I not designed 
them as an answer to those objections, which 
you say you have heard from others. But I 
only mention them. Though satisfactory to 
myself, I waive them, and will allow to The 
his whole dimensions, whensoever it can be 
done. 

Thou only critic of my verse that is to be 
found in all the earth, whom I love, what 
shall I say in answer to your own objection 
to that passage 1 

" .Softly he placed his Iiand 
On th' old man's hand, and ])Usheil it gently 
away." 

I can say neither more nor less than this, 
that when our dear friend, the General, sent 
me his opinion on the specimen, quoting 
those very words from it, he added — " With 
this part I was particularly pleased: there is 
nothing in poetry more descriptive." Such 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



249 



were his very words. Taste, my dear, is 

various; there is nothing so various; and 
even between persons of the best taste there 
are diversities of opinion on the same sub- 
jeet, for wliich it is not possible to account. 
So niui-li for these matters. 

You advice nie to consult the General and 
to conlidc in him. I follow your advice, and 
have done both. By the last post I asked 
his permission to send him the booivs of my 
Homer, as fast as I should finish them ofi". 
I shall bo g-lad of his remarks, and more 
},dad, than of anythinn;, to do that which I 
hope may be agreeable to him. They will 
of course pass into your hands before they 
are sent to Johnson. The quire that I sent 
is now in tlie hands of Johnson's friend. I 
intended to have told you in my last, but 
forgot it, that Jfjhnson behaves very hand- 
somely in the afl'iir of my two volumes. 
lie acts with a liberality not often found in 
persons of his occujjation, and to mention it 
when occasion calls me to it is a justice due 
to him. 

I am wry much pleased with Ifr. Stiinley's 
letter — .several compliments were paid me 
on the subject of that first volume by my 
own friends, but I do not recollect that I 
ever knew the opinion of a stranger about it 
before, whether favorable or otherwise ; I 
only heard by a side wind that it was very 
much read in Scotland, and more than here. 

Farewell, my dearest cousin, whom we e.v- 
pect, of whom we talk continually, and 
whom wo continually long for. W. C. 

P. S. Ytiur an.\ious wishes for my success 
delight me, and you may rest assured, my 
dear, that I have all the ambition on the sub- 
ject that you can wish me to feel. I more 
than admire my author. I often stand as- 
tonished at his beauties : I am forever amused 
with the translation of him, and I have re- 
ceived a thousand encouragenu'nts. These 
are all so many happy omens that I hope 
shall be verified by the event. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olney, March 13, 1780. 
^[y dear Friend, — I seem to be about to 
write to yon. but I foresee that it will not be 
a letter, but a scrap that I .shall send you. I 
could tell you things, that, knowing how 
much you interest yourself in my success, I 
am sure would please you, but every mo- 
ment of my leisure is necessarily spent at 
Troy. I am revising my translation, and be- 
stowing on it more labor than at first. At 
the repeated solicitation of General Cowper, 
who had doubtless irrefragable reason on his 
side, I have put my bixdi into the hands of the 
mo-it e.vtraordinary critic that I have ever 
heard of He is a Swiss; has an accurate 



knowledge of English, and, for his knowledge 
of Homer, has I verily believe no fellow. 
Johnson recommended him to me. 1 am to 
seud him the quires as fast as I finish them 
off, and the first is now in his hands. I have 
the comfort to be able to tell you that he is 
very mucli pleased with what he has seen : 
Johnson wrote to me lately on purjiose to 
tell me so. Things having taken this turn, 
I fear that I must heg a release from my en- 
gagement to put the MS. into your hands. I 
am bound to print as soon as three hundred 
shall have subscribed, and consequently have 
not an hour to spare. 

People generally love to go where they are 
admired, yet Lady Hesketh complains of not 
having seen you. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEY. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olncy, April 1, 1786. 

Jty dear Friend, — I have made you wait 
long for an answer, and am now obliged to 
write in a hurry. But, lest my longer silence 
should alarm you, hurried as I am, still I 
write. I told yim, if I mi.stidic not, that tlie 
circle of my correspondence has lately been 
enlarged, and it seems still increasing ; which, 
together with my poetical business, makes 
an hour a momcnious afl'air. Pardon an un- 
intentional pun. You need not fear for my 
health: it suffers nothing by my employment. 

We who in general see no company are at 
present in expectation of a great deal, at 
least, if three diflfcrent visits may be called 
so. 3Ir. and Mrs. Powley, in the first pl.ace, 
are prepiu'ing for a journey southwai-d. She 
is far from well, but thinks herself well 
enough to travel, and feels an afl'ectionate 
impatience for another sight of Olney.f 

In the nc.\t place, we e.\pcct, as soon as 
the season shall turn up bright and warm, 
General Cowper and his son. I have not seen 
him these twenty years and upwards, but our 
intercourse, having been lately revived, is like- 
ly to become closer, warmer, and more inti- 
mate than ever. 

Lady Hesketh also comes down in June, 
and if slie can be accommodated with anything 
in the shape of a dwelling at Olney, talks of 
making it always, in part, her summer resi- 
dence. It has pleased God that I should, like 
Joseph, be put into a well, and, because there 
are no Jlidianites in the way to deliver me, 
therefore my friends are coming down into 
the well to see me. 

I wish you, we both wish you, all happi- 
ness in your new habitation : at least you 
will be sure to find the situation more com- 
modious. I thank you for all your hints 
concerning my work, which shall be duly at- 

* Private correspondcnco. 
f Mrs. Uiiwiu's (lauijlilur. 



250 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tended to. You may assure all wliom it may 
concern, tliat all oflensive elisions will be dune 
away. With Jlrs. Unwin's love to yourself 
and Mrs. Neuton, I remain, my dear friend, 
affectionately vours, 

W. C. 



Tlie friends of Cowper were not without 
alarm at his engaging in so lengthened and 
perilous an undertaking as a new version of 
the Iliad, when the popular translation of 
Pope seemed to render such an attempt su- 
perfluous. To one of his correspondents, 
who urged this objection, he makes the fol- 
lowing reply. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

OIney, April 5, I't'G. 

I did, as you suppose, bestow all possible 
consideration on the subject of an apology 
for my Homerican undertaking. I turned 
the matter about in my mind a hundred dif- 
ferent ways, and, in every way in which it 
would present itself, found it an impractica- 
ble business. It is impossible for me, with 
what delicacy soever I may manage it, to 
state the objections that lie against Pope's 
translation, without incurring odium and the 
imputation of arrogance ; foreseeing this dan- 
ger, I choose to say nothing. 

W. C. 

P. S. Vou may well wonder at my cour- 
age, who have undertaken a work of such 
enormous length. You would wonder more 
if you knew that I translated the whole Iliad 
with no other help than a Clavis. But I 
have since equipped myself better for this 
immense journey, and am revising the work 
in company with a good commentator. 

The motives which induced Cowper to en- 
gage in a new version of the Iliad originated 
in the conviction, that, however Pope's trans- 
lation might be embellished with harmonious 
numbers, and all the charm and grace of po- 
etic diction, it failed in being a correct and 
faithful representation of that immortal pro- 
duction. Its character is supposed to be just- 
ly designated by its title of " Pope's Homer." 
It is not the Homer of the heroic ages ; it does 
not express his m.njcsty — his unadorned, yet 
sublime simplicity. It is Homer in modern 
costume, decked in a court dress, and in the 
trappings of refined taste aud fa.shion. His 
sententious brevity, which possesses the art 
of conveying much compressed in a short 
spice, is also expanded and dilated, till it re- 
sembles a paraphrase, and an imitation, rather 
than a just and accurate version of its ex- 
pressive and speaking original. We believe 
this to be the general estimate of the merits 
of Pope's translation. Profound scholars. 



and one especially, whose discriminating taste 
and judgment conferred authority on his de- 
cision. Dr. Cyril Jackson (formerly tlie well- 
known Dean of Christ Church, O.xford), con- 
cur in this opinion. But notwithstanding this 
redundance of artificial ornament, and the 
'■ labored elegance of polished version," the 
translation of Pope will perhaps always re- 
tain its pre-eminence, and he considered what 
Johnson calls it, ''the noblest version of po- 
etry which the world has ever seen," and " its 
publication one of the greatest events in the 
annals of learning."* 

Of the merits of Cowper's translation, wc 
shall have occasion hereafier to speak. But it 
is due to the cause of sound criticism, and to 
the merited claims of his laborious under- 
taking, to declare that he who would wish to 
know and understand Homer must seek for 
him in the expressive and unadorned version 
of Cowper. 

In the course of the following letters we 
shall discover many interesting particulars of 
the progress of this undertaking. 

Cowper was now looking forward with 
great anxiety, to the promised visit of Lady 
Ilesketh. The followiug letter adverts to 
the preparations making at the vicarage at 
Olney for her reception ; and to her delicate 
mode of administering to his personal com- 
forts and enjoyments. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olncy, April 17. 1786. 
My dearest Cousin, — If you will not quote 
Solomon,my dearest cousin, I will. He says, 
and as beautifully as truly — "Hope deferred 
maketh the heart sick, but when the desire 
comcth, it is a tree of life !" I feel how much 
reason he had on his side when he made this 
observation, and am myself sick of your fort- 
night's delay. 

The vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, 
and was not tinislicd till some time after we 
arrived at Olney, consequently it is new. It is 
a sm.art stone building, well sashed, by much 
too good for the living, but just what I would 
wish for you. It has, as you justly concluded 
from my premises, a garden, but rather calcu- 
Katcd for use than ornament. It is square, and 
well walled, but has neither arbor nor alcove 
nor other shade, except the shado:v of the 
house. But we have two gardens, wliich are 
yours. Between your mansion and ours is in- 
terposed nothing but an orchard, into which a 
door, opening out of our garden, affords us 
the easiest communication imaginable, will 
save the round about by the town, and make 
both houses one. Your chamber windows 

* See Johnson's Life of Pope. The original manu- 
script copy of Pope's translation is deposited in the 
Uritish Museum. 



look over the river, and over the meadows, to 

a villai^c oalli'd Emberton, and command the 
whoU' luii^th (if a lonij bridjro, doscrilicd by a 
cortain port, to^'el her with a view of the road 
at a distance.* fihould you wish for boolis 
at Olney, you must bring tlicm with you, or 
you will wish in vain, for I have none but 
the works of a certain poet, Cowper, of 
whom, perhaps, you have heard, and they 
are as yet but two volumes. Tliey may 
multiply hereafter, but at present they are no 
more. 

Vou are the first person for whom I have 
heard Mrs. Unwin e.\pre.ss such feelings as 
she does for you. She is not profuse in pro- 
fessions, nor forward to enter into treaties 
of friendship with new faces, but when her 
friendship is once engaged, it may be con- 
fided in, even unto death. She loves you 
already, and how much more will she love 
you before this time twelvemonth! I have 
indeed endeavored to describe you (o her, 
but, perfectly as I have you by heart, I am 
sensible that my picture cannot do you jus- 
tice. I never saw one that did. Be you what 
you may, you arc much beloved, and will be 
so at Olney, and Jlrs. U. expects you with 
the pleasure that one feels at the return of a 
long absent, dear relation ; that is to say, with 
a pleasure such as mine. She sends you her 
warmest affection.*. 

On Friday, I received a letter from dear 
Anonymous,! apprizing me of a parcel that 
the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who 
is there in the world that has, or thinks he 
has reason to love me to the degree that he 
docs 1 But it is no matter. He chooses to 
be unknown, and his choice i.s, and ever shall 
be so sacred to me, that, if his name lay on 
the table before me reversed, I would not 
turn the paper about, that I might read it. 
Much as it would gratify me to thank him, I 
would turn my eyes away from the forbidden 
discovery. I long to assure him that those 
same eyes, concerning which he expresses 
such kind apprehensions, lest they should suf- 
fer by this laborious undertaking, are as well 
as I could expect them to be, if 1 were never 
to touch either book or pen. Subject to 
weakness and occasional slight iullammations 
it is probable that they will always be, but I 
cannot remember the time when they enjoyed 
anything so like an exemption from those in- 
firmities as at present. One would almost 
su|)po.se that reading Homer were the best 
ophthalmic in the world. I should be happy 
to remove his solicitude on the subject, but 
it is a pleasure that he will not let me enjoy. 

• Hark I 'tis the twnn[;in? horn oVr yonder britlgo 
Ttml with it-s u-c'iiri.'^unlo but nt'cdfnl U'lifrth 
Bestrides tile wintry tlnod, in wliieh the tiioiin 
Sees her unwiinkled luce reHeeted hrii:tit. 

The Task, Hook IV. 
t Lady (lesketh adopted this dclicute mode of extend- 
ing her kindness to llie Poet. 



Well then, I will be content without it; and 
so content, that though I believe you, my 
dear, to be in full possession of all this mvs- 
tery.you shall never know me, while you live, 
either directly or by hints of any sort, attempt 
to extort or to steal the secret from yon : I 
should think myself as justly punishable as 
the Bethshemites, for looking into the ark, 
which they were not allowed to touch. 

I ha\e not setit for Kerr,* for Kerr can do 
nothing but send me to Bath, and to Bath I 
cannot go for a thousiind reasons. The sum- 
mer u ill set me up again ; I grow fat every 
day, and shall be as big as Gog or Magog, or 
both put together, before you come. 

1 did actually live three years with Mr. 
Chapman, a solicitor, that is to say, I slept 
three years in his hou.se, but I lived, that is to 
say, I spent my days in Southampton Row, 
as you very well renieinbcr. There was I, 
and the future Lord Chancellor, constantly 
employed from morning to night in giggling 
and making giggle, instead of studying the 
law. O fie, cousin ! how could you do so ? 
I am pleased with Lord Thurlow's inquiries 
about me. If he takes it into that inimitable 
head of his, he may make a man of me yet. 
I could love him heartily, if he would de- 
serve it at my hands. That I did so once is 

certain. The Duchess of , who in the 

world set her agoing? But if all the duch- 
esses in the world were spinning, like so 
many whirligigs, for my benefit, I would not 
stop tbein. It is a noble thing to be a poet, 
it makes all the world so lively. I might 
have preached more .sermons than even Til- 
lotson did, and better, and the world would 
have been still fast asleep, but a volume of 
verse is a fiddle that puts the universe in 
motion. 

Yours, 
My de.ar friend and cousin, W. C. 



TO LADT HESKETII. 

Olney, April 24, 1786. 

Your letters are so much my comfort, that 
I often tremble lest by accident I should be 
disappointed ; and the more because you 
have been, more than once, so engaged in 
company on the writing day, that I have had 
a narrow escajie. Let me give you a piece ^ 
of good counsel, my cousin : follow my laud- 
able example, write when you can, take time's 
forelock in one hand, and a pen in the other, 
and so make sure of your opportunity. It is 
well for me that you write faster than any- 
body, and more in an hour th.-m other people 
in two, else I know not what would become 
of me. When I read your letters, I he:ir you 
talk, and I love talking letters dearly, es- 
pecially from you. Well ! the middle of June 

* Dr. Kerr, of Nortliaiupton, 



252 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



will not be always a thousand years oif, and 
when it comes I shall hear you, and see you 
too, and shall not care a farthing then if you 
do not toucli a pen in a month. By the way, 
you must either send me or bring me some 
more paper, for before the moon shall have 
performed a few more revolutions, I shall 
not have a scrap left, and tedious revolutions 
they are just now, that is certain. 

I give you leave to be as peremptory as 
you please, especially at a distance ; but, 
when you say that you are a Cowper, (and 
the better it is for the Cowpers that such you 
are, and I give them joy of you, with all my 
heart,) you must not forget, that I boast my- 
self a Cowper too, and have my humors, and 
fancies, and purposes, and determinations, as 
well as others of my name, and hold them as 
fast as they can. You indeed tell jne how 
often I shall see you when you come. A 
pretty story truly. I am an he Cowper, my 
dear, and claim the privileges that belong to 
my noble sex. But these matters shall be 
settled, as ray cousin Agamemnon used to 
say, at a more convenient time. 

I shall rejoice to see the letter you promise 
me, for, though I met with a morsel of praise 
last week, I do not know that the week cur- 
rent is likely to produce me any, and having 
lately been pretty much pampered with that 
diet, I e.xpect to find myself rather hungry 
by the time when your ne.\t letter shall ar- 
rive. It will therefore be very opportune. 
The morsel above alluded to came from — 
whom do you think ? From , but she de- 
sires that her authorship may be a secret. 
And in my answer I promised not to divulge 
it, except to you. It is a pretty copy of 
verses, neatly written and well turned, and 
when you come you shall see them. I intend 
to keep all pretty things to myself till then, 
that they may serve me as a bait to lure you 
hither more effectually. The last letter that 

I had from I received so many years 

since, that it seems as if it had reached me a 
good while before I was born. 

I was grieved at the heart that the General 
could not come, and that illness was in p.art 
the cause that hindered him. I have sent him, 
by Ins express desire, a new edition of the first 
book and half of the second. He would not 
suffer me to send it to you, ray dear, lest you 
should post it away to Maty at once. He did 
not give that reason, but being shrewd I 
found it. 

Tlie grass begins to grow, and the leaves 
to bud, and everything is preparing to be 
beautiful against you come. 

Adieu ! W. C. 

P. S. You inquire of our walks, I perceive, 
as well as our rides. They are beautiful. You 
inquire also concerning a cellar. You have 
two cellars. Oh ! what years have passed 



since we took the s,ime walks, and drank out 
of the same bottle ! but a few more weeks, 
and then ! 



TO LADY HESKET3I. 

OIney, May 8, 1786. 

I did not at all doubt that your tenderness 
for my feelings had inclined you to suppress 
in your letters to me the intelligence con- 
cerning Maty's critique, that yet reached me 
from another quarter. When I wrote to you, 
I had not learned it from the General, but 
from my- friend Bull, «"ho only knew it by 
hearsay. The next post brought me the 
news of it from the first mentioned, and the 
critique itself inclosed. Together with it 
came also a squib discharged against me in 
tlie "Public Adverti-ser." Tlie General's let- 
ter found me in one of my most melancholy 
moods, and ray spirits did not rise on the re- 
ceipt of it. The letter indeed that he had 
cut from the newspaper gave me little pain, 
both because it contained nothing formida- 
ble, though written with malevolence enough, 
and because a nameless author can have no 
more weight with his readers than the reason 
which he has on his side can give him. But 
JIaty's animadversions hurt me more. In 
part they appeared to me unjust, and in part 
ill-natured, and yet, the man himself being 
an oracle in everybody's account, I appre- 
hended th.at he had done me much mischief 
Why he says that the translation is fiir from 
exact is best known to himself For I know 
it to be as exact as is compatible with poetry ; 
and prose translations of Homer are not 
wanted, the world has one already. But I 
will not fill my letter to you with hypercriti- 
cism.s, I will only add an extract from a letter 
of Colman's, that I received last Friday, and 
will then dismiss the subject. It came ac- 
companied by a copy of the specimen which 
he himself had amended, and with so much 
taste and candor that it cliarmed me. He 
says as follows : — 

" One copy I have returned, with some re- 
marks prompted by my zeal for your success, 
not. Heaven knows, by arrogance or imperti- 
nence. I know no other way, at once so plain 
and so short, of delivering my thoughts on 
the specimen of your translation, which on 
the whole, I admire exceedingly, thinking it 
breathes the spirit and conveys the maimer 
of the original; though having here neither 
Homer, nor Pope's Homer, I cannot speak 
precisely of particular lines or expressions, or 
compare your blank verse with his rliyme, 
except by declaring that 1 think blank verse 
infinitely more congenial to the magnificent 
simplicity of Homer's hexameters, tlian the 
confined couplets and the jingle of rhyme."' 

His amendments are chielly bestowed on 
the lines encumbered with elisions, and I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



253 



will just take this opportunity to tell you, 
my dear, because I know you to l)e as niiieh 
interested in what I wrilo as myself, that 
some of the most offensive of these elisions 
were occasioned by mere criticism. I was 
fairly hunted into them, by vexations objec- 
tions made without end, by and his 

friend, and altered, and altered, till at last I 
did not care how I altered. Many thanks 

for 's verses, which deserve just the 

character yon give of tliem. They are neat 
and easy — but I would mumble her well, if 
I could tjet at her, for allowinrr herself to 
suppose for a moment that I pr.iised the chan- 
cellor with a view to einoliimcnt.* I wrote 
those stanzas merely for my own amuse- 
ment, and they slept in a dark closet years 
after I composed them; not in the least de- 
signed for publication. lint when Johnson 
had printed otf the longer pieces, of wliich 
the first volume principally consists, he wrote 
me word that he wanted yet two thousand 
lines to swell it to a proper size. On that 
occasion it was that I collected every scrap 
of verse tfuit I could find, and that among 
the rest. None of the smaller poems had 
been introduced, or had been published at 
all with my name, but for this necessity. 

Just as f wrote the last word, I was called 
down to Dr. Kerr, who came to pay nie a 
voluntary visit. Were I sick, his cheerful 
and friendly manner would almost restore 
me. Air and exercise are his theme ; them 
he recommends as the best physic for me, 
and in all we.ithers. Come, therefore, my 
dear, and take a little of this good physic 
with me, for you w'ill find it heneficial as 
well as I: come and assist Mrs. Unwin in 
the re-establishment of your cousin's health. 
Air and exercise, and she and you together, 
will make me a perfect Samson. Vou will 
have a good house over your head, comforta- 
ble apartment.s, obliging neighbors, good 
roads, a pleasant country, and in us, your 
constant companions, two who will love you, 
and do already love you dearly, and with all 
our hearts. If you are in any danger of 
trouble, it is from myself, if any fits of de- 
jection seize me ; and, as often as they do. 
you will be grieved for me ; but perhajjs by 
your assi.stance I shall be able to resist them 
better. If there is a creature under heaven, 
from whose co-operations with .Mrs. Unwin 
I can reasonably expect such a blessing, that 
creature is yourself. I was not without such 
attacks when I lived in London, though at 
that time, they were le^s oppressive, but in 
your company I was never unhappy a whole 
day in all my life. 

Of how much importance is an author to 
himselfl I return to that abominable i^peci- 
men again, just to notice Maty's impatient 

• See Uie verses on I.ortl Tlmrlow — 
" Round Thurlow's liead in early youUi,'* iu. &c. 



censure of the repetition that you mention. 
I mean of the word hand. In the original 
there is not a repetition of it. But to repeat 
a word in that manner, and on such an occa- 
sion, is by no means (what he calls it) a 
modern invention. In Homer I could show 
him many such, and in Virgil they abound. 
Cohnan, who in his judgment of classical 
matters is inferior to none, say.s, " / know no! 
u-hij Maty objects to this expression.'' I could 
easily change it. But, the case standing thu.s. 
I know not whether my proud stomach will 
condescend so low. I rather feel myself dis- 
inclined to it. 

One evening last week, Mrs. Unwin and I 
took our walk to Weston, and, as we were 
returning through the grove opposite the 
house, the Throckmortons presented them- 
selves at the door. They are owners of a 
house at Weston, at present empty. It is a 
very good one, infinitely superior to ours. 
When we drank chocolate with them, they 
both expressed their ardent desire that we 
would take it, wishing to have us for nearer 
neighbors. If you, my cousin, were not so 
well provided for as you are, and at our very 
elbow, I verily believe I shoidd have mus- 
tered all my rhetoric to recommend it to 
you. You might have it fore\'er without 
danger of ejectment, whereas your posses- 
sion of the vicarage depends on the life of 
the vicar, who is eighty-six.* The environs 
are most beautiful, and the village itself one 
of the prettiest I ever saw. Add to this, 
you would step immediately into Jlr. Throck- 
morton's pleasure-ground, where you would 
not soil your slipper even in winter. A most 
unfortunate mistake was made by that gen- 
tleman's bailiff in his absence. Just before 
he left Weston last year for the winter, he 
gave him orders to cut short the tops of the 
Howering shrubs, that lined a serpentine walk 
in a delightful grove, celebrated by my poet- 
ship in a little piece, that (you remember) 
was called '-The Shrubbery."f The dunce, 
misapprehending the order, cut down and 
fagoted up the whole grove, leaving neither 
tree, bush, nor twig; nothing but stumps 
about as high as my ancle. Mrs. T. told us 
that she lu'ver saw her husband so angry in 
his life. I judge indeed by his physiognomy, 
which has great sweetness in it, that he is 
very little addicted to that infernal passion, 
but had he ciulgelled the man for his cruel 
blunder and the havoc made in consequence 
of it, I could have excused him. 

I felt myself really concerned for the chan- 
cellor's illness, and, from what I learned of 
it, both from the papers and from General 
Cowper, concluded that he must die. I am 
accordingly delighted in the same proi>ortion 
with the ne\v s of his recovery. May he live, 

* Ttio Rpv. Moses Orown. 
t " O huppy sliuUcs, &C. &c. 



254 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and live to be still the support of government ! 
If it shall be his good pleasure to render me 
personally any material service, I have no ob- 
jection to it. But Heaven knows that ii is 
impossible for any living wight to bestow 
less thought on that subject than myself. 

May God be ever with you, my beloved 
cousin ! W. C. 



The mingled feelings with which we meet 
a long absent friend, and the alternate sensa- 
tions of delight and nervous anxiety e.\peri- 
eneed as the long wished for moment ap- 
proaches, are expressed with singular feli- 
city in the following letter. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olncy, May 15, 1786. 

My dearest Cousin, — From this very morn- 
ing I begin to date the last month of our long 
separation, and confidently and most comfort- 
.ably hope, that before the 15th of June shall 
present itself we shall have seen each other. 
Is it not so ? And will it not be one of the 
most extraordinary eras of my extraordinary 
life? A year ago, we neitlier corresponded 
nor expected to meet in this world. But this 
world is a scene of marvellous events, many 
of them more marvellous than fiction itself 
would dare to hazard ;* and, blessed be God ! 
they are not all of the distressing kind. Now 
and then, in the course of an existence whose 
hue is for the most part sable, a day turns 
up that makes amends for many sighs and 
many subjects of complaint. Such a day 
shall I account the day of your arrival at 
Olney. 

Wherefore is it (canst thou tell me 1) that, 
together with all those delightful sensations, 
to which the sight of a long absent dear 
friend gives birth, there is a mixture of some- 
thing painful, flutterings, and tumults, and I 
know not what accompanimehts of our pleas- 
ure, that are in fact perfectly foreign from the 
occasion? Such I feel, when I think of our 
meeting, and such, I suppose feel you : and 
the nearer the crisis approaches, the more I 
am sensible of them. I know, beforehand, 
th.it they will increase with every turn of the 
wheels that shall convey me to Newport, 
when I shall set out to meet you, and tluit, 
when we shall actually meet, the pleasure, 
and this unacc6untable pain together, will be 
as much as I shall be able to support. I am 
utterly at a loss for the cause, and can only 
resolve it into that appointment by wiiich il 
has been foreordained that all liunian delights 
shall be qualified and mingled with their con- 
traries. For there is nothing formidable in 
you. To me at least there is nothing such, 
no, not even in your menaces, unless when 
you threaten me to write no more. Nay, I 
* "Trutli is strange, stranger than fiction." 



verily believe, did I not know you to be what 
you are, and had less affection for you than 
I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, 
of which I would have none, if I could help 
it. But a fig for them all ! Let us resolve 
to combat with and to conquer them. They 
are dreams. They are illusions of the judg- 
ment. Some enemy, that hates the happi- 
ness of human kind, and is ever industrious 
to dash it, works them in us; and their being 
so perfectly unreasonable as they are is a 
proof of it. Nothing that is such can be the 
work of a good agent. This I know too by 
experience, that, like all other illu.sions, they 
exist only by force of imagination, are in- 
debted for their prevalence to the absence 
of their object, and in a few moments after 
its appearance cease. So then this is a set- 
tled point, and the case stands thus. You 
will tremble as you draw- near to Newport, 
and so shall I. But we will both recollect 
th.at there is no reason why we should ; and 
this recollection will at least have some little 
effect in our favor. We will likewise both 
take the comfort of what we know to be 
true, that the tumult will soon cease, and the 
pleasure long survive the pain, even as long, 
I trust, as we ourselves shall survive it. 

What you said of JIaty gives me all the 
consolation that you intended. We both 
think it highly probable that you .suggest 
the true cause of his displeasure, when you 
suppose him mortified at not having had a 
part of the translation laid before him, ere 
the specimen was published. The General 
was very much hurt, and calls his censures 
harsh and unreasonable. He likewise sent 
me a consolatory letter on the occasion, in 
which he took the kindest pains to heal the 
wound that (he supposed) J might have suf- 
fered. I am not naturally insensible, and the 
sensibilities that I had by nature have been 
wonderfully enhanced by a long series of 
shocks given to a frame of nerves that was 
never very .athletic. I feel accordingly, whe- 
ther painful or pleasant, in the extreme, am 
easily elevated, and easily cast down. The 
frown of the critic freezes my jloetical pow- 
ers, and discourages me to a degree that 
makes me ashamed of my own weakness. 
Yet I presently recover my confidence again. 
The half of what you so kindly say in your 
last would, at any time, restore my spirits ; 
and, being said by you, is infallible. I am 
not .ashamed to confess, that, having com- 
menced an author, I am most iibundantly de- 
sirous to succeed as such. Ihave (irhal per- 
haps you little suspect me <f) in my nature an 
infinite sitare of ambitimi. But with it I have, 
at the same time, as you well know, an eqiuil 
share of diflidence. To this combination of 
opposite qualities it has been owing that, till 
lately, I stole through life without undertak- 
ing anytliing, yet always wishing to distin- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



255 



guish myself. At last I ventured, ventured 
too in till- only pnth that, at so late a period, 
was yrt open to me : :ind am determined, if 
God have not determined otherwise, to work 
my way, throiijjh tiie obseurity tliat lias been 
so long my portion, into notiei'. Everytliing, 
therefore, that seums to threati'n this my fa- 
vorite purpose with disappointment alteets 
me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious 
minds are in the same predicament. He 
who seeks distinction must be sensible of 
disapprobation, exactly in the same propor- 
tion as he desires applause. And now, my 
precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to 
you in this particular, without a speck of 
dissimulation. Some ])eople, and good peo- 
ple loo, would blame me. But you will not; 
.and they (I think) would blame without just 
cause. We certainly do not honor God, 
when we bury, or when we neglect to im- 
prove, as far as we may, whatever talent he 
may have bestowed on us, whether it be lit- 
tle or much. In natural things, as well as in 
spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to 
him who ha/h (that is, to hnn who occupies 
what he hath diligently and so as to increase 
it) more shall be given. Set me down, there- 
fore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so 
long as I shall have the ability. For in this 
only way is it possible for me, so far as I can 
.see, either to honor God, or to serve man, or 
even to serve myself. 

I rejoice to hear that j\[r. Throckmorton 
wishes to be on a more intimate footing. I 
am shy, and suspect that he is not very much 
otherwise, and the consequence has been, 
that we have mutually wished an actjuaint- 
ance without being able to accomplish it. 
Blessings on you for the hint that you 
dropped on the subject of the house at Wes- 
ton ! For the burthen of my song is — 
" Since we have met once again, let us never 
be separated, as we have been, more." 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

OIncy, May 20, 1TS6. 
My dear Friend, — About three weeks since 
I met your sister Chester* at Mr. Throck- 
morton's, and from her learned that you are 
at Blithfield.t and in health. Upon the en- 
couragement of this information it is that I 
write now : I should not otherwise have 
known with certainty where to find you, or 
have been eijually free from the fear of un- 
seasonable intrusion. May God be with 
you, my friend, and give you a just measure 
of submission to his will, the most etVectual 
of all remedies for the evils of this elian"in<r 

* (rharlcs Ha^oU ttii' brother of Wultcr, tuok Ihn nanit- 
of CIli'Htcr on ttlc ili-arli of Sir l.'liarirs Mtu^ot Clieslyr, and 
lived at ('hichelt-y, not far from We-ton, the scat of Mr. 
Throckraorlon. 

t Uc WM nxloT of Bliihflcld, Staffordshire. 



scene. I doubt not that he has granted you 
this blessing already, and may he still con- 
tinue it ! 

Now I will talk a little about myself; for 
<'.\cept myself, living in this tcrrarum anguin, 
what can I have to talk about? In a scene 
of perfect tranquillity and the profoundest 
silence, I am kicking up the dust of heroic 
n.arrative and besieging Troy again. I told 
yon that 1 had almost finished the translation 
of the Iliad, and I verily thought eo. But I 
was never more mistaken. By the time 
when I had reached the end of the poem, 
the first book of my version was a twelve- 
month old. When I came to consider it 
after having laid it by so long, it did not 
satisfy me. I set myself to luend it, and I 
did so ; but still it appeared to lue improve- 
able, and that nothing would so effectually 
secure that point as to give to the whole 
book a now translation. With the exception 
of a very few lines I have so done, and was 
never in my life so convinced of the sound- 
ness of Horace's advice, to publish nothing 
in haste ; so much advantage have I derived 
from doing that twice which I thought I had 
accomplislied notably at once. He indeed 
recommends nine years' imprisoiuuent of 
your verses before you send them abroail ; 
but the ninth part of that time is, I believe, 
as much as there is need of to ojien a man's 
eyes upon his own defects, and to secure 
him from the danger of premature self-ap- 
probation. Neither ought it to be forgotten, 
that nine years make so wide an interval be- 
tween the cup and the lip, that a thousand 
things may fall out between. New engage- 
ments may occur, which may make the fin- 
ishing of that which a poet has begun im- 
possible. In nine years ho may rise into a 
situation, or he may sink into one, utterly 
incompatible with his purpose. His consti- 
tution may break in nine years, and sick- 
ness may disqualify him for improving what 
he cnterprised in the days of healtb. His 
inclination may change, and he may find 
some other employment more agreeable, or 
another poet may enter upon the same work, 
and get the start of him. Therefore, my 
friend Horace, though I acknowledge your 
principle to be good, I must confess that I 
think the practice you would ground upon it 
carried to an extreme. The rigor that I ex- 
ercised upon the first book I intend to exer- 
cise upon all th;it follow, and have now ac- 
tually advanced into the middle of the 
seventh, nowhere admitting more than one 
line in fifty of the first translation. Von 
must not imagine that I had been careless 
and hasty in the first iiislance. In truth I 
had not; but, in rendering so excellent a 
poet as Homer into our language, there are 
so many points to be attended to, both in 
respect of Luiguage and numbers, that a first 



256 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



attempt must be fortunate indeed if it does 
not call loud for a second. You saw the 
specimen, and you saw (I am sure) one great 
fault in it ; I mean the harshness of some of 
the elisions. I do not altogether take the 
blame of these to myself; for into some of 
them I was actually driven and hunted by a 
series of reiterated objections made by a 
critical friend, whose scruples and delicacies 
teazed me out of all my patience. But no 
such monsters will be found in the volume. 

Your brother Chester has furnislied me 
with Barnes's Homer, from whose notes I 
collect here and there some useful informa- 
tion, and whose fair and legible type pre- 
serves from the danger of being as blind as 
was my author. I saw a sister of yours at 
Mr. Throckmorton's, but I am not good at 
making myself heard across a large room, 
and therefore nothing passed between us. I 
liowever felt tliat she was my friend's sister, ] 
and much esteemed her for your sake. 

Ever yours, W. C. 

P. S. — The swan is called argutvs (I sup- 
pose) a mm arguendo and canorus a non ca- 
■nendn. But whether he be dumb or vocal, 
more poetical than the eagle or less, it is no 
matter. A feather of eitlier, in token of 
your approbation and esteem, will never, you 
may rest assured, be an offence to me. 



Cowper seems to have reserved for the 
tried friendship of Newton the disclosure of 
those secret sorrows which he so seldom in- 
truded on others. The communications 
which he makes on these occasions are pain- 
fully affecting. The mind labors, and the 
language responds to the intensity of the in- 
ward emotion. Sorrow is often sublime and 
eloquent, because the source of eloquence is 
not so much to be found in the powers of 
the intellect as in the acute feelings of an 
ardent and sensitive heart. It is the heart 
that unlocks the intellect. 

These remarks will prepare the reader for 
the following letter. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, May 20, 1780. 
My dear Friend, — Within this hour arrived 
three sets of your new publication,f for 
which we sincerely thank you. We have 
breakfasted since they came, and conse- 
quently, as you may suppose, have neither of 
us had yet an opportunity to make ourselves 
acquainted with the contents. I shall be 
happy (and when I say that, I mean to be 
understood in the fullest and most emphatical 
sense of the word) if my frame of mind 
shall be such as may permit me to study 
them. But Adam's approach to the tree of 
* Private correspondence. t Messiah. 



life, after he had sinned, w.as not more effect- 
ually prohibited by the flaming sword that 
turned every way, than mine to its great 
Antitype has been now almost these thirteen 
years, a short interval of three or four days, 
which passed about this time twelvemonth, 
alone excepted. For what reason it is that I 
am thus long excluded, if I am ever again to 
be admitted, is known to God only. 1 can say 
but this; that if he is still my "Father, this 
paternal severity has toward me been such as 
that I have reason to account it unexampled. 
For though others have suffered desertion, 
yet few, I believe, for so long a time, and 
perhaps none a desertion accompanied with 
such experiences. But they haxe this be- 
longing to them, that, as they are not fit for 
recital, being made up merely of infernal in- 
gredients, so neither are they susceptible of 
it ; for I know no language in which they 
could be expressed. They are as truly 
things which it is not possible for man to 
utter as those were which Paul heard and 
saw in the third heaven. If the ladder of 
Christian experience reaches, as I suppose it 
does, to the very presence of God, it has 
nevertheless its foot in the abyss. And if 
Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that expe- 
rience of his to which I have ju.st alluded, on 
the topmost round of it, I have been stand- 
ing, and still stand, on the lowest, in this 
thirteenth year that has passed since I de- 
scended. In such a situation of mind, en- 
compassed by the midnight of absolute de- 
spair, and a thousand times filled with un- 
speakable horror, I first commenced as an 
author. Distress drove me to it, and the im- 
possibility of subsisting without some em- 
ployment still recommends it. I am not, in- 
deed, so perfectly hopeless as I was ; but I 
am equally in need of an occuj)ation, being 
often as much, and sometimes even more, 
worried than ever. I cannot amuse myself 
as I once could, with carpenters' or witli 
gardenei^' tools, or with squirrels and guinea- 
pigs. At that time I was a child. But since 
it has pleased God, whatever else he with- 
holds, to restore to me a man's mind, I have 
put away childish tilings. Thus far, there- 
fore, it is plain that I have not chosen or pre- 
scribed to myself my own way, but have been 
providentially led to it ; perhaps I miglit say 
with equal propriety, compelled and scourged 
into it ; for cert.ainly, could I have made my 
choice, or were I permitted to make it even 
now, those hours which I spend in poetry I 
would spend with God. But it is evidently his 
will that I should spend them as I do, be- 
cause every other way of employing them he 
himself continues to make impossible. If in 
the course of such an occupation, or by in- 
evitable consequence of it, either my for- 
mer connexions are revived or new- ones oc- 
cur, these tilings are as much a part of the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



257 



dispensation as the leading points of it them- 
selves ; the effeet as much as the cause. If 
his purposes in thus directing nic are prracious, 
he will take care to prove them such in the 
issue, and in the meantime will preserve ine 
(for he is able to do that in one condition of 
life as in another) from all mistalies in con- 
duct that might pro\e pernicious to myself, 
or give reasonable ofience to others. I can 
say it as truly as it was ever spoken — Here 
I am : let him do with me as seemeth him 
good. 

At present, however, I have no connexions 
at which either you, I trust, or any who love 
me, and wisli me well, have occasion to con- 
ceive alarm. Much kindness indeed I have 
experienced at the hands of several, some of 
them near relations, others not related to me 
at all : but I do not know that there is among 
them a single person from whom I am likely 
to catch contamination. I can say of them 
all with more truth than Jacob uttered when 
he called kid venison, "The Lord thy God 
brought tlicm unto me." I could show you 
among them two men whose lives, though 
they have hut little of what w'e call evangeli- 
cal light, are ornaments to a Christian coun- 
try; men who fear God more than some 
who even profess to love him. But I will not 
particularize farther on such a subject. Be 
they what they may. our situations are so dis- 
tant, and we are likely to meet so seldom, 
that, were they, as they are not, persons of 
even exceptionable manners, their manners 
would have little to do with me. We cor- 
respond at present only on the subject of 
what passed at Troy three thousand years 
ago ; and they are matters that, if they can 
do no good, will at least hurt nobody. 

Your friendship for me, and the proof that 
I see of it in your friendly concern for my 
welfare on this occasion, demanded that I 
should be explicit. Assure yourself that I 
love and honor you, as upon all accounts, so 
especially for the interest that you take and 
have ever taken in my welfare, most sincerely. 
I wish you all happiness in your new abode, 
alf possible success in your ministry, and 
much fruit of your newly published labors, 
and am, with Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself 
and Jlrs. Newton, 

Most atfectionately yours. 

My dear friend, W. C. 

Of all the letters, addressed bv Cowpcr to 
Newton, that we have yet laid before the 
reader, we consider the last to be the fullest 
development of the afflicting and mysterious 
dispensation under which he labored. These 
are indeed the deep waters, the sound of the 
lerriVjle storm and tempest. We contem- 
plate this state of mind with emotions of sol- 
emn awe, deep interest, and merited admira- 
tion, when we observe the .spirit of patient 



resignation by which it is accompanied. — ; 
" Here I am,'' exclaims Cowper, " let him do 
with me .as .seemeth him good." To acqui- 
esce in submis.sive silence, under circumstan- 
ces the most opposed to natural feeling, to 
bear an ojipressive lo.ad daily, continuously, 
and with little hope of intermission, and 
amidst tliis pressure and anguish of the soul 
to have produced writing characterised by 
sound judgment, exalted morality, and a train 
of lucid and elevated thought, is a phenome- 
non that must ever remain a mystery ; but 
the poet's submission is the lliith of a suffer- 
ing martyr, and will finally meet with a 
martyr's triumphant crown. 

But, after all, who does not see, in the case 
of Cowper, the evident marks of an aberra- 
tion of mind on one particular subject, found- 
ed on the delusion of supposing himself ex- 
cluded from the mercy of God, when his fear 
of offending him, the blameless tenor of his 
life, and his anxiety to render his works sub- 
servient to the amelioration of the age, prove 
the fallacy of the persuasion ? How can a 
tree be corrupt which produces good fruits? 
llow can a gracious liord cast off those who 
delight in fearing and serving him ? The 
supposition is repugnant to every just and 
sound view of the equity of the Divine gov- 
ernment: God cannot act inconsistently with 
his own character and attributes. The Bible 
is the record of what He is, of his declarations 
to man, of his mora! government, and of his 
dealings with his people. And what does the 
Bible proclaim? It tells us " God is love ;" 
"he deligliteth in mercy;" "he does not 
willingly afflict the children of men ;" " in all 
their affliction he w.as afflicted, and the angel 
of his presiyice saved them." " Can a woman 
forget her sucking child, that she should not 
have compassion on the son of her womb 1 
\'ea, they may forget, yet will I not forget 
thee." " Fear not, thou worm Jacob; I will 
help thee, saith the Lord, .and thy Redeemer, 
the Holy One of Israel."* His moral gov- 
ernment and the history of his dealings to- 
wards the most eminent saints is a pow'erful 
illustration of these truths. He may indeed 
infuse /)('//(')■ ingmlientx in the cup of his 
children: all of them, in due time, taste the 
wormwood and the gall. It is a part of the 
covenant : the t<iken of his love, and essential 
to the trial of their faith and to their purifi- 
cation. But th:it he ever administers what 
Cowper here painfully calls infernnl ingre- 
dients is impossible. These elements of evil 
s])ring not from above but from below. They 
may occur, as in the case of Job, by a per- 
missive Providence, but sooner or later a di- 
vine power interposes, and vindicates his own 
wisdom and ecpiity. We know from various 
sources of information, th.at Cowper fully ad- 
mitted the force of this reasoning, and the 

* ls.ilali Ixiii. 9, 

17 



258 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



justness of its application in every other pos- 
sible instance, himself alone excepted. The 
i'.nswer to this objection is that Ihe aiuity of 
God's moral dealings admits of no exception. 
Men may change ; they may act in opposition 
to their own principles, tlilsify their judgment, 
violate their most solemn engagements, and 
be inlluenced by the variation of time and 
circumstances. But this can never be true 
of the Divine nature. " I, tlie Lord, change 
not." " The same yesterday, to-day, and for- 
ever." " With him is no variableness, nor 
shadow of turning." " Have I ever been a 
wilderness unto Zioii V 

We liave indulged in this mode of reason- 
ing, because it has been our lot to meet with 
some examples of this kind, and to have ap- 
plied the argument with success. If the con- 
solations of the Gospel, administered by an 
enlightened, tender, and judicious minister, 
formed a more prominent part in the treat- 
ment of cases of disordered intellect and de- 
pressed spirit, we feel persuaded that the in- 
stances of recovery would be far more nu- 
merous than they are found to be under 
existing circumstances — that suicides would 
be diminished, and the ills of life be borne 
with more submissive resignation. V\^e con- 
sider the ambassador of Christ to be as es- 
sential as the medical practitioner. Tlie 
afflicted father, recorded in the Gospel,* as 
having a lunatic son, " sore vexed," tried all 
means for his recovery, but without success. 
It is emphaticallj' said, " they could not cure 
him;''' everything failed. What followed? 
Jesus said, " Bring him hither to me." The 
same command is still addressed to us, and 
there is still the same Lord, the same healing 
balm and antidote, and the same Almighty 
power and will to administer it. What was 
the final result? "And the child teas cured 
from thai very hour," or, as the narrali\'e adds 
in another account of tlie same cvent.f '-Je- 
sus took him by the hand, ami lifted him up, 
and he arose." 

The miracles of Christ, recorded in the 
New Testament, are but so many emblems of 
the spiritual power and mercy that heals the 
infirmities of a wounded spirit. 

Other opportunities will occur in the course 
of the ensuing history to resume the consid- 
eration of this important subject. 

The strain of aftectionate feeling which 
pervades the following letters to Lady Iles- 
keth,is strongly characteristic of the stability 
of Cowper's friendships. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Olney, May 25, 178G. 
I have at length, my cousin, found my way 
into my summer abode. I believe that I de- 
scribed it to you some time since, and will 
* Matt. xvii. 14— la t Mark ix. 27. 



therefore now leave it undcscribed. I will 
only say that I am writing in a band-box, 
situated, at least in my account, delightfully, 
because it has a window on one side that 
opens into that orchard through which, as I 
am sitting here, I shall see you often pass, 
and which therefore I already prefer to all 
the orchards in the world. You do well to 
prepare me for all possible del.ays, because 
in this life all sorts of disappointments are 
possible, and I shall do well, if any sucli de- 
lay of your journey should happen, to prac- 
tise that lesson of patience which you incul- 
cate. But it is a lesson which, even with 
you as my teacher, I shall be slow to learn. 
Being sure however that you will not pro- 
crastinate without cause, I will make myself 
as easy as I can about it, and hope the best. 
To convince you how much I am under dis- 
cipline and good advice, I will lay aside a 
favorite measure, influenced in doing so by 
nothing but the good sense of your contrary 
opinion. I had set my heart on meeting you 
at Newport; in my haste to see you once 
again, I was willing to overlook many awk- 
wardnesses I could not but foresee would 
attend it. I put them aside so long as I 
only foresaw tliem myself, but since I find 
that you foresee them too, I can no longer 
deal so slightly with them : it is therefore 
determined that we meet at Olney. Much I 
shall feel, but I will not die if I can help it, 
and I beg that you will take all possible care 
to outlive it likewise, for I know wh.at it is 
to be balked in the moment of acquisition, 
and should bo loath to know it again. 

Last Monday, in the evening, we walked to 
Weston, according to our usual custom. It 
happened, owing to a mistake of time, that we 
set out half an hour sooner than usual. Tliis 
mistake wo discovered while we were in the 
Wilderness : so finding that we had time be- 
fore us, as they say, Mrs. Unvvin proposed 
that we should go into the village, and take 
a view of the house that I had just mentioned 
to you. We did so, and found it such a one 
as in most respects would suit you well.* 
But Moses Brown, our vicar, who, as I told 
you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound 
to die for that reason. He said himself, when 
he was here last summer, that he should live 
ten years longer, and for aught that appears 
so he may. In which case, for the sake of 
its near neighborhood to us, the vicarage has 
charms for me that no other place can rival. 
But this, and a thousand things more, shall 
be talked over when you come. 

We luave been industriously cultivating 
our ac(|uaintance with our Weston neighbors 
since I wrote l.asf, and they on their part 
have been equally diligent in the same cause. 
I have a notion that we shall all suit well. 

* The lodge at Weston to which C'owper removed in 
Ute November following. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



259 



I see inuoli in tlielj both tliat I admire. Vou 
know perhaps that they arc ('atholies. 

It is a dL'ii|,'htt'nl bundle of praise, my 
eousin, that you ha\e sent me : all jasmine 
and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she has 
ovideutly an admirable peji and a cultivated 
mind. If a person reads, it is no matter in 
what language, and if the mind be informed, 
it is no matler whether that mind belongs to 
a man or a woman : the taste and tlie judg- 
ment will receive the benefit alike in both. 
Long before the Task was published, I made 
an e.\perinient one day, being in a froliesome 
mood, upon my friend : we were walking in 
the garden, and conversing on a subject .sim- 
ilar to these lines. 

The few that pray at all, pray ofl amiss, 

And. si.'ckinff grace t' improve the present good, 

Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 

I repeated them, and s:ud to him with an air 
of mmcliatancn, " Do you recollect those 
lines ? I have .seen them somewhere, where 
are they ?" He put on a considering face, 
and after some deliberation replied, " (Jh, I 
will le!l you where they must be — in the 
Night Thoughts." 1 was glad my trial 
turned out so well, and did not undeceive 
him. I mention this occurrence only in con- 
firmation of the lettw-writer's opinion, but 
at the same time I do assure you, on the 
f.uth of an honest man, that I never in my 
life designed an imitation of Young or of 
any other writer; for mimicry is my abhor- 
rence, at least in poetry. 

Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that, 
both for your sake, since yon make a point 
of it, and for my own, I will be as philo- 
liophically careful as possible that these fine 
nerves ot mine shall not be iK'yond measure 
agitated when you arrive. In truth, there is 
much greater probability that they will be 
benefited, and greatly too. Joy of heart, 
from whatever occasion it may arise, is the 
best of .all nervous medicines, and 1 should 
not wonder if such a turn given to my spir- 
its should have even a lasting effect, of the 
most advantageous kind, upon them. Vou ; 
must not imagine, either, that I am on the 
wliole in any great degree subject to nervous 
affections ; occasionally I am, and have been 
these many years, much liable to dejection. 
But, at intervals, and somelimes for an in- 
terval of weeks, no creature would suspect 
it ; for I have not th.-it which commonly is a 
symptom of such a case lielonging to me : I 
mean extraonlinary elevation in the absence ' 
of Air. Bluedevil. When I ;nn in the best 
heallli, my tide of animal sprightliness flows 
with great ei|uality, so that I am never at 
.any time exalted in proportion as I am 
sometimes depressed. My depression has a 
cause, and if that cause were to cease, I j 
should be as cheerful thenceforth, and per- I 



haps forever, as any man need be. But, aa 
I have often said, Jlrs. Unwin shall be my 
expositor. 

Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant 
that our friendship, which, while we could 
sec each other, never suffered a moment's 
interruption, and which so long a separation 
has not in the least abated, may glow in us 
to our last hour, and be renewed in a better 
world, there to be perpetuated forever. 

For you must know, that I should not 
love you half so well, if I did not believe 
you w'ould be my friend to eternity. There 
is not room enough for friendship to unfold 
itself in full bloom in such a nook of life as 
this. Therefore I am, and must and will be, 
Yours forever, W. C. 



TO LADY IIESKETII. 

Olney, May 29, 1786. 

Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose let^ 
ters, among all that I receive, have this 
property peculiarly their own — that I expect 
them without trembling, and never find any- 
thing in them that does not give me pleas- 
ure — for which, therefore, I would take noth- 
ing in exchange that the world could give 
me, save and except that for whicli I must 
exchange them soon — (and happy shall I be 
to do so) — your own company. That in- 
deed is delayed a little too long; to my im- 
patience, at least, it seems so, who find the 
spring, backward as it is, too forward, be- 
cause many of its beauties will have tiided 
before you will have an opportunity to see 
them. We took our customary walk yes- 
terday in the Wilderness at Weston, and 
saw, with regret, the labui'nums, syringas, 
and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and 
others just upon the point of blowing, and 
could not help observing — all these will be 
gone before Ladv Hesketh comes. Still, 
however, there will be roses, and jasmine, 
and honeysuckle, and .shady walks, and cool 
alcoves, and yon will partake them with us. 
But I want you to have a share of every- 
thing that is delightful here, and cannot bear 
that the advance of the season should steal 
away a single pleasure before you can come 
to enjoy it. 

Every day I think of you, and almost all 
day long; I will venture to say, th.at even 
i/i)u were never so expected in your life. I 
called last week :it the Quaker's, to see the 
furniture of your bed, the fame of which had 
reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, nf 
printed cotton, and the subject classical. 
Every morning you will open your eyes on 
Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring 
his father to grant him the conduct of bis 
chariot for a day. May your sleep be as 
sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and 
your nights, at leaist, will be well provided for. 



260 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



I shall send you up the sixth and seventh 
books of the Iliad shortly, and shall address 
them to you. You will forward them to the 
General. I long to show you my workshop, 
and to see you sitting on the opposite side 
of my table. We shall be as close packed 
as two wax figures in an old-fashioned pic- 
ture-frame. I am writing in it now. It is 
the place in which I fabricate all my verse in 
summer time. I rose an hour sooner than 
usual, this morning, that I might finish my 
slieet before breakfast, for I must write this 
day to the General. 

The grass under my windows is all be- 
spangled with de«--drops, and the birds are 
singing in the apple-trees, among the blos- 
soms. Never poet had a more commodious 
oratory, in which to invoke his muse. 

I have made your heart ache too often, 
my poor dear cousin, about my fits of dejec- 
tion. Something h.^s happened that has led 
me to the subject, or I would have men- 
tioned them more sparingly. Do not sup- 
pose, or suspect, that I treat you with re- 
serve ; there is nothing in which I am con- 
cerned that you shall not be made acquainted 
with ; but the tale is too long for a letter. 
I will only add, for your present satisfaction, 
that the cause is not exterior, that it is not 
within the reach of human aid, and that yet 
I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a 
strong persuasion, of its removal. I am in- 
deed even now, and have been for a consid- 
able time, sensible of a change for the bet- 
ter, and expect, vvith good reason, a comfort- 
able lift from you. Guess, then, my beloved 
cousin, with what wishes I look forward to 
the time of your arrival, from whose coming 
I promise myself not only pleasure but 
peace of mind, at least an additional share 
of it. At present it is an uncertain and 
transient guest with me, but the joy with 
which I shall see and converse with you at 
Olney may perhaps make it an abiding one. 

W. C. 



TO EADY HESKETH. 

Olney, June i and 5, 1786. 
Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to fear 
and quake. What a hero am I, compared 
with you ! I have no fears of you, on the 
contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that 
your carriage were even now at the door. 
You should see with how much courage I 
would face you. But what cause have you 
for fear? Am I not your cousin, w'ith whom 
you have wandered in the fields of Free- 
mantle and at Bevis's Mount? — who used 
to re.ad to you, laugh with you, till our sides 
have ached at anything or nothing? And 
am I in these respects at all altered ? You 
will not find me so, but just as ready to 
laugh and to wander as vou ever knew me. 



A cloud, perhaps, may dtne over me now 
and then, for a few hours, but from clouds I 
was never exempted. And are not you the 
identical cousin with whom I have performed 
all these fe.ats? the very Harriet whom I 
saw, for the first time, at De Grey's, in Nor- 
folk-street ?* (It was on a Sund.ay, when 
you came with my uncle and auntf to drink 
tea there, .and I had dined there, and was 
just going back to Westminster.) If these 
things are so, .and I am sure that you cannot 
gainsay a syllable of them all, then this con- 
sequence follows, that I do not promise my- 
self more pleasure from your company than 
I shall be sure to find. Then you are my 
cousin, in whom I always delighted, and in 
whom I doubt not that I shall delight, even 
to my latest hour. But this wicked coach- 
maker has sunk my spirits. What a miser- 
able thing it is to depend, in any degree, for 
the accomplishment of a wish, and th.at wish 
so fervent, on the punctuality of a creature, 
who, I suppose, was never punctu.al in his 
life ! Do tell him, my dear, in order to 
quicken him, th.at if he performs his promise, 
he .shall make my coach, when I want one, 
and th.at if he performs it not, I will most 
assuredly employ some other man. 

The Throckmortons sent us a note to invite 
us to dinner: we went, and a very agreeable 
day we had. They made no fuss with us, 
which I was heartily glad to see, for where 1 
give trouble I am sure th.at I cannot be wel- 
come. Themselves, and their chaplain, and 
we, were all the party. After dinner we had 
much cheerful and pleas.ant talk, the particu- 
lars of which might not perhaps be so enter- 
taining upon paper, therefore, all but one I 
will omit, and th.at I will mention only be- 
cause it will of itself be sufficient to give you 
an insight into their opinion on a veiy im- 
portant subject — their own religion. I hap- 
pened to say that in all professions and trades 
mankind affected an air of mystery. Physi- 
cians, I observed, in particular, were objects 
of tliat remark, who persist in prescribing in 
Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard of 
a patient's life through the ignorance of an 
apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton as.scnted to 
wh.at I said, and, turning to his chaplain, to 
my infinite surprise observed to him, " That 
hjtist as ahfiurd as our praying in Latin.'" I 
could have hugged him for his liberality and 
freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather 
more decent to let the matter pass without 
i any visible notice. I therefore heard it with 
[pleasure, .and kept my pleasure to mysell'. 
The two ladies in the meantime were ttte-d- 
tele in the drawang-room. Their conversation 
turned princip.ally (as I afterwards learned 

• This Mr. De Grey has been already mentioned. He 
rose li) the dignity of Lord Chief Justice v( the Common 
Ph'us, and was linally created Lord Walsiticrliam. 

t Ashley Cowper and his wife. Lady lleskelh's father 
and mottier. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



261 



from Mrs. Uiiwin) on a most delightful topic, 
viz., myself In the first place, Mrs. Throck- 
morton admired my book, from which she 
quoted by heart more than I could repeat, 
though r so lately wrote it. In short, my 
dear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said 
of the book and the book's author, for that 
abominable modesty that I cannot even yet 
get rid of Let it suffice to say, that you, w ho 
are disposed to love everybody who speaks 
kindly of your cousin, will certainly love Mrs. 
'rhrockmorton, wheji you shall be told what 
she said of him, and that you irill be told is 
equally certain, because it depends on Mrs. 
Unwin. It is a very convenient thing to have 
a Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good 
long story for me, that I am not able to tell 
for myself. I am however not at all in ar- 
rears to our neighbors in matter of admira- 
tion and esteem, but the more I know the 
more I like them, and lia\e nearly an affec- 
tion for them both. I am delighted that 
" The Task" h;us so large a share of the ap- 
probation of your .sensible Suffolk friend. 

I received yesterday from the General 
another letter of T. S. An unknown auxil- 
iary having started up in my behalf, I believe 
I shall leave the business of answering to 
him, having no leisure myself for contro- 
versy. He lies very open to a very effectual 
reply. 

My dearest cousin, adieu ! I hope to write 
to you once more before we meet. But oh ! 
this coach-maker ! and oh ! this holiday week ! 

Yours, with impatient desire to see you, 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Juno 9, 1786. 

My dear Friend,— The little time that I 
can devote to any other purpose than that 
of poetry, is, as you may suppose, stolen. 
Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much 
remains undone, and no school-boy is more 
attentive to the performance of his daily 
task than 1 am. You will therefore excuse 
me, if, at present, I am both unfrequent and 
short. 

The paper tells me that the Chancellor h.as 
relapsed, and I am truly sorry to hear it. 
The first attack was dangerous, but a second 
must be more formidable still. It is not 
probable that I should ever hear from him 
again if he survive ; yet of the much that I 
should have felt for him, had our connexion 
never been interrupted, I still feel much. 
Everybody will feel the loss of a man, whose 
abilities have made him of such general im- 
portance. 

I correspond again with Colman. and upon 
the most friendly footing, and find in his in- 
stance, and in some others, that an intimate 
intercourse, which has been only casually 



suspended, not forfeited on either side by out- 
rage, is capable not only of revival but im- 
provement. 

I had a letter some time since from your 
sister Fanny, that gave me great pleasure. 
Such notices from old friends are always 
pleasant, and of such pleasures I have re- 
ceived many lately. They refresh the re- 
membrance of early days, and make me 
young again. The noble institution of the 
Nonsense Club* will be forgotten when we are 
gone who composed it, but I often think of 
your most heroic line, written at one of our 
meetings, and especially think of it when I 
am translating Homer, 

" To whom replied the Devil yard-long-tail'd." 

There never was anything more truly Grecian 
than that triple epithet, and, were it possible 
to introduce it into either Iliad or Odyssey, I 
should certainly steal it. I am now Hushed 
with expectation of Lady Heskelh, who 
spends the summer with us. We hope to 
see her next week. We have found admira- 
ble lodgings both for her and her suite, and a 
Quaker in this town, still more admirable tlian 
they, who, as if he loved her as much as I do, 
furnishes them for her with real elegance. 

w. c. 

The period so long and so fervently ex- 
pected at length approached. Lady Hcsketh 
arrived at Olney in the middle of June, 1786. 
These two relatives and friends met together, 
after a separation of twenty-three years, 
anxious to testify to each other that lime, 
" that great innovator," had left inviolate the 
claims of a friendship, which absence could 
not impair, because it was founded on esteem, 
and strengthened by the most endearing rec- 
ollections. It does not always happen, when 
the mind has indulged in the anticipation of 
promised joy, that the result corresponds 
with the expectation. But in the present 
case the cherished hope was amply realized, 
though its first emotions were trying to the 
sensitive frame of Cowpcr. He was truly 
delighted in welcoming his endeared relative ; 
and, as his own house was inadequate for 
her reception. Lady Hesketh was comforta- 
bly lodged in the vicarage of Olney ; a situ- 
tion so near to his own residence, and so 
eligible from the private communication 
between their two houses, as to admit of 
all the facilities of frequent intercourse and 
union. 

Tlie influence of this event proved bene- 
ficial to the health and spirits of Cowper. 
The highly cultivated mind of Lady Iles- 
keth, the ciiarm of her manners, and her en- 

* TliL' club def,iv.'nul*-d by tliis liumoroiiH tille, wa.** c<nn- 

E09pd of Westminster men. and included aindni; its raem- 
ers, llunul'U Thornton. Ojlman, Llojd, Hill, liensley, 
and CViwper. They were iiecu^lonied to meet together 
for the purpose of nieror}' reluxntion aJiU amuscmaat. 



262 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



deaririff qualities, called forth the develop- 
ment of kindred feelings in his own eliarae- 
ter. As she was furnished with a carriage 
and horses, he was gradually induced to 
avail himself of this opporlunity of explor- 
ing the neighborhood, and of multiplying his 
innocent enjoyments. His life had been so 
retired at Olney, that he had not even ex- 
tended his excursions to the neighboring 
town of Newport-Pagnell in tlie course of 
many years ; bnt the convenience of a car- 
riage led him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, 
wlio resided there — tlie friend from whose as- 
siduous attention he derived so much benetit 
in a season of mental depression. It was .it 
his suggestion, as we have already stated, 
that Cowper engaged in the translation of 
Madame (iuion's Poems. As it is some time 
since we have had occasion to refer to this 
justly esteemed character, we think the fol- 
lowing short letter, addressed to him by Cow- 
per, will exhibit an amusing portrait of his 
character and habits. 

" Mon aimable and tres cher Ami, — It is 
not in the power of chaises, or chariots, to 
carry you where my affections will not follow 
you ; if I heard that you were gone to finish 
your days in the moon, I should not love 
you the less ; but should contemplate the 
place of your abode, as often as it appeared 
in the heavens, and say — Farewell, my friend, 
forever ! Lost ! but not forgotten ! Live 
happy in thy lantern, and smoke the remain- 
der of thy pipes in peace 1 Thou art rid of 
earth, at least of all its cares, and so far can 
I rejoice in thy removal ; and as to the cares 
that are to be found in the moon, I am re- 
solved to suppose them lighter than those 
below — heavier they can hardly be." 

We also add the following beautiful de- 
scription of a thunder-storm, in a letter to 
the same person, expressed with the feel- 
ings of a poet, that knew how to embody the 
sublime in language of corresponding gran- 
deur. 

"I was always an admirer of thunder- 
storms, even before I knew whose voice I 
heard in them ; but especially an admirer of 
thunder rolling over the great waters. There 
is something singularly majestic in the sound 
of it at sea, where the eye and the ear have 
uninterrupted opportunity of observation, and 
the concavity above being made spacious re- 
flects it witli more advantage. I have conse- 
quently envied you your situation, and the 
enjoyment of those refreshing breezes that 
belong to it. We have indeed been regaled 
with some of these bursts of ethereal music. 
The peals have been as loud, by the report 
of a gentleman who lived many years in the 
West Indies, as were ever heard in those 



island.s,and the flashes as splendid. But when 
the thunder preaches, an horizon bounded by 
the ocean is the only sounding-board."* 

The visit of I,ady Hesketh to Olney led to 
a very favorable eliange in the residence of 
Cowper. He had now passed nineteen years 
in a scene that was far from being adapted 
to his taste and feelings. The liouse which 
he inhabited looked on a market-place, and 
onee, in a season of illne.ss, he was so appre- 
hensive of being incommoded by the bustle 
of a fair, that he requested to lodge for a 
single night under the roof of his friend Mr. 
Newton, where he was induced, by the more 
comfortable situation of the vicarage, to re- 
main fourteen months. His intimacy with 
this excellent and highly esteemed character 
was so great that Mr. Newton has described 
it in the following remarkable terms, in me- 
moirs of the poet, which affection induced 
him to begin, but which the troubles and in- 
firmities of very advanced life obliged him to 
relinquish. 

" For nearly twelve years we were seldom 
separated for seven hours at a time, when 
we were awake, and at home : the first six 
I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to 
imitate him: during the second six, I walked 
pensively with him in the valley of the sliadow 
of death." 

Mr. Newton also bears the following hon- 
orable testimony to the pious and benevolent 
habits of Cowper. " He loved the poor. He 
often visited them in their cottages, con- 
versed with them in the most condescending 
manner, sympathized with them, counselled 
and comforted them in their distresses; and 
those who were seriously disposed were often 
cheered and animated by his prayers !" These 
are pleasing memorials, for we believe that 
the cottages of the poor will ever be found 
to be the best .school for the improvement 
of the heart. After the removal of Mr. New- 
ton to London, and the departure of Lady 
Austen, Olney had no particular attractions 
for Cowper; and Lady Hesketh was happy 
in promoting the project, which had occurred 
to him, of removing with Jlrs. Unwin to the 
near and picturesque village of Weston — a 
scene highly fovorable to his health and 
amusement. For, with a very comfortable 

* There are few countries where a thunder-storm pre- 
sents so sublime .and terrific a epectiicle as in Switzer- 
land. The writer remembers once witnessing a scene of 
this kind in the Castle of Chillon. on the banivs of tlie 
Laki- of (;ene\a. Tlie whole atmosphere seemed to be 
ovi'ieharired with the elielric fluid. A stillness, like 
that of death, prevaih^d. forming a striking contrast with 
the tumidt of the elements that shortly succeeded. The 
lightning at length bui-st forth, in vivid* coruscations, liko 
a llanu- of fire, darling upon the agitated waters; while 
llie rain descended in torrents. Peals of thunder fol- 
lowed, rolling over tlie wide expanse of the lake, and rtv 
echoing along the whole range of the Alps to the left ; 
and then taking a complete circuit, finally ptissed over to 
the Jura, on the opposite side, impressing the mind with 
iadcscrit>able awe and admiration. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



263 



house, it afFordcd liim a garden, and a field 
of considerable extent, wliirli lie deli^dited to 
cultivate and embellisli. With these lie had 
advantaifcs still more desirable — easy, and 
const-ant access to the spacious and tranquil 
pleasure-Ejrounds of his accomplished and be- 
nevolent landlord, Mr. Throckmorton, whose 
neiiihboring house supplied him with an in- 
tercourse peculiarly suited to his gentle and 
delicate spirit. 

Cowper removed from Olney to Weston 
in November, 1786. The course of his life, 
in his new situation, (the scene so hapjjily 
embellished by his Muse.) will be best de- 
scribed by the subserjuent series of his let- 
ters to that amiable relative, to wlioin he 
considered himself chietly indebted for this 
improvement in his domestic scenery and 
comforts. With these will be connected a 
selection of his letters to other friends, and 
particularly the letters addressed to one of 
.his most intimate correspondents, Samuel 
Rose, Esq., who commenced his acquaint- 
ance in the beofinninijf of the year 1787. 
Another endeared character will also be in- 
troduced to the notice of the reader, whose 
affectionate and unremittintr attention to the 
poet, when he most needed these kind and ten- 
der offices, will ever {five him a just title to the 
gratitude and love of the admirers of Cowper : 
we allude to the Late Rev. Dr. Johnson. 

We now resume the correspondence. 



TO JOSEPH KILL, ESQ. 

Olney, Jime IS, 1786. 

My dear cousin's arrival has, as it could 
not fail to do, made us happier than we ever 
were at Olney. Her great kindness in gi\ ing 
us her company is a cordial that I shall feel 
the effect of not only while she is here, but 
while I live. 

Onley will not be mucli longer the place 
of our' habitation. At a village two miles 
distant we have hired a house of Mr. Throck- 
morton, a much better than we occupy at 
present, and yet not more expensive. It is 
situated very near to our most agreeable 
landlord and" his agreeable pleasure-grounds. 
In him, and in his wife, we shall find such 
companions, as will always make the time 
pass pleasantly while they are in tlie country, 
and his grounds will afford us good air and 
good walking-room in the winter; two ad- 
vantages whicli we have not enjoyed at Ol- 
ney, where I have no neighbor with whom I 
can converse, and where, seven inoutlis in 
the year, I have been imprisoned by dirty 
and impassable ways, till both my healtli and 
Mrs. Unwiifs have sulfercd materially. 

Homer is ever importunale, and will not 
suffer me to spend half tlie time with my dis- 
tant friends that I would gladly give them. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olnuy, Jlino iS, 1T8G. 

My dear Friend, — I am not glad that I am 
obliged to apologize for an interval of three 
weeks that have elapsed since the receipt of 
yours; but, not having it in my power to 
write oftener than I do, I am glad that lu;, 
reason is such a one as you admit. In trulli. 
my time is very much occupied ; and the 
more because I not only have a long and la- 
borious work in hand, for such it would 
prove at any rate, but because 1 make it a 
point to bestow my utmost attention upon 
it, and to give it all the finishing that the 
most scrupulous .accuracy can command. As 
soon as breakfast is over, I retire to my nut^ 
shell of a summer-house, which is my verse- 
manufactory, and here I abide seldom less 
than three hours, and not often more. In the 
afternoon I return to it again ; and all the 
dayliglit that follows, except what is devoted 
to a walk, is given to Homer. It is well for 
me that a course which is now become ne- 
cessary is so much my choice. The regu- 
l.arity of it indeed has been, in the course of 
this last week, a little interrupted by the ar- 
riv.al of my dear cousin. Lady Hesketh; but 
with the new week 1 sliall, as they say, turn 
over a new leaf, and put myself under the 
same rigorous di.scipline as before. Some- 
thing, and not a little, is due to the feelings 
that the sight of the kindest relation that 
ever man was blessed with must needs give 
birth to, after so long a separ.ation. But she, 
whose anxiety for my success is I believe 
even greater than my own, will take care that 
I shall not play truant and neglect my proper 
business. It was an observation of a sensi- 
ble man, whom I knew well in ancient days, 
(I mean when I was very young,) that people 
are never in reality happy when they boast 
much of being so. I feel myself accordingly 
well content to say, without any enlarge- 
ment on the subject, that an inquirer after 
luqipiness might travel far, and not find a 
liappier trio than meet every day either in 
our parlor, or in the parlor at the vicarage. 
I will not say that mine is not occasioruilly 
somewhat dashed with the sable hue of those 
notions concerning myself and my situation, 
th.at have occupied or rather possessed me 
so long: but, on the other hand, I can also 
artirni that my cousin's ati'ectionate behavior 
to us both, the sweetness of her temper, and 
the sprightliness of her conversation, relieve 
me in no small degree from the presence of 
them. 

Mrs. I'nwin is greatly pleased with your 
Sermons; and has told me so repeatedly; 
and the pleasure lliat they have given her 
awaits me also in due time, as I am well and 
confidently .assured: both becau.se the sub- 
ject of them is the greatest and the mo.st in- 
* Private correspondence. 



264 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tcrcsting that can fall under the pen of any 
writer, and because no writer can be better 
Hualified to discuss it judiciously and feel- 
ingly than yourself. Tlie third set with 
winch you favored us we destined to Lady 
Hesketh ; and, in so disposing of them, are 
inclined to believe that we shall not err far 
li-oni the mark at which you yourself directed 
them. 

Our affectionate remembrances attend 
yourself and Mrs. Newton, to which you ac- 
quired an everlasting right while you dwelt 
under the roof where we dined yesterd.iy. It 
is impossible that we should set our foot 
over the threshold of the vicarage without 
recollecting all your kindness. 

Yours, uiy dear Friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Olupy, July 3, 1786. 

My dear William, — After a long silence I 
begin again. A day given to my friends is a 
day taken from Homer ; but to such an in- 
terruption now and then occurring I have no 
objection. Lady Hesketh is, as you observe, 
arrived, and has been with us near a fort- 
night. She pleases everybody, and is pleased, 
in her turn, with everything slie tinds at 01- 
ney, is always cheerful and sweet-tempered, 
and knows no pleasure equal to th.at of com- 
munic.'iting plea.sure to us and to all around 
her. This disposition in her is the more 
comfortable, because it is not the humor of 
the day, a sudden flash of benevolence and 
good spirits occasioned merely by a change 
of scene, but it is her natural turn, and has 
governed all her conduct ever since I knew 
her first. We are consequently happy in her 
society, and shall be happier still to luive you 
partake with us in our joy. I am fond of the 
sound of bells, but was never more pleased 
with those of Olney than when they rang 
her into her new habitation. It is a compli- 
ment that our performers upon those instru- 
ments have never paid to any other person- 
age (Lord Dartmouth excepted) since we 
knew the town. In short, she is, as she ever 
was, my pride and my joy, and I am delighted 
with everything that means to do her honor. 
Her first appearance was too much for me ; 
my spirits, instead of being gently raised, as 
I had inadvertently supposed they would be, 
broke down witli nie under the pressure of 
too much joy, and left me flat, or rather mel- 
ancholy, throughout the day, to a degree that 
was mortifying to myself and alarming to 
lier. But I have made amends for this failure 
since, and in point of cheerfulness have far 
exceeded her expectations, for she knew that 
sable had been my suit for many years. 

And now I shall communicate news that 
wdl give you pleasure. When you first con- 
templated the front of our abode, you were 



•shocked. In your eyes it had the appearance 
of a prison, and you sighed at the thought 
that your mother lived in it. Your view of it 
was not only just, but prophetic. It had not 
only the aspect of a place built for the pur- 
poses of incarceration, but has actually 
served that purpose through a long, long pe- 
riod, and we have been the prisoners. But a 
jail-delivery is at hand. The bolts and bars 
are to be loosed, and we shall escape. A 
very difterent mansion, both in point of ap- 
pearance and accommodation, expects us, and 
the expense of living in it not greater than 
we are subjected to in this. It is situated at 
Weston, one of the prettiest villages in Eng- 
land, and belongs to Mr. Throckmorton. We 
all three dine with him to-day by invitation, 
and shall survey it in the afternoon, point 
out the necessary repairs, and finally adjust 
the treaty. I have my cousin's promise that 
she will never let another year pass without 
a visit to us, and the house is large enough 
to t.ike us and our suite, and her also, with 
as many of hers as she shall choose to bring. 
The change will, I hope, prove .idvantageous 
both to your mother and me in all respects. 
Here we have no neighborhood ; there we 
shall have most agreeable neighbors in the 
Throckmortons. Here we have a bad air 
in winter, impregnated with the fishy-smel- 
ling fumes of the marsh miasma; there we 
shall breathe in an atmosphere untainted. 
Here we are confined from September to 
March, and sometimes longer ; there we shall 
be upon the very verge of pleasure-grounds 
in which we can always ramble, and shall 
not wade through almost impassable dirt to 
get at them. Both your mother's constitu- 
tion and mine have suffered materially, by 
such close and long confinement, and it is 
high time, unless we intend to retreat into 
the grave, that we should seek out a more 
wholesome residence. So far is well, the 
rest is left to Heaven. 

I have hardly left myself room for an an- 
swer to your queries concerning my friend 
John and his studies. I should recommend 
the Civil War of C.Tsar, because he wrote it 
who ranks, I believe, as the best writer, as 
well as soldier, of his day. There are books 
(I know not what they are, but you do, and 
can easily find them) that will inform him 
clearly of both the civil and military manage- 
ment of the Romans, the several officers, I 
mean, iu both departments, and wh.atwasthe 
peculiar province of each. The study of 
some such book would, I should think, prove 
a good introduction to that of Livy, unless 
you have a Livy with notes to that efl'ect. 
A want of intelligence in those points has 
heretofore made the Roman history very 
dark and difficult to me ; therefore I thus 
advise. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



265 



The following letter contains some particu- 
lars relative to liis version of Homer. 

TO THE KEV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Olney, July4, 17^0. 

I rejoice, my dear friend, tliat you have at 
last received my proposals, and most cordially 
thank you for all your labors in my service. 
I have friends in the world, who, knowing 
tliat I am apt to be careless when left to my- 
self, are determined to watch over mo with a 
jealous eye upon this occasion. The conse- 
qucEice will be, that the work will be better 
e.vecuted, but more tardy in the production. 
To them 1 owe it, that my translation, as fast 
as it proceeds, passes under the revisal of a 
most accurate di-scerner of all blemishes. I 
know not whether I told you before, or now 
tell you for the first time, that I am in the 
hands of a very extraordinary person. He is 
intimate with my bookseller, and voluntarily 
offered his service. I was at first doubtful 
whether to accept it Or not, but, tindini/ that 
my friends abovesaid were not to be satisfied 
on any other terms, though myself a perfect 
stranger to the man and his qualifications, ex- 
cept as he was recommended by Johnson, I at 
length consented, and have since found great 
rca.son to rejoice that I did. I called him an 
extraordinary person, and such he is. For he 
is not only versed in Homer, and accurate in 
his knowledge of the Greek to a degree that 
entitles him to that appellation; but, though 
a foreigner, is a perfect master of our lan- 
guage, and has exquisite t.aste in English 
poetry. By his assistance I have improved 
many passages, supplied many oversights, and 
corrected many mistakes, such as will of 
course escape the most diligent and attentive 
laborer in such a work. 1 ought to add, be- 
cause it affords the best assurance of his zeal 
and fidelity, that he does not toil for hire, nor 
will accept of any premium, but has entered 
on tliis business merely for his amusement. 
In the last instance, my sheets will pass 
through the hands of our old schoolfellow 
Colman, who has engaged to correct the press, 
and make any little alterations that he may 
see expedient. With all this precaution, little 
as 1 intended it once, I am now well satisfied. 
Experience has convinced me that other eyes 
than my own are necessary, in order that so 
long and arduous a task maybe finished as it 
ought, and may neither discredit me nor 
mortify and disappoint my friends. You, 
who 1 know interest yourself much and 
deeply in my success, will, 1 dare say, be 
satisfied with it too. Pope had many aids, 
and he who follows Pope ought not to walk 
alone. 

Though I announce my.self by my very un- 
dertaking to be one of Homers most enrapt- 
ured admirers, I am not a blind one. Per- 
haps the speech of Achilles, given in my 



specimen, is, as you hint, rather too much in 
the moralizing strain to suit so young a man 
and of so much fire. But, whether it be or 
not, in the course of the close application 
that I am forced to give my author 1 discover 
inadvertences not a few ; some perhaps that 
have escaped even the commentators them- 
selves, or perhaps, in the enthusiasm of their 
idolatry, they resolved that they should pass 
for beatities. Homer, however, say what 
they will, was man ; and in all the works of 
man, especially in a work of such length and 
variety, many things will of necessity occur 
that might have been better. Pope and Ad- 
dison had a Dennis, and Dennis, if I mistake 
not, held up as he has been to scorn and de- 
testation, was a sensible fellow, and passed 
some censures upon both those writers, that, 
had they been less just, would have hurt them 
less. Homer had his Zoilus, and perhaps, if 
we knew all that Zoilus said, we should be 
forced to acknowledge that, sometimes at 
least, he had reason on his side. But it is 
dangerous to find any fault at all with what 
the world is determined to esteem faultless. 
I rejoice, my dear friend, tluit you enjoy 
some composure and cheerfulness of spirits ; 
may God preserve and increase to you so 
great a blessing ! 

I am affectionately and truly yours, 

W. C. 



Cowper again resumes the subject of his 
painful dispensation, in the following letter 
to Newton. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Aug. 5, 1786. 
My dear Friend, — You have heard of our 
intended removal. The house that is to re- 
ceive us is in a state of preparation, and, 
when finished, will be both smarter and more 
commodious than our present abode. But the 
circum.stanee that recommends it chiefly is 
its situation. Long confinement in the win- 
ter, aiul, indeed, for the most part in the au- 
tumn too, has hurt us both. A gravel-walk, 
thirty yards long,atfords but indifferent scope 
to the locomotive faculty : yet it is all that 
we have had to move in for eight months in 
the year, during thirteen years that I have 
been a prisoner. Had 1 been confined in tlu' 
Tower, the battlements of it would have fur- 
nished me with a larger space. Vou say 
well, that there was a time when I was happy 
at Oliu'y ; and I am now as happy at Olney 
as I expect to be anywhere without the pres- 
ence of God. Change of situation is with 
me no otherwise an object than as both Mrs. 
Unwin's health and mine may happen to be 
concerned in it. A fever of the slow and 
spirit-oppressing kind seems to belong to all, 

* Private corrcsponilence. 



266 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



except the natives, who have dwelt in Olney 
many years ; and the natives have putrid fe- 
vers. Both they and we, I believe, are im- 
mediately indebted for our respective mala- 
dies to an atmosphere encumbered with raw 
vapors, issuing from flooded meadows ; and 
we in particular, perhaps, have fared the 
worse for sitting so ofleii, and sometimes for 
months, over a cellar filled witli water. — 
These ills we shall escape in the uplands; 
and, as we may reasonably hope, of course, 
their consequences. But, as for happiness, 
he that has once had communion with his 
Maker, must be more frantic than ever I was 
yet, if he can dream of finding it at a distance 
from Him. I no more e.\pect happiness at 
Weston than here, or than I should e.vpeet it 
in company with felons and outlaws in the 
hold of a ballast-lighter. Animal spirits, 
however, have their value, .and are especially 
desirable to him who is condemned to carry 
a burthen, which, at any rate, will tire him, 
but which, without their aid, cannot fail to 
crush him. The dealings of God with me 
are to myself utterly unintelligible. I have 
never met, either in books or in conversation, 
with an experience at all similar to my own. 
Wore than a twelvemonth has passed since 
I began to hope that, having walked the 
wliole breadth of the bottom of this Red Sea, 
I was beginning to climb the opposite shore, 
and I prepared to sing the song of Moses. 
But I h.ave been dis.appointed ; those hopes 
have been blasted ; those comforts have been 
wrested from me. I could not be so duped, 
even by the arch-enemy himself, as to be 
made to question the divine nature of them ; 
but I have been made to believe, (which, you 
will say, is being duped .still more) that God 
gave them to me in derision and took them 
away in vengeance. Such, however, is, and 
has been, my persuasion many a long day, 
and when I shall think on that subject more 
comfortably, or, as you will be inclined to 
tell me, more rationally and scripturally, I 
know not. In the meantime, I embrace with 
alacrity every alleviation of my case, and with 
the more alacrity, because wli.atsoever proves 
a relief of my distress is a cordial to Mrs. 
Unwin, whose sympathy with me, through 
the whole of it, has been such that, despair 
excepted, her burthen has been as heavy as 
mine. Lady Hesketh, by her atTectionate be- 
havior, the cheerfulness of her conversation, 
and the constant sweetness of her temper, 
has cheered us both, and Mrs. Unwin not. 
less than me. By her help we get change of 
air and of scene, though still resident at Ol- 
ney, and by her means have intercourse with 
some families in this country with whom, but 
for her, we could never have been acquainted. 
Her presence here would, at any time, even 
in my happiest days, have been a comfort to 
me, but in the present day I am doubly sensi- 



ble of its value. She leaves nothing unsaid, 
nothing undone, that she thinks will be con- 
ducive to our well-being ; and, so far as she 
is concerned, I have nothing to wi.sh but that 
I could believe her sent hither in mercy to 
myself, — then I should be thankful. 

I am, my dear friend, with Mrs. Unwin's 
love to Mrs. N. and yourself, hers and yours, 
as ever, W. C. 

Having so recently considered the peculiar 
circumstances of Cowper's depression, we 
shall not further advert to it than to state, on 
the authority of John Higgins, Esq., of Tur- 
vey, who, at that time, enjoyed frequent oppor- 
tunities of observing his manner and habits, 
that there was no perceptible appearance of 
his laboring under so oppressive a malady. 
On the contrary, his spirits, as far as outward 
appearances testified, were remarkably cheer- 
ful, and sometimes even gay and sportive. 
In a letter to Mrs. King, which will subse- 
quently appear, will be found a remark to the 
same effect. 

TO THE REV. WTLLIAM UNWIR. 

Olncy, Aug. 24, 1780. 

My dear Friend, — I catch a minute by the 
tail and hold it fust while I write to you. 
The moment it is (led I must go to breakfast. 
I am still occupied in refining and polishing, 
and shall this morning give the finishing hand 

to the seventh book. F does me the honor 

to say that the most difficult and most inter- 
esting parts of the poem are admirably ren- 
dered. But, because he did not express him- 
self equally pleased with the more pedestrian 
parts of it, my labor therefore has been prin- 
cipally given to the dignification of them; 
not but th.at I have retouched considerably, 
.and made better still the best. In short, I 
hope to make it all of a piece, and shall exert 
myself to the utmost fo secure that desirable 
point. A story-teller, so very circumstantial 
as Homer, must of necessity present us often 
with much matter in itself capable of no otlur 
embellishment than purity of diction .and har- 
mony of versification can give to it. IIklabi,r, 
hoc opus est. For our language, unless it be 
very severely chastised, has not the terse- 
ness, nor our measure the music of the 
Greek. But I shall not fail through want 
of industry. 

We are likely to be very h.nppy in our con- 
nexion with the Throckniortons. His reserve 
and mine wear oil'; and he talks with great 
pleasure of the comfort that he proposes to 
himself from onr winter evening conversa- 
tions. His purpose seems to be that we 
should spend them altern.ately with each oth- 
er. Lady Hesketh transcribes for me at 
present. When she is gone, Mrs. Throck- 
morton takes up that business, and will be 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



267 



my l;idy of the ink-bottle for the rest of the 
winter. She solicited licrself that office. 
Believe me, my dear William, 

Truly yours, VV. C. 

Mr. Throc'limorton will (I doubt not) pro- 
cure Lord IVtre's name, if he can, without 
any iiint from me. He could not interest 
him.self more in my success than he seems to 
do. Could he get the Pope to subscribe, I 
should have him, and should be glad of him 
and the whole conclave. 



The following letters are without a date : 
nor do we know to what period they refer. 
We insert them in the order in which we find 
them. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

lN[y dear Friend, — You are my mahogany 
box, with a slip in the lid of it, to whicli I 
commit my productions of the lyric kind, in 
perfect confidence that they are safe, and will 
go no farther. All who are attached to tlie 
jingling art have this peculiarity, that they 
would lind no pleasure in the exercise, had 
they not one friend at least to whom they 
might publish what they have composed. If 
you approve my L.atin, and your wife and 
sister my English, this, together with the ap- 
probation of your motlier, is fame enough 
for me. 

He who cannot look forward with comfort 
must find what comfort he can in looking 
backward. Upon this principle I the other 
day sent my imagination upon a trip thirty 
years behind me. She was very obedient 
and very swift of foot, presently performed 
her journey, and at last set me down in the 
si.xth form at Westminster. I fancied my- 
self once more a school-boy, a period of 
life in which, if I had never tasted true hap- 
piness, I was at least equally unacquainted 
with its contrary. No manufacturer of 
waking dreams ever succeeded better in his 
emi)Ioyment than I do. I can weave such a 
jiiece of tapestry, in a few miimtes, as not only 
has all the charms of reality, but is embel- 
lished also Willi a variety of beauties, which, 
though they never existed, are more captivat- 
ing than any that ever did : — .iccordingly, I 
was a school-boy, in high favor with the mas- 
ter, received a silver groat for my exercise, 
and had ttie pleasure of seeing it sent from 
form to form, for the admiration of all who 
were able to understand it. Do you wish to 
see this highly applauded performance'! It 
follows on the other side. 

[Tornnff.]* 

By way ot compensation, we subjoin some 

• Ttjis jeu d'e-»pril tias nover been round, notwithstand- 
ing ttiu muat diligunt inquiry. 



verses addressed to a young lady, at the re- 
quest of Mr. Unwin, to whom he thus 
writes : — 

" I have endeavored to comply with your 
request, though I am not good at writing 
upon a given subject. Your mother however 
comforts me by licr approbation, and I steer 
myself in all tliat I produce by her judgment 
If she does not understand me at the first 
reading, I am sure the lines are obscure and 
always alter them ; if she laughs, I know it 
is not without reason ; and if she says, 
" That's well, it will do," I have no fear lest 
anybody else should fine fault with it. She 
is my lord chamberlain, who licenses all I 
write. 



TO MISS c- 



ON HER BIRTH-DiY. 



How many between east and west 
Disgrace their parent earth, 

Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
The day that gave them birth ! 

Not so when Stella's nata! morn 

Revolving months restore. 
We can rejoice that slie was born, 

And wish her born once more ! 

If you like it, use it : if not, you know the 
remedy. It is serious, yet epigrammatic — 
like a bishop at a ball ! W. C. 

It is remarkable, that the laudable efforts 
which are now making to enforce the better 
observance of the Lord's ^.ay, to diminish the 
temptations to perjury by the unnecessary 
multiplication of oaths,and to arrest the prog- 
ress of the vice of drunkenness, appear 
from the following letter to have been anti- 
cipated nearly fifty years since, by the Rev. 
William Unwin. Deeply impressed with a 
sense of the extent and enormity of these 
national sins, his conscientious mind (always 
seeking opportunities for doing good) led 
him to urge the employment of C'ovvper's 
pen in the correction of these evils. W^hat 
he suggested, as we believe, was as follows, 
viz., to draw up a memorial or representation 
on this subject to the bench of bishop.s, as 
the constituted guardians of public morals, 
and thus to call forth their united exertions ; 
secondly, to awaken the public mind to the 
magnitude of these crimes, and, finally, to 
obtain some legislative enactment for their 
prevention. 

We now insert Cowpers reply to the pro- 
position of his friend Mr. Unwin. 

TO THE RliV. WILLLAM UNWIN. 

My dear Friend, — I am sensibly mortified 
at finding myself obliged to di.sappoint you : 
but, though I have had many thoughts upon 
the subjects you propose to my considera- 
tion, I have had none that havc> been favora- 
ble to the undertaking. I applaud your pur- 



268 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



pose, for the sake of the principle from which 
it springs, but I look upon the evils you 
mean to animadvert upon as too obstinate 
and inveterate ever to be expelled by the 
means you mention. The very persons to 
whom you would address your remonstrance 
are tliemselves sufficiently aware of their 
enormity ; years ago, to my knowledge, they 
were frequently the topics of conversations 
at polite tables ; they have been frequently 
mentioned in both houses of parliament ; 
and, I suppose, there is hardly a member of 
either who would not immediately assent to 
the necessity of a reformation, were it pro- 
posed to him in a reasonable way. But 
tliere it stops ; and there it will forever stop, 
till the majority are animated with a zeal in 
which they are at present deplorably defect- 
ive. A religious man is unfeignedly shocked 
when he reflects upon the prevalence of 
such crimes ; a moral man must needs be so 
in a degree, and will affect to be much more 
so than he is. But how many do you sup- 
pose there are among our worthy represent- 
atives that come under eitlier of tliese de- 
scriptions? If all were such, yet to new 
model the police of the country, which must 
be done in order to make even unavoidable 
perjury less frequent, were a task they would 
hardly undertake, on account of the great 
difficulty that would attend it. Government 
is too much interested in the consumption 
of malt liquor to reduce the number of vend- 
ers. Such plausit)le pleas may be offered 
in defence of travelling on Sundays, espe- 
cially by the trading part of the world, as 
the whole bench of bishops would find it 
difficult to overrule. And with respect to 
the violation of oaths, till a certain name is 
more generally respected than it is at present, 
however such persons as yourself may be 
grieved at it, the legislature are never likely 
to lay it to heart. I do not mean, nor would 
by any means attempt, to discourage you in 
so laudable an enterprise, but such is the light 
in which it appears to me, that I do not feel 
tlie least spark of courage qualifying or 
prompting me to embark in it myself. An 
exliortation therefore written by me, by hope- 
less, desponding me, would be flat, insipid, 
and uninteresting ; and disgrace the cause 
instead of serving it. If, after what I luive 
said, however, you still retain the same sen- 
timents, Made, es/o virtute tud, there is no- 
body better qualified tlian yourself, and may 
your success prove that I despaired of it with- 
out a reason. 

Adieu, 

My dear friend. W. C. 



Cowper, it seems, declined his friend's pro- 
posal, and was by no means sanguine in his 
hopes of a remedy. The reasons he assigns ' 



are sufficient to deter the generality of man- 
kind. Still there are men always raised up 
by the providence of God, in his own ap- 
pointed time — endowed from above with 
qualifications necessary for great enterprises 
— distinguished too by a perseverance that 
no toil can weary, and which no opposition 
can divert from its purpose, because they 
are inwardly supported by the integrity of 
their motives, and by a deej) conviction of 
the importance of tlieir object. To men 
of this ethereal stamp, trials are but an in- 
centive to exertion, because they never fail 
to see through those besetting difficulties, 
which obstruct the progress of all good un- 
dertakings, the final accomplishment of all 
their labors. 

Let no man despair of success in a right- 
eous cause. Let him well conceive his plan 
and mature it : let him gain all the aid that 
can be derived from the counsel of wise and 
reflecting minds; and, above all, let liim im- 
plore the illuminating influences of that Holy 
Spirit, whicli can alone impart what all want, 
" the wisdom that is from above," which is 
" pure, peaceable, gentle, and full of good 
fruits;" let him be simple in his view, holy 
in his purpose, zealous, prudent, and perse- 
vering in his pursuit ; and we feel no hesita- 
tion in saying, Ihat man will be " blessed in 
his deed." There are no difficulties, if his 
object be practicable, and prosecuted in a 
right spirit, that he may not hope to conquer; 
no corrupt p.issions of men over which he 
may not finally triumph, because there is a 
Divine Power that can level the highest 
mountains and exalt the lowest valleys, and 
because it is recorded for our consolation 
and instruction : " And the Lord went before 
them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead 
them the way ; and by night in a pillar of 
fire, to give them light, to go by day and 
night. He took not away the pillar of the 
clfiud by day, nor the ])illar of fire by night, 
from before the people."* 

With respect to the more immediate sub- 
ject of Cowper's letter, so far as it is applica- 
ble to modern times, we must confess that 
we are sanguine in our hopes of improve- 
ment, founded on the increasing moral spirit 
of the times, and the Divine agency, now so 
visibly interposing in the att'airs of men. 
Every abuse will progressively receive its 
appropriate and counteracting remedy. The 
Lord's day will be rescued from gross pro- 
ftination, and the claims of tlie revenue be 
compelled to yield to the weight and author- 
ity of public feeling. How just and forcible 
is the following portrait drawn by the Muse 
of Cowper ! 

■' The excise is fattened with the rich result 
Of all this riot ; and ten thousand casks, 
For ever dribbling out their base contents, 

* Exodus, xiii. 21, 22. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



269 



Touch'd by the Midas linfrcr of the state, 
Bleed golil for ministtrs to sport away. 
Drink, and hi- mad thpn : 'tis your country bids ! 
Gloriously drunic obey the important call ! 
Her cause di-mamls the assistance of your throats ; 
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more." 
The Task, Book IV. 



We know not to what event the following 
letter refers, as it is without any date to 
guide us. It may jirobably relate to the pe- 
riod of Lord George Gordon's riots. We 
insert it as we find it.* 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

Though we live in a nook, and the world 
is quite unconscious that there arc any such 
beings in it as ourselves, yet we are not un- 
concerned about what p.Tsses in it. The pres- 
ent awful crisis, big with the fate of Eng- 
land, engages much of our attention. The 
action is probably over by this time, and 
though we know it not, the grand question 
is decided, whether the war .shall roar in our 
once peaceful fields, or whether we shall still 
only hear of it at a distance. I can compare 
the nation to no similitude more apt than 
that of an ancient castle, that had been for 
days assaulted by the battering-ram. It was 
long before the stroke of that engine made 
any sensible impression, but the continual 
repetition at length communicated a slight 
tremor to the wall; the ne.\t, and the ne.\t, 
and the ne.xt blow increased it. Another 
shock puts the whole mass in motion, from 
the top to the foundation: it bends forward, 
and is every moment driven farther from the 
perpendicular: till at last the decisive blow 
is given, and down it comes. Every miiliini 
that has been raised within the last century, 
has had an eft'ect upon the constitution like 
that of a blow from the aforesaid ram upon 
the aforesaid wall. The impulse becomes 
more and more important, and the impres- 
sion it makes is continually augmented ; un- 
less therefore something extraordinary inter- 
venes to prevent it — you will find the conse- 
quence at the end of my simile. 

Your.s, W. C. 



The letter which we next insert, is curious 
and interesting, as it contains a critique on 
the works of Churchill, whose style Cow- 
per"s is supposed to resemble, in its nervous 
strength and pungency. He calls him, " the 
great Churchill."! One of his productions, 

* Men who are of snflicient celebrity to enlille their 
letters to the honor of future puljlicalion woiiltl do well 
in never uinittini^ to iittach a (late to them. The nuijlect 
of this precaution, on the p:u1 of the Rev. I^egh Itich- 
niond. led to much perplexity. 

t Cowpi'r was an odiuirer of Churchill, and is thoiicrht 
to h:ive formed his style on the mndel of Ihiil writ'-r. 
But he i- now no lunger ''Ihefrfat Churchill."' The 



not here mentioned, was entitled the Ros- 
ciad, containing strictures on the theatrical 
performers of that day, who trembled at his 
censures, or were elated by his praise. He 
has passed along the stream, and has ceased 
to be read, though once a popular writer. 
It is much to be lamented that his habits 
were irregular, his domestic duties violated, 
and his life at length shortened by intem- 
perance. The reader may form an estimate 
of his poetical pretensions from the judg- 
ment here passed upon them by Cowper. 

TO THE REV. WILLLAM UNWIN. 

My dear William, — How apt we are to 
deceive ourselves where self is in question! 
You siiy I am in your debt, and I ticcounted 
you in mine : a mistake to which you must 
attriluitc my arrears, if indeed I owe you 
any, for I am not backward to write where 
the uppermost thought is welcome. 

I am obliged to you for ail the books you 
have occasionally furnished me with : I did 
not indeed read many of Johnson's Clas- 
sics — those of established reputation are so 
fresh in my memory, though many years 
have intervened since I m.ide them my com- 
panions, that it was like reading what I read 
yesterday over again ; and, as to the minor 
Classics, I did not think them worth reading 
at all. I tasted most of them, and did not 
like them : it is a great thing to be indeed a 
poet, and does not happen to more than 
one man in a century. Churchill, the great 
Churchill, deserved the name of poet — I 
have read him twice, and some of his pieces' 
tliree times over, and the last time with more 
pleasure than the first. The pitiful scribbler 
of his life seems to have undertaken that 
task, for which he was entirely unqualified, 
merely becau.se it afforded him an opportu- 
nity to traduce him. He has inserted in it 
but one anecdote of consequence, for which 
he refers you to a novel, and introduces the 
story with doubts about the truth of it. 
But his barrenness as a biographer I could 
forgive, if the simpleton had not thought 
himself a judge of his writings, and, under 
the erroneous influence of that thought in- 
forms his reader that Gotham, Independence, 

causes of his rc|nita(iun havu been the occasion of its 
decline. His pruiliictions art' founded on the popular 
yet evanescent topics of the time, which have ceased to 
create interest, lie who wishtiS to survive in the mem- 
ory of future a^es must possess, not only the attribute of 
commanding genius, but be careful to employ it on 8ut>- 
jects of abiding importance His life was charjicterised 
by siniTiilar imprudence, and by habits of gross vice and 
intemperance. A preacher by profession, and a rake in 
practice, he abandoned the church, or ratli**r wjts com- 
pelled to resign its functions. (lifted with a vigorous 
lancy, and superior powers, he prostituted them to the 
purposes of political faction, and became tie,' asstwiate 
and friend of Wilkes. A bankrupt, at length, both in 
fortune and constitution, he was seized with a fever 
while paying a visit to Mr. Wilkes, at Boulogne: and 
terminated his brilliant but guilty career at the early age 
of lUirtv-four. 



270 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and the Times, were catchpennies. Gotham, 
unless I am a greater blockhead than he, 
wliic'h I am far from believing, is a noble and 
beautiful poem, and a poem with which I 
make no doubt the author took as much pains 
as witli any he ever wrote. Making allow- 
ance (and Dryden, perhaps, in his Absalom 
and Achitophcl stands in need of the same 
indulgence) for an unwarrantable use of 
scripture, it appears to me to be a masterly 
performance. Independence is a most ani- 
mated piece, full of strength and spirit, and 
marked with that bold masculine character 
which I think is the great peculiarity of this 
writer. And the Times (except that the sub- 
ject is disgusting to tiie last degree) stands 
equally high in my opinion. He is indeed a 
careless writer for the most part, but where 
shall we find, in any of those authors who 
finish their works with the exactness of a 
Flemish pencil, those bold and daring strokes 
of fancy, those numbers so hazardously ven- 
tured upon and so happily finished, the m.at- 
ter so compressed and yet so clear, and the 
coloring so sparingly laid on and yet with 
such a beautiful effect ? In short, it is not 
his least praise tli.at he is never guilty of 
those faults as a writer which he lays to the 
charge of others: a proof that he did not 
judge by a bfirrowed standard, or from rules 
laid down by critics, but that he was quali- 
fied to do it by his own native powers and 
his great superiority of genius : for he, that 
wrote so much and so fast, would, thrcuigh 
inadvertence and hurry, un.avoidably have 
departed from rules which he might have 
found in books, but his own truly poetical 
talent was a guide which could not suffer 
him to err. A race-horse is graceful in his 
swiftest pace, and never makes an awkward 
motion, though he is pushed to his utmost 
speed. A cart-horse might perhaps be taught 
to play tricks in the riding-school, and might 
prance and curvet like his betters, but at 
some unlucky time would be sure to betray 
the baseness of his original. It is an affair 
of very little consequence perhaps to the 
well-being of mankind, but I cannot help re- 
gretting th.at he died so soon. Those words 
of Virgil, upon the immature death of Mar- 
cellus, might serve for his epitaph. 

" Ostendent terris hunc tantum fata, neque ultra 
Esse sinent." 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 

My dear Friend, — I find the Register in 
all respects an entertaining medley, but espe- 
cially in this, tliat it has brought to my view 
some long forgotten pieces of my own pro- 
duction. I mean by the way two or three. 
Those I have marked with my own initials, 



and you may be sure I found them peculiarly 
agreeable, as they had not only the grace of 
being mine, but that of novelty likewise to 
recommend them. It is at least twenty 
years since I saw them. You, I think, was 
never a dabbler in rhyme. I have been one 
ever since I was fourteen years of age, when 
I began with translating an elegy of Tibul- 
lus. I have no more right to the name of a 
poet than a maker of mouse-traps has to 
that of an engineer; but my little exploits in 
this way have at times amused me so much, 
that I have often wished myself a good one. 
Such a talent in verse as mine is like a 
child's rattle, very entertaining to tlie trifler 
that uses it and very disagreeable to all be- 
sides. But it has served to rid me of some 
melancholy moments, for I only take it up 
as a gentleman-performer does his fiddle. I 
have this peculiarity belonging to me as a 
rhymist, that thougli I am charmed to a 
great degree with my own work while it is 
on the anvil, I can seldom bear to look at it 
when it is once finished. The more I con- 
template it the more it loses its value, till I 
am at last disgusted with it. I then throw 
it by, take it up again, perhaps ten years 
after, and am as much delighted with it as 
at the first. 

Few people have the art of being agree- 
able when they talk of themselves ; if you 
are not weary therefore, you pay me a high 
compliment. 

I dare say Miss S * was much diverted 

with the conjecture of her friends. The 
true key to the pleasure she found at Olney 
was plain enough to be seen, but they chose 
to overlook it. She brouglit with her a dis- 
position to be pleased, which, whoever does, 
is sure to find a visit agreeable, because they 
make it so Yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER E.4G0T. 

Olney, August 31, I78C. 

My dear Friend, — I began to fear for your 
health, and every day said to myself — I must 
write to Bagot soon, if it be only to ask him 
how he does — a measure that I should cer- 
tainly have pursued long since, had I been 
less absorbed in Homer than I am. But 
such are my engagements in that quarter, 
that they m.ake me, I think, good for little 
else. 

JIany thanks, my friend, for the names 
that you have sent me. The Bagots will 
make a most conspicuous figure among my 
subscribers, and I shall not, I hope, soon for- 
get my obligations to them. 

The unacquaintedness of modern ears with 
the divine harmony of Milton's numbcrs.f 

* Miss ShuUleworlh. 

t Addison was the first, liy his excellent critiques in the 
Spectator, to excite public attention to a moi-e just sense 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



271 



:ind llie principles uponv.'hieli he constnieU'd 
tliom, is the (MUse of llii- quarrel that they 
have with ehsions in bhink verse. But 
where is the remedy ! In vain shouUl you 
or I, and a few hundreds more perhaps wlio 
have studied his versification, tell them of 
the superior majesty of it, and that for that 
majesty it is greatly indebted to tliosi' elis- 
ions. In their ears they are discord and 
dissonance, they lenr;then the line beyond its 
dtte limits, and are therefore not to be en- 
dured. There is a whimsical inconsistence 
ill the judi^ineiit of modem readers in this 
particular. Ask them all round. Whom do 
you account the best writer of blank verse .' 
and they will reply, almost to a man, Milton, 
to be sure : Hilton against the field ! Yet 
if a writer of the present day should con- 
struct his numbers ex.ietly upon SJilton's 
plan, not one in fifty of these professed ad- 
mirers of Milton would endure him. The 
ease .standing thus, what is to be done ! 
An author must either be contented to give 

of llio immortal poem of the Para-'tisc Lost. But it w.as 
fMCrvpd for Jolilison (Raniblor, N'o6. Hn, US, HI), M,) to 
point out ttio beamy of Miitoii's versiflealioti. He slioweii 
tii.U it was formed, as far as our laus^uai^e admits, upou 
llie best models of Greece and Rome, luiited to tlie soft- 
ness of the Italian, the most melliltuous of all modern 
poetry. To these examples we may add the name of 
.Spen.ser, who is dislinijuished for a most melMious How 
of versiOcation. Johnson emphatically remarks, that 
Milton's ''skill in harmony was not less than his inven- 
tiem or his learning." Dr. J. Whai-ton also observes, that 
bis verst^s vary, and rej«.)nnd as much, and display Jis 
much majesty and enei-fjy, as any that can be found in 
llryden. 

We subjoin the following pa^satces as illustratint; the 
Btelody of his nunil>ers, the grace and dii,'uity of his 
style, the correspondence of sound with the sentiment, 
tlie easy How of his verses into one another, and the 
beauty of his cadences. 

THE nESCBNT OF THE ANOEL RAVHAEL ISTO PARADISE. 

A seraph wiua'd : six wings he wore, to shade 
His lineaments divine ; the pair that clad 
Kaeh shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast 
With reLtaJ urnameitt ; the middle pair 
(Jirt like a .starry zoue his waist, and round 
Skirted his loins and thighs with downy !;oId, 
.\nd odors dipt in Heaven ; the third his feet 
whadowed from either heel with feathered mail. 
Sky tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood. 
And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filPd 
'I'he circuit wide. Book V, 

llow sweetly did they tloat upon the wings 
(if silence, through the empty vaulted night; 
At every fiUI, smoothing the raven down 
t^f daj-kness, tilt it smiled. 

THE aiRTH Of nE.iTH. 

I fled, and cried out Death : 
Hell trembled at the hideoiu name, and sigb'd 
From all her caves, and hack resoundeil licnth ! 

EVE EATIVO THE FOBDIDDEN FRriT. 

So saying, her rash hand in evil hour 
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate. 
Karth felt the wound, and Nature, from ber scat 
Sighing through all her works, gave si^iis of woe, 
That all wa.i lost. Book IX. 

ADAM PARTICirATING IN THE OKEAT TBANSORESSION. 

He scrupled not to cal 
Against his better knowledge — 
ICartb trembled from her entrails, as ajcain 
In pangs; and Nature gave a s^-eonrl groan ; 
Sky lour'd ; and, muttering thunder, surao sad drops 
Wept at completing of the mortal sin — 
Ori^finaL Book IX. 



disgust to the generality, or he must humor 
tlicni by sinning against his own judgment. 
This latter course, so far as elisions are eon- 
eerned, I li;tve adopted as essential to my 
success. In every other respect, I give as 
much variety in my measure as I eaii, I be- 
lieve I mtiy say as in ten sylhtbles it is pos- 
sible to give, shifting perpetujilly the pause 
and cadence, and accounting myself happy 
that modern refinement has not yet enacted 
hiws against tliis also. If it had, I protest to 
you I would have dropped my design of 
traii.shtting Homer entirely ; and witli what 
an indignant stateliness of reluctance I m.ake 
them the concession that I have mentioned, 
Mrs. Unwin can witness, who hears all my 
complaints upon the subject. 

After having lived twenty years at Olney, 
we are on the point of leaving it, but shall 
not migrate far. We have taken a house in 
the village of Weston. Lady Ileskcth is 
our good angel, by whose aid we are enabled 
to pass into a better air and a more walkable 
country. The iinprisoninent that we have 
suffered here for so many winter.s, has hurt 
us both. Thtit we may suft'er it no longer, 
she stoops to Olney, lifts ns from our swnni]), 
and sets us down on the elevated grounds of 
Weston Underwood. There, my dear frieiul, 
I shall bo happy to see you, and to thank 
you in person for all your kindness. 

I do not wonder at the judgment that you 
form of — a foreigner; but you may assure 
yourself that, foreigner as he is, he has an 
e.vtiuisite taste in English verse. The man 
is all fire, and an enthusiast in the highest 
degree on the subject of Homer, and has 
given me more than once a jog, when I have 
been inclined to nap with my author. No 
cold water is to be feared from him that 
might abate my own fire, rather perhaps too 
much combustible. 

Adieu ! mon ami, 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



We reserve our remarks on the next letter 
till its close. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Olney, Sept. 30, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — No length of separation 
will ever make us indiflvrent either to your 
pleasures or your pains. We rejoice that 
you have had so agreeable a jaunt and (e.v- 
cepting Mrs. Nevvton's terrible fall, from 
which, however, we are happy to find that 
she received so little injury) a safe return. 
We, who live encompassed by rural scenery, 
can afford to be stationary ; though we our- 
selves, were I not too closely engaged with 
Homer, should perhaps follow your ex- 
ample, and seek a little refreshment from 

* Private correspondence. 



272 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



variety and change of place — a course that 
we might find not only agreeable, but, after 
a sameness of thirteen years, perhaps useful. 
You must, undoubtedly, have found your ex- 
cursion beneficial, who at all other times en- 
dure, if not so close a confinement as we, 
yet a more unhealthy one, in city air and in 
the centre of continual engagements. 

Your letter to Mrs. Unwin, concerning our 
conduct, and the offence taken at it in our 
neighborhood, gave us both a great deal of 
concern ; and she is still deeply aftected by 
it. Of thk you may assure yourself, that, if 
our friends in London liave been grieved, 
they have been misinformed ; whicli is the 
more probable, because the bearers of intel- 
ligence hence to London are not always very 
scrupulous concerning the trutli of their re- 
ports ; and that, if any of our serious neigh- 
bors have been astonished, they have been so 
without the smallest real occasion. Poor 
people are never well employed even when 
tliey judge one another ; but when they un- 
dertake to scan the motives and estimate tlie 
behavior of those whom Providence has e.\- 
alted a little above them, they are utterly 
out of their province and tlieir deptli. They 
often see us get into Lady Heskcth's car- 
riage, and rather uncharitably suppose that it 
always carries us into a scene of dissipation, 
whicli, in fact, it never does. We visit, in- 
deed, at Mr. Throckmorton's, and at Gay- 
hurst ; rarely, however, at Gayhurst, on ac- 
count of the greater distance : more fre- 
quently, though not very frequently, at 
Weston, both because it is nearer, and be- 
cause our business in the house that is mak- 
ing ready for us often calls us that way. 
The rest of our journeys are to Bozeat turn- 
pike and back again, or perhaps to the cabi- 
net-maker's at Newport. As Othello says. 

The very head and front of my ofiending 
Hath this extent, no more. 

What good we can get or can do in these 
visits, is another question ; which they, I am 
sure, are not at all qualified to solve. Of 
this we are both sure, that under the guid- 
ance of Providence we have formed these 
connexions; that we should have hurt the 
Christian cause, rather than have served it, 
by a jirudish abstinence from them ; and that 
St. Paul himself, conducted to them as we 
have been, would have found it expedient to 
have done as we have done. It is always 
impossible to conjecture, to much purpose, 
from the beginnings of a providence in what 
it will terminate. If we have neither re- 
ceived nor communicated any spiritual good 
at present, while conversant with our new 
acquaintance, at least no harm has befallen 
on either side ; and it were too hazardous an 
assertion even for our censorious neighbors 
to make, that, because the cause of the Gos- 



pel does not appear to have been served at 
jircsent, therefore it never can be in any fu- 
ture intercourse that we may have with them. 
In the meantime, I speak a strict truth, and 
as in the sight of God, when I say that we 
are neither of us at all more addicted to gad- 
ding than heretofore. We both naturally 
love seclusion from company, and never go 
into it without putting a force upon our dis- 
position; at the same time I will confes.s, 
and you will easily conceive that the melan- 
choly incident to such close confinement ns 
we have so long endured finds itself a little 
relieved by such amusements as a society so 
innocent affords. You may look round the 
Christian world, and find few, I believe, of 
our .station, who have so little intercourse as 
we with the world that is not Christian. 

We place all the uneasiness that you have 
felt for us upon this subject to the account 
of that cordial friendship of which you have 
long given us proof. But you may be as- 
sured, that, iu)t\vithstanding all rumors to 
the contrary, we are exactly what we were 
Miien you saw us last : — I, miserable on ac- 
count of God's departure from me, which I 
believe to be final ; and slie seeking his return 
to me in the path of duty and by continual 
prayer. 

I'ours, my dear friend, W. C. 

That the above letter may be fully under- 
stood, it is necessary to state that Mr. New- 
ton had received an intimation from Olney 
that the habits of Cowper, since the arrival 
of Lady Hesketh, had e.xperienced a change : 
and that an admonitory letter from himself 
might not be without its use. Under these 
circumstances, Newton addressed such a let- 
ter to his friend as the occasion seemed to 
require. The answer of Cowper is already 
before the reader, and in our opinion amounts 
to a full justification of the poet's conduct. 
We know, from various testimonies of un- 
questionable authority, that no change tend- 
ing to impeach the consistency of Mrs. Un- 
win or of Cowper can justly be alleged. If 
Newton should be considered as giving too 
easy a credence to these reports, or too rigid 
and ascetic in his spirit, we conceive that he 
could not, consistently with his own views 
as a faitliful minister, and his deep interest 
in the welfare of Cowper, have acted othei'- 
wise, though he may possibly have expressed 
himself too strongly. As to Newton's own 
spirit and temper, no man was more amiable 
and sociable in his feelings, nor the object of 
more affectionate esteem and regard in the 
circles where he was known. His character 
has been already described by Cowper, as 
that of a man that lived in an atmosphere of 
Christian peace and love. '' It is therefore," 
observes the poet, " you were beloved at 
Olney, and if you preached to the Chicksaws 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



273 



and Cluictaws, would be equally beloved by 
them."* 



TO JOSEPH niLl., ESQ. 

Oliicy, Oct. 6, 1786. 

Yclu Imve not lionrd, I suppo.sp, that the 
ninth liodk oC my translation is at the bot- 
tom of the Thames. But it is even so. A 
storm overtook it in its way to Kingston, and 
it sunk, together with tlie whole eargo of the 
boat in wliieh it was a passenger. Not figu- 
rativelv foreshowing, I hope, by its submer- 
sion, the fate of all the rest. My kind and 
generous eousiij, who leaves nothing undone 
tliat she thinks can conduce to my comfort, 
encouragement, or convenience, is my tran- 
scriber also. She wrote the copy, and she 
will have to write it again — hrrx, therefore, 
is the damage. I have a thousand reasons to 
lament that the time approaches when we 
must lose her. She lias made a winterly 
sumtncr a most delightful one, but the win- 
ter itself we must .spend without her. 

w. c. 



We are at length arrived at the period 
when Cowper removed to Weston. He 
fixed his residence there Nov. 1.5th, 178(). 
The lirst letters addressed from that place 
are to his friends Mr. Bagot and Mr. Newton. 

TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Wi'ston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. 

My dear Frien<i, — There are some things 
that do not actually shorten the life of man, 
yet seem to do so, and frec]uent removals 
from i)lace to place are of that nunil)er. For 
my own part, at least, I Im apt to think if I 
had been more stationary, I should seem to 
myself to have lived longer. My many 
changes of h.-ibiUition have divided my time 
into many short periods, and when 1 look 
back upon them they appear only as the 
stages in a day's journey, the first of which 
is at no very great distance from the last. 

I lived longer at Gluey than anywhere. 
There indeed I lived till mouldering walls 
and a tottering house warned me to depart. 
I have accordingly taken the hint, and two 
days since arrived, or rather took up my 
abode, at Weston. You perhaps have never 
made the experiment, but I can assure you 
that the confusion which attends a transmi- 
gration of this kind is infuiite, and has a ter- 
rible elTect in deranging the intellects. I 
h.ive been obliged to renounce my Homer on 
the occasion, and, though not for many days, 
I yet feel as if study and meditation, so long 
my confirmed habits, were on a siulden be- 
come impracticable, and that I shall certainly 
find them so when I attempt them again. 
• See pugc 135. 



But, in a scene so much quieter and pleas- 
anter than that which I have just escaped 
from, in a house so much more commodious, 
and with furniture about me so much more 
to my taste, I shall hope to recover my lit^ 
erai'y tendency again, when once the bustle 
of the occasion shall have subsided. 

How glad I should be to receive you under 
a roof where you would find mc so much more 
comfortably aeconnniidatcd than at Olney ! I 
know your warinlli of heart toward me, and 
am sure that you would rejoice in my joy. 
At present indeed I liave not had time for 
much self-gr;itulafion, but h.ave every reason 
to hope nevertheless that in due time I shall 
derive considerable advantage, both in health 
and spirits, from the alteration made in my 
u'lwreabdiit. 

I have now the twelfth book of the Iliad 
in hand, having settled the eleven first books 
finally, as I think, or nearly so. The winter 
is the time when I make the greatest rid- 
dance. 

Adieu, my friend Walter ! Let me hear 
from you, and 

Believe me, ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON." 

Wos(on Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — My usual time of an- 
swering your letters having been unavoida- 
bly engrossed by occasions that would not 
be thrust aside, I have been obliged to post- 
jione the payment of my debt for a whole 
week. Even now it is not without some dif- 
ficulty that I discharge it: which you will 
easily believe, when I tell you that this is 
only the second day that has seen us inhabi- 
tants of our new abode. When God speaks 
to a chaos, it becomes a scene of order and 
harmony iu a nionu-nt; but when his crea- 
tures have thrown (uie hou.se into confusion 
by leaving it, and .'mother by tumbling them- 
selves and their goods into it, not less than 
many days' labor and contrivance is neces- 
sary to give them their pro])er jilaccs. And 
it belongs to furniture of all kinds, however 
convenient it may be in its place, to be a nui- 
sance out of it. We find ourselves here in a 
comfortable dwelling. Such it is in itself; 
and my cousin, who has spared no expense 
in dressing it up for us, has m.ade it a gen- 
teel one. Such, at least, it will be when its 
contents are a little harmonized. She left 
UK on Tuesday, and on Wednesday in the 
evening Mrs. Unwin and I took possession. 
I could not help giving a last look to my old 
prison and its precincts ; and, though I cannot 
easily account for it, having been miserable 
there so many years, felt something like a 
heart-ache when I took my last leave of a 

* Privftte correfpoudence. 

18 



274 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



scene that certainly in itself had nothing to 
engage affection. But I recollected that I 
liiid once been happy there, and could not, 
without tears in my eyes, bid adieu to a place 
in which God had so often found me. The 
human mind is a great mystery; mine, at least, 
appeared to me to be such upon this occasion. 
1 found tluit I had not only' had a tenderness 
lor that ruinous abode, because it had once 
Icnown me happy in the presence of God; 
liut that even the distress I had sulfered for 
so long a time, on account of his absence, 
had endeared it to me as much. I was 
weary of every object, had long wished for a 
change, yet could not take leave without a 
pang at parting. What consequences are to 
attend our removal, God only knows. I 
know well that it is not in situation to effect 
a cure of melancholy like mine. The change, 
however, has been entirely a providential 
one ; for, much as I wished it, I never uttered 
that wish, except to Mrs. Uuwin. When I 
learned that the house was to be let, and had 
seen it, I had a strong desire that Lady Hes- 
keth should take it for herself, if she should 
happen to like the country. That desire, in- 
deed, is not exactly fulfilled ; and yet, upon 
tlie whole, is exceeded. We are the tenants ; 
but slie assures us that we shall often have 
her for a guest; and hero is room enough for 
us all. Vou, I hope, my dear friend, and 
Mrs. Newton, will want no assurances to 
convince you that you will always be received 
here with the sincerest welcome. Jlore wel- 
come than you have been you cannot be ; but 
better accommodated you may and will be. 

Adieu, my dear friend. Jlrs. Unwin's af- 
fectionate remembrances and mine conclude 
me ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston Lodge, Nov. 20, 1786. 

It is my birth-day, my beloved cousin, and 
I determine to employ a part of it, that it may 
not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. 
The dark, thick fog that has obscured it 
would have been a burden to me at OIney, 
but here I have hardly attended to it. Tlie 
neatness and snugness of our abode com- 
pensates all the dreariness of the si^ason, and, 
whether the ways are wet or dry, our house 
at least is always warm and commodious. 
Oh ! for you, my cousin, to partake these 
comforts with us ! I will not begin already 
to tease you upon that subject, but Mr.s. Un- 
wiri remembers to have lieard from your own 
lips that you hate London in the spring, 
IVrliaps, therefore, by that time, you may be 
glad to escape from a scene which will be 
every day growing more disagreeable, that 
you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. 
You well know that the best house has a 
desolate appearance unfurnished. This house 



accordingly, since it has been occupied by us 

and our meubles, is as much superior to what 
it was when you saw it as you can imagine. 
The parlor is even elegant. Wlien 1 say that 
tlic ])arlor is elegant, I do not mean to in- 
sinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, 
warm, and silent, and a much better study 
than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an 
incomparable translation of Homer. I think 
every day of those lines of Milton, and con- 
gratulate myself on having obtained, before 
1 am quite superannuated, what he seems 
not to have hoped for sooner: 

" And may at length roy jffeary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage !" 

For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a 
nnich better thing, and you must always un- 
derstand, my dear, that when poets talk of 
cottages, hermitages, and such like things, 
they mean a house with six sashes in front, 
two comfortable parlors, a smart staircase, 
and three bed-chambers, of convenient di- 
mensions ; in short, e.xactly such a house as 
this. 

The Throckmortons continue the most 
obliging neighbors in the world. One morn- 
ing la.st week, they both went with me to the 
clill's — a scene, my dear, in which you would 
delight beyond measure, but which you can- 
not visit, except in the spring or antunni. 
The heat of summer, and clinging dirt of 
winter, would destroy you. Wliat is called 
the clilf. is no cliff, nor at all like one, but a 
beautiful terrace, gently sloping down to the 
Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not 
lofty, you have a view of such a valley as 
makes that which yon sec from the hills near 
Olney, and which I have had the honor to 
celebrate, an aftair of no consideration,* 

Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect 
that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every 
day cliauge my ramble. Where\er I go, I 
find short grass under my feet, and, when I 
have tiMvelled perhaps five miles, come home 
with shoes not at all too dirty for a drawing- 
room. I was pacing yesterday under the 
elms that surround the He'd in which stands 
the great alcove, when lifting my eyes I saw 
two black genteel figures bolt through a 
hedge into the path where I was walking. 
Vim guess already who they were, and that 
they could be nobody but our neighbors. 
They had seen me from a hill at a distance, 

* " How oft. upon yon eminence, our pace 

Has slackeiiecl iti ii p:iuse. jiiul we have borne 

The niinin',' winij. scarce cmiscioua that it blew, 

Willie .\iliiiiralinn, leeilliic at the eye. 

Ami still unsated. dwelt upon the scene: 

Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned 

The chsiant ploie.'h slow movini(, and, bcsido 

His lal)niiii',r Irani, that swerved not from the traclc, 

The sliinly swain, diminished to a boy! 

Here Ouse, slow winding throU{;h ii level plain 

Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 

<-on»lucts the eye along his sinuous course. 

Delighted," Sec. &.C. The Task, Book I 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



275 



and liad traversed a great turnip field to get 
i;t nie. Yon see, tliereforo, my dear, that I 
:,in in some request. Alas ! in too mucli re- 
(|]U'sl uitli some people. Tlie verses of 
(,'ail\vall:ider liave I'liuiiil me at last. 

I am charmed wi:li your account of our 
little cousin* at Kensington. If the world 
does not spoil liini hereafter, he will be a 
valuable man. 

Good niffht, and may God bless thee ! 

VV. C. 



In the niidit of the brightening prospects 
that seemed to await Cowjier, by a change 
of residence so conducive to his health and 
spirits, his tender and atVectionate feelings 
received a severe shock by the unexpected 
intelligence of the death of Mr. Unwin. 
Few events could have made a more sensible 
inroad on his happiness, and on that of Mrs. 
Unwin. This zealous and timly excellent 
man had been taking a tour with Mr. Henry 
Thornlon, when, on his return, he was seized 
with an attack at Winchester, which in a few 
d.iys terminated liis valuable lile. How pre- 
carious are our enjoyments! By what a 
slender tenure do we hold every sublunary 
blessing, ami how mysterious are the dispen- 
sations of Providence ! The Kev. William 
Unwiu, the endeared friend and correspond- 
ent of Cowper; the possessor of virtues 
that give a charm to domestic life, while di- 
vine grace hallowed their character and ten- 
dency ; the devoted minister of Christ, turn- 
ing many to righteousness, by the purity of 
his doctrine and the eminence of his example. 
was tut oft' in the midst of his career, when 
his continuance was most needed by his 
family, and the inllnence of hiii principles 
had begun to lie felt beyond the precincts of 
his p.irish. Happily for himself and his sur- 
viving friends, he died as he lived, supported 
by the hopes and consolations of the gospel, 
and with the assured prospect of a blessed 
immortality. 

•• And, behold, I come quickly, and my re- 
ward is with me, to give every man according 
as his work shall be." " He that overco/neth 
shall inherit all things, and I will be his God, 
and he shall be my son."t 

Cowper thus imparts the painful tidings to 
I^ady Ilesketh. 

TO r.ADV HESKETH. 

Ttic Loil-„'o, Dec. 4, 17.^6. 

y sent you, ray dear, a melancholy letter, 
and I do not know that I shall now send you 
one very unlike it. Not that anything occurs 
in consequence of our late loss more afflictive 
than xyas to be expected, but the mind does 
not perfectly recover its tone after a shock 
like that which has been felt so lately. This 



* Lord Cowper. 



t Ruv. xxi. 7 ; xxii. li 



I observe, that, though my experience has 

long since taught me that this world is a 
W(U-ld of shadows, and that it is the more 
prudent as well as the more Christian course 
to possess the eoml'orts that we tind in it as 
if we posses.setl them not, it is no easy mat- 
ter to reduce this docirinc into pna'tiee. We 
forget that that (iud who gave them may, 
when he pleases, take them away : and that 
perhajis it may please him to take them at a 
time when we least expect, or are least dis- 
posed to part from them. Thus it has hap- 
pened in the present case. There never was 
a moment in Unwin's life when there seemed 
to be more urgent want of him than the mo- 
ment in which he died. He had attained to 
an age, when, if they are at any time useful, 
men become more useful to their families, 
their friends, and the world. His parish be- 
gan to feel and to be sensible of the advan- 
tages of his ministry. The clergy around 
him were mtniy of them awed by his example. 
His children were thriving under his own 
tuition and management, and his eldest boy 
is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his 
years, in some respect qualified, to undcrstJind 
the value of such a parent ; by his literary 
proliciency too clever for a school-boy, and 
too young at the same time for the university. 
The removal of a man in the prime of life, of 
such a character, and with such connexions, 
seems to make a void in society that can ne- 
ver be filled. God seemed to have made hira 
just what he was, that he might be a blessing 
to others, and, when the influence of his 
clmracter and abilities began to be felt, re- 
moved him. These are mysteries, my dear, 
that we cannot contemplate without astonish- 
ment, but which will nevertheless be ex- 
plaineil hereafter, and must in the meantime 
be revered in silence. It is well for his 
mother that she has spent her life in the 
practice of an habitual actjuiescence in the 
dispensations of Providence, else I know 
that this stroke would have been heavier, .after 
all that she has sntlered upon another ac- 
count, than she could have borne. She de- 
rives, as she well may, great consolation 
from the thought that he lived the life and 
died the death of a Christian. The conse- 
quence is, if possible, more unavoidable l^m 
the most mathematical eonclusion that, there- 
fore, he is happy. So farewell, my friend 
Unwin! the first man for whom 1 conceived 
a frieiidshij) after my removal from St. 
Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still con- 
tinue to feel a frieTidship, though I shall see 
thee with these eyes no more ! 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Wralmi. Doc. 9, 1786. 

I am perfectly sure that you are mistaken, 



276 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



thouj^h I do not wonder at it, considering tlie 

singular nature of the event, in the judgment 
that you form of poor Unwin's death, as it 
arti'cts tlie interest of his intended pupil. 
When a. tutor was wanted for him, you sought 
out the wisest and best man for the otiiee 
within the circle of your connexions. It 
pleased God to take him home to himself 
iMen eminently wise and good are very apt 
to die, because they are lit to do so. Vou 
found in Unwin a man worthy to succeed 
hitn, and he in whose hands arc the issues 
of life and death, seeing no doubt tliat Unwin 
was ripe for a removal into a better state, 
removed him also. The matter viewed in this 
light seems not so wonderful as to refuse all 
explanation, except such as in a melancholy 
moment you have given to it. And I am so 
convinced that the little boy's destiny had no 
influence at all in hastening the death of his 
tutors elect, that, were it not impossible on 
more accounts than one that I should be able 
to serve him in that capacity, I would without 
the least fear of dying a moment sooner, 
oiler myself to that otfiee ; I would oven do 
it, were I conscious of tlie same fitness for 
another and a better state that I believe them 
to have been both endowed with. In that 
case, I perhaps might die too, but, if I should, 
it would not be on account of that connexion. 
Neither, my dear, had your interference in 
the business anything to do with the catas- 
trophe. Your whole conduct in it must have 
been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was 
directed by principles of the purest bene- 
volence* 

1 have not touched Homer to-day. Yester- 
day was one of my terrible seasons, and 
when I arose this morning I found that I had 
not sufliciently recovered myself to engage 
in such an occupation. Having letters to 
write, I the more willingly gave myself a dis- 
pensation. Good night. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Wtslon, Doc. 9, 1786. 

My dear Friend, — We had just begun to 
cniuy the pleasantness of our new situation, 
toTOid at least as much comfort in it as the 
.season of the year would parniit, when atHic- 
tion found us out in our retreat, and the 
news reached us of the death of Mr. Unwin. 
lie had taken a western tour with Jlr. Henry 
Thornton, and in his return, at Winchester, 
was seized witli a putrid fever which sent 
him to his grave. He is gone to it, however, 
though young, as fit for it as age itself could 

* Lady Heslieth had placed a youiig friend of hera 

nndrr a tutor, wljo died. She then cnnsis;ned him to Ihe 
tiu-f' of Mr. l^nwiii, who al.^o di'parled. Iler mind was 
iniicli alllicted by the sin^'ularity of thia event, and the 
above letter is Cowper'3 reasoning upon it. 



have made him. Regretted, indeed, and al- 
ways to be regretted, by tho^^e who knew 
him, for he had everything that makes a man 
valuable both in his principles and in his 
manners, but leaving still this consolation to 
his surviving friends, that he was desirable 
in this world chiefly because he was so well 
prepared for a better. 

I find myself here situated exactly to my 
mind. Weston is one of the prettiest vil- 
lages in England, and the walks about it at 
all seasons of the ytjar delightful. I know 
that you will rejoice with me in the change 
that we have made, and for which I am al- 
together indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a 
change as great, as (to compare metropolitan 
tilings with rural) from St. Giles's to Gros- 
venor Square Our house is in all respects 
commodious, and in some degree elegant; 
and I cannot give you a better idea of that 
which we have left than by telling you the 
present candidates for it are a publican and 
a shoemaker. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, Dec. 16, I78(>. 

My dear Friend, — The death of one whom 
I valued as I did JMr. Unwin is a subject on 
which could say much, and with much feel- 
ing. But habituated as my mind has been 
these many years to melancholy themes, I 
am glad to excu.sc myself the contemplation 
of them as ranch as possible I will only ob- 
serve, that the death of so young a man, 
whom I so lately saw in good health, and 
whose life was so desirable on every account, 
has something in it peculiarly distressing. 
I cannot think of tlie widow and the children 
that he has left, without a heart-ache that I 
remember not to have felt before We may 
well say, that the ways of God are myste- 
rious : in truth they are so, and to a degree 
that only such events can give us any con- 
ception of Mrs. Unwin begs me to give her 
love to you, with thtinks for your kind letter. 
Hers has been so much a life of aflliction, 
that whatever occurs to her in that shape has 
not, at least, the terrors of novelty to embitter 
it. She is supported under this, as she has 
been under a thousand others, with a sub- 
mission of which I never saw her deprived 
for a moment. 

Once, since we left Olney, I liad occasion 
to call at our old dwelling"; and never did I 
see so forlorn and woeful a spectacle. De- 
serted of its inhabitants, it seemed as if it 
could never be dwelt in forever. The cold- 
ness of it, the dreariness, and the dirt, made 
nie think it no unapt resemblance of a soul 
that God has forsaken. While he dwelt in 
it, and manifested himself there, he could 
create his own accommodations, and give it 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



277 



occasionally llio apponnuice of a palace; but 
tlic inoinciit 111! willnlraws and lakes vvitli 
liiiii all tlie f'ui-Eiitiire and cinbellislinient of 
Ills graces, it becomes wliat it was before be 
entered it — tlie habitation of vermin and the 
image of desolation. Sometimes I envy the 
living, but not much or not long: for, while; 
they live, as we call it, they too are liable to 
desertion. Hut the dead who have died in 
the Lord I envy always ; for they, I take it 
for granted, can be no more forsaken. 

This Babylon, however, that we have left 
behind us, ruinous as it is, the ceilings 
cracked and the walls crumbling, still finds 
some who covet it. A slioemaker and an 
alemonger liave proposed themselves as joint 
candidates to succeed us. Some small dif- 
ference between them and the landlord, on 
the subject of rent, has billierto kept them 
out; but at last they will probably agree. In 

the meantime Mr. R prophesies its fall, 

and tells them that they will occupy it at the 
hazard of their lives unless it be well propped 
before they enter it. We have not, there- 
fore, left it much too soon ; and this we knew 
before we migrated, though the same prophet 
would never speak out so long as only our 
heads were in danger. 

I wish you well through your laborious 
task of transcribing. I hope the good lady's 
medil:itiens are such as amuse you rather 
more, while you copy them, than meditations 
in general would ; which, for the most part, 
have appeared to me the most labored, insipid, 
and unnatural of all productions. 

Adieu, my dear friend. Our love attends 
you both. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

WfMton, Dec. 21, 1788. 

Your welcome letter, my beloved cousin, 
which ought by the date to have arrived on 
Sunday, being by some untoward accident 
delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, 
however, and has relieved me from a thou- 
sand distressing apprehensions on your ac- 
count. 

The dew of your intelligence has refreshed 
mv poetical laurels. A little pr.iise now and 
then is very good for your hard-working poet, 
who is apt to grow languid, and perhaps care- 
less, without it. Praise I find atlects us as 
money does. The more a man gets of it, 
with the more vigilance he w.itches over and 
preserves it. Such at least is its cITect on 
me, and you in:iy assure yourself that I will 
never lose a mite of it for want of care. 

I have already invited the good Padre* in 

general tc^rms, and he shall positively dine 

hero next week, whether he will or not. I do 

not at all suspect that his kindness to Pro- 

* The chaplain of John Throckmorton, Esq. 



tcstants has anything insidious in it, any more 
than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for 
ine with a view for my conversion. He would 
tind me a tough piece of business, I can tell 
him, for, when 1 had no religion at all, I had 
yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much 
more now ! 

I should have sent you a longer letter, but 
was obliged to devote my last evening to the 
melancholy employment of composinga I/itin 
in.scription fortlie tonib.stone of jioor William, 
two copies of which I wrote out and enclosed, 
one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. 
Newton. W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Wfston, .Ian. 3, 1787. 

My dear Friend, — You wish to hear from 
me at any calm interval of epic frenzy. An 
interval presents itself, but whether calm or 
not is perhaps doubtful. Is it possible for a 
mini to be calm who for three weeks past has 
been perpetually occupied in slaughter; let- 
ting out one man's bowels, smiting another 
through the gullet, transfixing the liver of 
another, and lodging an arrow in a fourtlr; 
Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and 
you will lind such amusing incidents as these 
the subject of it, the sole subject. In order 
to interest myself i^ it and to catch the spirit 
of it, I had need discard all humanity. It is 
woeful work : and were the best poet in the 
world to give us at this day such a list of 
killed and wounded, he would not escape 
universal censure, to theprai.se of a more en- 
lightened age b<' it spoken. I have waded 
through much blood, and through much more 
I must wade before I shall have fhiished. I 
determine in the mean time to account it all 
very sublime, and for two reasons; — lirst, be- 
cause all the learned think so. and secondly, 
beciiuse I am to translate it. But were I an 
inditVerent by-stander. perhaps I should ven- 
ture to wish that Homer had applied his 
wonderful powers to a less disgusting sub- 
ject : he has in the Odyssey, and 1 long to get 
at it. 

I have not the good fortune to meet with 
.any of these fine things that you say are 
jirinted in my praise. But I learn from cer- 
tain advcrtisi'uients in the Morning Herald, 
that I make a conspicuous figure in the en- 
tertainments of Freemasons' Hall. I le.arn 
also that my volumes .-ire out of print, and 
that a third edition is soon to be published. 
But, if I am not gratified with the sight of 
odes composed to my honor and glory, I have 
at lea.st been tickled with some dtmceurs of n 
very flattering nature by the post. A lady 
unknown addresses the best of men — an un- 
known gentleman has re.ad my inimit4d)lo 
poems, and invites me to his seat in Hamp- 
shire — another incognito gives me hopes of a 



i278 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



iiKMiiorial ill his garden, and a Welsh attorney 
sends mc liis ver»es to revise, and obligingly 
asks 

'■ Sav, shall my little bark attendant sail, 
Pursue thu triumph, and partake tile gale 1" 

If yon find me a little vain hereaflcr, my 
trii'iul, yon must excuse it in consideration 
of these powerful incentives, especially the 
latter; for surely the poet who can cliarin an 
attorney, especially a Welsh one, must bo at 
least an Orpheus, if not something greater. 

Mrs. Uiiwin is as much delighted as my.self 
witli our present situation. But it is a sort 
of April weather life that we lead in this 
world. A little sunshine is generally the pre- 
lude to a storm. Hardly had we begun to 
enjoy the change, when the death of her son 
cast a gloom upon everything. He was a 
most exemplary man ; of your order; learned, 
polite, and aimable ; the father of lovely 
children, and the husband of a wife (very 
much like dear Mrs. Bagot) who adored him. 
Adieu, my friend ! 

Vour affectionate, W. C. 

The correspondence of CowjJer was very 
limited this year, owing to a severe attack of 
nervous fever, which continued during a pe- 
riod of eight months, and greatly atfected his 
health and spirits. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Tlie Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. 

I have had a little nervous fever lately, my 
dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep ; 
and though I find myself better to-day than 1 
have been since it seized me, yet I feel my 
head lightish, and not in the best order for 
writing. You will find me therefore perhaps 
not only less alert in my manner than I 
usually am when my spirits are good, but 
rather shorter. I will however proceed to 
scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then 
will do as I know you would bid me do were 
you here, shut up my desk and take a walk. 

The good General tells me that in the eight 
first books which I have sent him lie still finds 
alterations and amendments necessary, of 
which I myself am equally persuaded ; and 
he asks my leave to lay them before an inti- 
mate friend of bis, of whom he gives a char- 
acter that bespeaks him highly deserving such 
a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring 
only to make the translation as perfect as I 
can make it. If God grant me life and 
health, I would spare no labor to secure that 
point. The General's letter is extremely 
kind, and both for matter and manner like all 
the rest of bis dealings with his cousin, the 
poet. 

I had a letter also yesterday from Mr. 
Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we 
never saw each other, he writes to me in the 



most friendly terms, and interests himself 
much in my Homer, and in the success of my 
subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, 
he says, that my poems are read by hundreds 
who know nothing of my proposal.s, and 
makes no doubt that they would subscribe 
if they did. I have myself always thought 
them imperfectly or rather insuHiciently an- 
nounced. 

I could pity the poor woman who has been 
weak enough to claim my song; such pilfcr- 
ings are sure to be detected. 1 wrote it, 1 
know not how long, but I suppose four years 
ago. The "Rose" in (juestion was a rose 
given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and 
the incident that suggested the subject oc- 
curred in the room in which yon slept at the 
vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining- 
room. Some lime since, Mr. Bull going to 
London, I gave him a copy of it, which he 
undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer 
of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it 

to a Mrs. C , who begged to copy it, and 

promised to send it to the printer's by her 
servant. Three or four mouths afterwards, 
and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw 
it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my sig- 
nature, " W. C." Poor simpleton ! She will 
find now perhaps that the rose had a thoni, 
and that she lias pricked her fingere with it. 
Adieu ! my beloved cousin. W. C. 

Though these verses, of which another 
claimed the authorship, will appear in the 
collection of poems, yet as they are so char- 
acterized by taste and beauty, and the inci- 
dent which gave rise to them is mentioned in 
the above letter, we think the reader will be 
pleased witli their insertion. 

The rose had been wash'd, just washed in a 
shower, 

Which Mary* to Annaf convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower 

.And weigh 'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all 
wet, 

And it seemed to a fanciful view 
To weep for tlie buds it had left with reg;rct 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was, 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd ; 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! 
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mind ; 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resign 'd. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 

Might have bldom'd with its owner awhile, 

And The tear that is wip'd with a little address 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 



• Mrs. Unwin. 



t Lady Austen. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



279 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Wi'slon, Jun. 13, 1787. 

l\Iy dear Friend, — It <r.avo me pleasure, 
sucli ;is it was, to learn by a letter I'roni Mr. 
H. Tliorntoii, ihat the inscriptien tbrtlic tomb 
of poor Unwin lias been approved of. The 
dead have nothing lodo with human prai.se.s. 
but if ihey died in the Lord, they have alnin- 
dant praises to render to Ilim, whieh is far 
better. The dead, whatever they leave be- 
hind them, have nothin;,' to rejjret. (lood 
C'lir:stians arc tlie only ereatures in the world 
that are truly good, and them they will .see 
again, and see them improved ; therefore them 
they regret not. Regret is for the living: 
what we get, we soon lose, and what we lose, 
we regret. The most obvious eonsolation 
in this case seems to be, that we who regret 
others shall (luickly become objects of regret 
ourselves : for mankind are continually pass- 
ing off in r.ipid succession. 

I have many kind friende, who, like your- 
self, wish thai, instead of turning my en- 
deavors to a translation of Homer, 1 had 
proceeded in the way of original poetry. But 
I cm truly say that it was ordered otherwise, 
not by me. but by the Providence that gov- 
erns all my thoughts and directs my inten- 
tions as he pleases. It may seem strange, 
but it is true, that after having written a vol- 
ume, in general with gre.at ease to myself, I 
found it impossible to writi! another page. 
The mind of man is not a fountain, but a 
cistern; and mine, God knows, a broken one. 
// is mtj crerd, thai the in'rUfCt drpemtx as 
much, both for the energy and the multiliide nf 
lis exerlions, iiprm Ike operations of G(jd's 
agencij upon it, as the heart, for the excrr.ise 
of its graces, upon th" influence (f the Holy 
Spirit. According to this persuasion, I may 
very reasonably atlirm, that it was not God's 
pleasure that I should proceed in the same 
track, because he did not enaljle me to do it. 
A whole year I waited, and waited in circum- 
stances of mind that made a state of non- 
cmi)loyment peculiarly irksome to me. I 
longed for the pen, as the only remedy, but 
I could find no subject : extreme distress of 
spirit at last drove me, as, if I mistake not, I 
tohl you some time since, to Lay Homer be- 
fore me and translate for amusenumt. Why 
it pleased (iod that I should be hnnled into 
such a business, of such enormous length 
and lalior, by miseries for which He did not 
see good to afford me any other remedy, I 
know nol. ISutsoitwas: and jejune as the 
consolation may be, and unsuited to the ex- 
igencies of a mind that (nice was .spiritual, 
yet a thousand times hive I lieeii glad of it; 
for a thousand times it has served at least to 
divert my attention, in some degree, from 
such terrible tempests as I believe have sel- 

• Private correspondence. 



dom been permitted to beat upon a human 
mind. Let my friends, therelbre, who wi.sh 
me some little measure of tranquillity in the 
performance of the most turbulent voyage 
that ever Christian mariner made, be con- 
tented, that, having Homer's mountains and 
forests to win(rward, I escape, under their 
shelter, from the force of many a gust that 
would almost overset me ; especially when 
they consider that, not by choice, but by ne- 
cessity, I make titem my refuge. As to fame, 
and honor, and glory, that may be acquired 
by poetical feats of any sort; God knows, 
that if 1 could lay me down in my grave 
with hope at my side, or sit with hope at my 
side in a dungeon all the residue of my days, 
I would cheerfully waive them all. For the 
little fame that I have already earned b.as 
never saved me from one distressing night, or 
from one despairing day, since 1 first acquired 
it. F</r what I am reserved, or to what, is .a 
mystery ; I would fain hope, not merely that 
I may amuse others, or only to be a transUw 
tor of Homer. 

Sally Perry's c;ise has given us much con- 
cern. I have no doubt that it is distemper. 
But distresses of mind, that are occasioned 
by distemper, are the most dillicult of all to 
deal with. They refuse all consolation ; they 
will hear no reason. God only, by his own 
immediate impressions, can remove them ; as, 
after an experience of thirteen years' misery, 
I can abundantly testify. 

Vours, W. C. 



TO LADY IIESKETH. 

The I^od'fe, Jan. 18, 17g7. 
I have been so much indisposed with the 
fever that I told you had seized me, my nights 
dui'ing the whole week may be said to have 
been almost sleepless. The consequence has 
been, that, except the translation of about 
thirty lines at the conclusion of the thirteenth 
book, I have been forced to abandon Homer 
entirely. This was a sensible mortification 
to me, as you may suppose, and felt the 
more, because, my spirits of course failing 
with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar 
need of my old amusement. It seemed hard 
therefore to be forced to resign it just when 
I wanted it most. But Homer's battles can- 
not be fought by a man who does not sleep 
well, and who has not some little degree of 
animation in the daytime. Last night, how- 
ever, quite contrary to my expectations, the 
fever left me entirely, and I slept quietly, 
soundly, and long. If it please God that it 
return not, I shall soon find myself in a con- 
dition lo proceed. I walk constantly, th.at is 
to say, .Mrs. Unwin an<l I together; for at 
these times I keep her continually employed, 
and never suffer her to be absent from mc 
many minutes. She gives mc all her time 



280 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and all her attention, and forgets that there 
is another object in the world. 

Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams 
aa everybody else does, that is to say, accord- 
intr to lier own experience. She has had no 
extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts 
theui only the ordinary operations of the 
fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not 
sutler me to ascribe them to so inadequate a 
cause, or to any cause but the operation of 
an exterior aijency. I have a mind, my dear, 
(and to you I will venture to boast of it) as 
free from superstition as any man living, nei- 
ther do I give heed to dreams in general as 
predictive, though particular dreams I believe 
to be so. Some very sensible persons, and, 
I suppose, Mrs. Carter among them, will ac- 
knowledge that in old times God spoke by 
dreams, but alhrm witli mucli boldness that 
he has since ceased to do so. If you ask 
them why, they answer, because he has now 
revealed his will in the Scripture, and there 
is no longer any need that he should instruct 
or admonisli us by dreams. I grant that with 
respect to doctrines and precepts he has left 
us in want of nothing, but has he thereby 
precluded liimself in any of the operations 
of his Providence? Surely not. It is per- 
fectly adift'erent consideration ; and the same 
need that there ever was of his interference 
in this way there is still, and ever must be, 
while man continues blind and fallible, and 
a creature beset with dangers, which he can 
neither foresee nor obviate. His operations 
however of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; 
and, as to the generality of dreams, they are 
made of such stud', and are in themselves so 
insignificant, that, though I believe them all 
to be the manufacture of others, not our own, 
I account it not a farthing-matter who manu- 
factures them. So much for dreams ! 

Jly fever is not yet gone, but sometimes 
seems to leave me. It is altogether of the 
nervous kind, and attended now and then 
with much dejection. 

A young gentleman called here yesterday 
who came six miles out of his way to see me. 
He was on a journey to London from Glas- 
gow, having just left the University there. 
He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own 
curiosity, but eliieliy, as it seemed, to bring 
roe the 'thanks of some of the Scotch profes- 
sors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, 
an Englishman. Your spirits being good, 
you will derive more pleasure from this inci- 
dent than I can at present, therefore I semi it.* 
Adieu, very afi'eetionately, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Woslon, July 24, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — This is the first time I h.ave 

written these six months, and nothing but 

* Mr. Rose was the son of Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, who 



the constraint of obligation could induce me 
to write now. I cannot be so wanting to 
myself as not to endeavor, at least, to thank 
you both for the visits with which you have 
favored me, and the poems that you sent me ; 
in my present state of mind I taste nothing, 
nevertheless I read, partly from habit, and 
partly because it is the only thing I am capa- 
ble of. 

I have therefore read Burns's poems, and 
have read them twice ; and, though they be 
written in a language that is new to me, and 
many of them on subjects much inferior to 
the author's ability, 1 think them on the 
whole a \ery extraordinary production. He 
is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms 
have produced in the lower raid; of life since 
Shakspeare (I should rather say since Prior) 
who need not be indebted for any part of his 
praise to a charitable consideration of his 
origin and the disadvantages under which he 
has labored. It will be a pity if he should 
not hereafter divest himself of bnrbarism, and 
content himself with writing pure English, in 
which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. 
He who can command admiration dishonors 
himself if he aims no higher than to raise a 
laugh. 

I am, dear sir, with my best wishes for 
your prosperity, and with Mrs. Unwin's re- 
spects. 

Your obliged and affectionate humble ser- 
vant, W. C. 

Burns is one of those instances which the 
annals of literature occasionally furnish of 
genius surmounting every obstacle by its 
own natural powers, and rising to command- 
ing eminence. He was a Scottish peasant, 
born in Ayrshire, a native of that land where 
Fingal lived and Ossian sung.* He rose 
from the plough, to take his part in the pol- 
ished and intellectual society of Edinburgh, 
where he was admitted to the intercourse of 
Robertson, Blair, Lord Monboddo, Stevv'art, 
Alison, and Mackenzie, and found a patron 
in the Earl of Glencairn. 

formprly ttept a seminary there. He wn-s at this time a 
young man, dislinsuishetl i)y talent and great amiable- 
ness of character, and won the regard and esteem of 
Covvper. He soon became one of his favorite correspon- 
dents. 

* The peasantry of Scotland do n(rt resemt)le the same 
class of men in Eni,dand, owing to a legal provision 
made by the Parliament of Scotland, in 1041!, whereby a 
sehuol is established in every parish, tor the express 
purpose of educating the poor. This statute was re- 
pealed on the accession of (Jliarles tlie .Si-cond. in IfiOO, 
l>ut was tinally rivestablished by the Scottish Parliaim-nt, 
after the llevolution, in H)96. The C(Uisi-i|iieiiee of Uns 
enactment is, that every one, even in llie Innnttlest con- 
dition of life, is able to read ; and most persons are more 
or less skilled in writing and arithmetic. Tlie moral 
effects are such, that it has been said, one (piarler ses- 
sions for the town of Manchester has sent more fehms 
lor transportation than all the judges of Scotland consign 
during a whole year. Why is not a similar enactment 
made for Ireland, where there is more ignorance and 
consequently more demoralization, than in any coujUry 
of equal extent in Europe ? 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



281 



His poetry is distinguished by the powers 
of a vivid iiivigiiiation, a deep aciiuaiiitanee 
wilh the recesses of the human heart, and an 
ardent and "feiierous sensihilily of feeling. 
It contains beautiful delineations of the scen- 
ery and manners of his country. " Many of 
her rivers and niounlains," ob.serves his bio- 
grapher,* •■ formerly unknown to the muse, 
arc now consecrated by his immortal verse; 
the Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and 
tlie Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, 
the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as 
cla.s.sic streams, and their borders will be trod 
with new and superior emotions." 

It is to be lamented that, owing to the dia- 
lect in which his poems are for the most part 
written, they are not sufficiently intelligible 
to English readers. His popular songs have 
given him much celobrity in his own coun- 
try, f 

Unh.appilythe fame of his genius attracted 
around him the g.iy and social, and his fine 
powers were wasted in midnight orgies; till 
lie ultimately fell a victim to intemperance, in 
the thirty-eighth year of his age :J furnishing 
one more melancholy instance of genius not 
advancing the moral welfare and dignity of 
its possessor, because he rejected the guid- 
ance of prudence, and forgot that it is religion 
alone that can make men truly great or hap- 
py. How often is genius like a comet, ec- 
centric in its course, which, afier astonishing 
the world by its splendor, suddenly expires 
and vanishes ! 

We think that if a selection could be 
in:ide from his works, excluding what is of- 
fensive, and retaining beauties which all 
must appreciate, an acceptable service might 
be rendered to the British public. Who can 
withhold their admiration from passages like 
these ? 

" Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
And Ibndly t)rooils with miser care; 
Time but the impression stronijcr makes, 
.Vs streams their channels deeper wear." 

Speaking of religion, ho observes: — 

" 'Tis thii, my friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
'Tis tM.1 that uilds the horror of our night [few ; 
When wealth forsakes us. and when friends are 
When iViends are laithl'ss, or when ibes pursue ; 
'Tis thLs that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarais affliction, or rop 'Is his dart; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Hids s-niUn^ conscience spread her cloudless 

skies." 

We would also quote the following beau- 
tiful lines from his Cotter's (or Cottager's) 
S.iturday Night, which represents the habits 
of domestic piety in humble life. 

* Dr. Carrie. 

t Tlu- niUionnl air of "Scots wha h:ie wi* Wallace 
Itti-d," is fuiiiili:ir to every one. • 
} lie died iu ITJIJ. 



" Perhaps the Christian rofume is the theme, 

How ijuillless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How //-■ who borf in heaven the second name, 

H.ul not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his lirst Ibllowcrs and servants sped : 

The precepts sage tht-y wrote to many a land. 
How he. who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
.Anil heard great Babtjlon doom'd by Heaven's 
command." 

" Then kneeling, unto Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, thti/athcr, and the kiL^hatul prays;* 
Hops ■ springs exultinw on triumphant wmg,' 

That thus they all shall meet in future days; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear. 
While time moves round in an eternal sphere." 



TO SAMtJEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Au-„'. 27, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — I h.ave not yet taken up the pen 
again, except to write to you. 'I'lie little 
taste that I have had of your company, and 
your kindness in finding me out, make me 
wish that we were nearer neighbors, and that 
tliere were not so great a disparity in our 
years — that is to say, not that you were old- 
er, but that 1 were younger. Could we have 
met in early life, I Hatter myself that we 
might have been more intimate than now we 
are likely to be. But you shall not tiiid me 
slow to cultivate such a measure of your re- 
gard as your friends of your o«n age can 
spare me. When your route shall lie through 
this country, I shall hope that the same kind- 
ness which has prompted you twice to call 
on me, will prompt you again, and I shall be 
happy if, on a future occasion, 1 may be able 
to give you a more cheerful reception than 
can be expected from an invalid. .My health 
and spirits are considerably improved, and I 
once more associate with my neighbors. My 
head, however, has been the worst part of 
me, and still continues so: is subject to gid- 
diness and i)ain, maladies very unfavorable to 
poetical employment ; but a prep.iration of 
the bark, which I take regularly, Ikis so far 
been of service to me in those respects, as to 
encourage in me a hope that, by persever- 
ance in the use of it, I may po.ssibly lind 
myself qualified to resume the translation of 
Homer. 

When I cannot walk, I read, and perhaps 
more than is good for me. But I cannot lie 
idle. The only mercy that I show myself in 
this respect, is, that I read nothing that re- 
quires much closeness of application. I late- 
ly finished the perusal of a book, which in 
former years I have more than once attacked, 
but never till now conquered ; some other 

* Tliifl i« s.iid to be a portrait of his own father's do- 
mestic piety. 



282 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



book always interfered before I could finish it. 
Tlie work' I mean is Barclay's "Argenis ;'"* 
and, if ever you allow yoinvelf to read for 
mere amusement, I can recommend it to you 
(])rovidedyou liave not already perused it) as 
tlie most amusing romance tluit ever was 
written. It is tlie only one, indeed, of an old 
date, that I ever had the patience to go 
Ihrongh W'ith. It is interesting in a high de- 
gree ; richer in incident tliau can be ima- 
gined ; full of surprises, w'hich the reader 
never forestalls; and yet free from all en- 
tanglement and confusion. The style, too, 
appears to be such as would not dishonor 
Tacitus himself. 

Poor Burns loses much of his deserved 
praise in this country, through our ignorance 
of his language. I despair of meeting with 
any Englishman who will take the pains that 
I have taken to understand him. His candle 
is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. I 
lent him to a very sensible neighbor of mine. 
But his uncouth dialect spoiled all, and, be- 
fore he had half read him through he was 
quite bainboozled. 

vv. c. 



TO LAD? HESKETII. 

The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1T87. 

My dearest Cousin, — Though it costs me 
something to write, it would cost me more to 
be silent. My intercourse with my neiglibors 
being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget 
how many reasons there are why you, espe- 
cially, should not be neglected ; no neighbor, 
indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere 
long, I hope, an inmate. 

My health and spirits seem to be mending 
daily. To wliat end I know not, neither will 
conjectiu'e, but endeavor, as far as I can, to 
be c(uitcnt that they do so. I use exercise, 
and take the air in the park and wilderness. 
1 read much, but as yet write not. Our 
friends at the Hall make themselves more 
and more amiable in our account, by treating 
us rather as old friends than as friends newly 
ac(|uired. There are few days in which we 
do not meet, and I am now almost as much 
at home in their house as in our own. Mr. 
Throckmorton, having long since put me in 
piissession of all his ground, has now given 
UK' possession of his library. An acquisition 
i>\' great value to me, who never have been 
able to live without books, since I first knew 
my letters, and who have no books of my 
own. By his means I have been so well sup- 
plied, that I have not even yet looked at the 

* A Lulin romance, once celi'bratL'd. Barclay wu-s llie 
a'lthur of Iwo celebrated Latin romances ; tlie (Ir.^t en- 
tilled Kviphorniio, a political, satirical work, cliiefly 
levelled aijainsl the Jesnits, and dedicated to .Jmnes 1. 
llis Ar(,'eilis IS a political alle^oiy, descriptive of the 
lUate of Europe, and especially or I^rance, during' the 
l.ea'^'ue. Sir Walter Scott alludes to the l^uphoiiuio in 
his notes on Marmion, canto Urd. 



'■ Lounger," for which, however, I do not for- 
get that I am obliged to you. //i.v turn 
comes ne.\t, tind I shall probably begin him 
to-morrow. 

Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall. 
I thonglit I had known these brothers long 
enough to have found out all tlieir talents 
and accomplishments. But I was mistaken. 
The day before yesterday, after luiviiig walked 
with us, they carrk'd us up to the library (a 
more accurate writer would have said ani- 
(/wr/ri/ us); and then they showed me the con- 
tents of an immense porUblio, the work of 
their own hands.. It was furnished with 
drawings of the architectural kind, executed 
in a most masterly manner, and, among oth- 
ers, contained outside and inside views of 
the Pantheon,! mean the Roman one. They 
were all, I believe, made at Rome. Some 
men may be estimated at a first interview, 
but the Throckmortons must be seen often 
and known long before one can understand 
all their value.* 

They often inquire after you, and ask me 
whether you visit Weston this autumn. I an- 
swer, yes ; and I charge you, my dearest cous- 
in, to authenticate my information. Write 
to me. and tell us when we may expect to see 
you. We were disappointed that we had no 
letter from you this morning. You will find 
ine coated and buttoned according to your 
recommendation. 

I write but little, because writing has be- 
come new to me; but I shall come on by de- 
grees. Jlrs. Unwin begs to be atl'cctionately 
remembered Jo you. Site is in tolerable 
health, which Is the chief comfort here that I 
have to boast of. 

Yours, my dearest cousin, as ever, 

W. C. 



TO tABT HESKETII. 

The Lodi-e, Sejil. 4, 1787. 

My dearest Coz., — Come, when thou ean.st 
come, .secure of being always welcome ! All 
that is here is thine, together with the hearts 
of those who dwell here. I am only sorry 
that your journey hither is necessarily post- 
poned beyond the time when I did liope to 
have seen you ; sorry, too, that my uncle's 
iniirmities are the occasion of it. But years 
icill have their course and their effect ; they 
are happiest, so far as this life is concerned, 
who like him escape those effects the longest, 

* With Mr., afterwards Sir John Tlirockmorlon, the 
Kdilur had nut the opportunity of beinf; acqilauiled ; but 
he would fail in reiidei-ing what is due to departed 
wortli, if he did not record the high sense which he en- 
tertained of the virtues of his broUier, Sir George Thrtick- 
niorton. To the polished malnlers of the gentleman he 
united tlie accomplishments of the schi^lai- and the man 
of taite and relinenient ; while the atlenlion paid to Iho 
wants, the comforts, and inslnietioji i3l the poor, in which 
another pavticipated with equal promptness and delight, 
luLS left behind a meraorial that will not soon be fol^ 
gotten. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



283 



ami wlio do not jfrow old before their time. 
Trouble and :in;,'uisli do tliiill'or some, whieh 
only longevity does for others. A few 
nion'.lis sinec 1 was older than your father is 
now, and, though I have lalely reeovered, as 
Falstati' says, same smatcli if my yoiilli, I liave 
but little eontidenee, in truth none, in .so Hat- 
lering a eliange, but e.xpeet, when I leaal rx- 
jiec' it, to wither again. The past is a pledge 
for the future. 

Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's un- 
cle. He is lately arrived from Italy, where 
he has resided' sever.d years, and is so niueh 
the gentleman that it is impossible to be 
more so. Sensible, polite, obliging; slender 
in his figure, and in manners most engaging 
— every way worthy to be related to the 
Throekmortons.* 

I have read Savary's Travels into Egypt tf 
llemoires du Baron de Tott ; Feim's Origi- 
nal Letters; the letters of Frederick of Bohe- 
mia ; and am now reading llemoires d'Heiiri 
de Lorraine, Due do Guisi'. I have also read 
Bard.iy's Argenis, a Latin romance, and the 
best romance that ever was written — all these, 
together with Madan's Letters to Priestly, 
and several pamphlets, within these two 
month.s. So 1 am a great reader. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodsc Sept. 15, 1787. 
My dearest Cousin, — on Monday last I was 

invited to meet your friend, Jliss J , at 

the Mall, and there we found her. Her good 
nature, her humorous manner, and her good 
sense, are charming, insomuch that even I, 
who was ne\er much addicted to speech- 
making, and wlio at present tind myself jiar- 
licularly indisposed to it, could not help saying 
at p irting, I am glad that I have seen you, and 
sorry that I have seen so little of you. We 
were sometimes many in company : on Thurs- 
day we were fifteen, but we had not alto- 
gether so much vivacity and cleverness as 
Miss J , whose talent at mirth-making 

• T. RifTard, Esq., i« the person here intetided, for 
whom tin; verse-* were cutnpudcd, inserted in a separate 
p;irt of this vulume. 

t SavaryN travels in Eij.vpt and tlio Levant, from HTfj 
to 17S(). — They have acqntred sufltcient popularity to t>e 
Irani'lated into most of the Europe.an lani^uages. He 
died in 17Sri ^ 

Itaron de ToU*;* memoirs. — Ttie severe reflections in 
which tliis writer indiili^ed ai;ain<tt Itie Turliisli govern- 
ment, and tiis imprudent expos;ire of its political weak- 
ness, siiljjecleri hiin to a series of hardships and itn- 
prisonment, which seem almost to exceed the bounds of 
credil)ihty. 

Sir .John Fenn's Letters. — Written hy various memt>ers 
of the l>;istou family, diirini; the historical period of the 
wars between the two houses of York and Lancaster, 
lie ilieil in 17!H. ' 

Henri de Lorraine, Due do Cuise.— This celebrated 
charaeter was the ttreat opponent of the lluijuenots, and 
foiiii I'T of Itie Lea:;ue in the time of Henry lit., of 
Kraiie -. He was iLss.*e'.''inaled at Hlois, at the insti-.;ation, 
it is said, of his sovereign, to whom his intluence had 
become formidable. 



has this rare property to recommend it, thai 
nobody sulfers by it. 

1 am making a gravel-walk for winter use, 
under a warm hedge in the orchard. It shall 
he furnished with a low seat for your accom- 
modation, and if you do but like it I shall be 
satisfied. In wet weather, or rather after wet 
weather, when the street is dirty, it will suit 
you well, for, lying on an easy declivity 
through its whole length, it must of course 
be immediately dry. 

You are very much wished for by our 
friends at the Hall — how much by me I will 
not tell you till the second week in October. 
Yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge., Sept. 29, 1787. 

My dear Coz., — I thank you for your politi- 
cal intelligence; retired as we are, and seem- 
ingly excluded from the world, we are not 
indiflerent to what passes in it; on the con- 
trary, the arrival of a newspaper, at the pres- 
ent juncture, never fails to furnish us with a 
theme for discussion, short indeed, but satis- 
factory, for we seldom dili'er in opinion. 

I have received such an impression of the 
Turks, t'rom the Memoirs of Baron de Tott, 
which I read lately, that I can hardly help 
presaging the eon(|uest of that empire by the 
Russians. The disciples of Mahomet are 
such b.ibies in modern tactics, mid so ener- 
vated by the use of their favorite drug, so 
fatally secure in their ])redestinarian dream, 
and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against 
their leaders, that nothing less can be ex- 
pected. In fact, they had not been their own 
masters at this day, had but the Russians 
known the weakness of their enemies half so 
well as they undoubtedly know it now. Add 
to this. that there is a popularprophecy current 
in both countries, that Turkey is one day to 
fall under the Russian seejitre. A prophecy, 
which, from whatever authority it be derived, 
as it will naturally encourage the Russians, and 
dispirit the 'i'urks, in e.vaet |iroportion to the 
degree of credit it has obtained oil both sides, 
has a direct tendency to elVect its own ac- 
complishment. In the meantime, if I wish 
them conijuered, it is only because I think it 
will be a blessing to them to be governed by 
any other hind than their own. For under 
heaven has there never been a throne so ex- 
ecrably tyrannical as theirs. The heads of 
the innocent that have been cut off to gratify 
the humor or caprice of their tyrants, could 
they be all collected and di-eharged against 
the walls of their city, would not leave one 
stone on another. 

O that you were here this beautiful day! 
It is too fine by half to be spent in London. 
I have a perpetual din in my head, and, 



284 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



though I :im not deaf, hear nothing aright, 
neither my own voice, nor that of otliers. I 
am under a tub, from which tub accept my 
best love. 

Yours, W. C. 



Tlie following letter di^covers an afilieting 
instance of the delusion under which the in- 
teresting mind of Cowper labored in some 
particular instances. 

TO THE REV. JOHN MEWTON.* 

Weston Underwood, Oct. 2, 1787. 

l\[y dear Friend. — After a long but neces- 
sary interruption of our correspondence,! re- 
turn to it again, in one respect at least better 
qualified for it than before ; I mean by a be- 
lief of your identity, which for thirteen years 
I did not believe. The acquisition of this 
light, if light it may be called which leaves 
me as much in the dark as ever on the most 
interesting subjects, releases me however 
from the disagreeable suspicion tliat I am ad- 
dressing myself to you as the friend wliom I 
loved and valued so highly in my better days, 
while in fact you are not that friend, but a 
stranger. I can now write to you without 
seeming to act a part, and without having 
any need to charge myself with dissinuila- 
lio'n; — a charge from which, in that state of 
mind and under such an uncomfortable per- 
suasion, I knew not how to e.\culpate my.self, 
and which, as you will easily conceive, not 
seldom made my correspondence with you a 
burden. Still, indeed, it wants, and is likely 
to want, that best ingredient which can alone 
make it truly pleasant cither to myself or 
you — th.at spirituality which once enlivened 
all our intercourse. Vou will tell me, no 
doubt, that the knowledge I have gained is 
an earnest of more and more valuable infor- 
mation, and that the dispersion of the clouds, 
in part, promises, in due time, their complete 
dispersion. 1 slionld be liapjiy to believe it ; 
but the power to do so is at present far from 
me. Never was the mind of man benighted 
to the degree that mine has been. The 
storms that have assailed me would have 
overset the fiith of every man that ever had 
any : and the very remembrance of them, 
even after they have been long passed by, 
makes liope impossible. 

airs. Unwin, whose poor bark is still held 
together, though shattered by being tossed 
and agitated so long .at the side of mine, does 
not forget yours and Mrs. Newton's kindness 
on this last occasion. Jlrs. Newton's otfer 
to come to her assistance, and your readiness 
to have rendered us the same service, could 
you have hoped for any salutary elfect of 
your presence, neither Mr.s. Unwin nor my- 
* Private correspondence. 



self undervalue, nor shall pre.sently forget. 
But you judged right when you supposed, 
that even your company would have been no 
relief to me ; the company of my father or 
my brother,couldthey have returned from the 
de:id to visit me, would have been none to mo. 
We are busied in preparing for the recep- 
tion of Lady neskcth, whom we expect here 
shortly. We have beds to put up, and fur- 
niture for beds to make ; workmen, and 
scouring, and bustle. Mrs. Unwin's time has 
of course been lately occupied to a degree 
that made writing to her impracticable ; and 
she excused herself the rather, knowing my 
intentions to take Iter office. It does not, 
however, suit me to write much at a time. 
This last tempest has left my nerves in a 
worse condition than it found them ; my 
head especially, though better informed, is 
more intirm than ever. I will therefore only 
add our joint love to yourself and Mrs. New- 
ton, and that I am, my dear friend. 

Your atfectionate W. C* 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 19, 1787. 

Dear Sir, — A summons from Johnston, 
which I received yesterday, calls my attention 
once more to the business of translation. 
Before I begin, I am willing to catch though 
but a short opportunity to acknowledge your 
last favor. 'I'he necessity of applying my- 
self with all diligence to a long work, that 
has been but too long interrupted, will make 
my opportunities of writing rare in future. 

Air and exercise are necessary to all men, 
but particularly so to the man whose mind 
labors, and to iiim who has been all his life 
accustomed to much of both they are neces- 
sary in the extreme. My time, since we 
parted, has been devoted entirely to the re- 
covery of health and strengtli for this service, 
and 1 am willing to hope with good etfecf. 
Ten months have passed since I discontinued 
my poetical efforts : I do not expect to find 
the .same readiness as before, till exercise of 
the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have 
restored it to me. 

Vou find yourself, I hope, by this time as 
comfortably situated in your new abode as 
in a new abode one can be. I enter perfectly 
into all ^our feelings on occasion of the 
change. A sensible mind cannot do violence 
even to a local atlachment without much 
pain. When my father died, 1 was young, 
too young to have refiected much. He was 
Rector of Berkhamstead, and there I was 
born. It had never oceured to me that a 
parson has no fee-simple in the house and 
glebe he occupies. There was neither tree, 

* Tliis letter was addressed to Mr. Newton, on the 
writer's recovery from an attack ol his firievous constitu- 
tional malady, which laaled eight months. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



285 



nor gate, nor stile, in all that country, to 

wliioli I did not ffcl a rehition.and lliclionse 
itself I prcl'ciTfd to a palai-c, 1 was siMlt I'nr 
from Luruion to attend liiui in liis last illness, 
and lie died just before I arrived. Tlieii, and 
not till then, I felt fur tlic Hrst time that 1 
and my native place were disunited forever. 
I sifjhed a lonrr .idieu to iields and woods, 
from whieli I onee thought 1 slionld never be 
parted, and wa.sat no time so sensible of their 
beauties as just when I left them all behind 
rae, to return no more. VV. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTOK.* 

Oct. SO, ns7. 

My dear Friend, — My indisposition eonld 
not be of a worse kind. Had I been afflieted 
with a fever, or confined by a broken bone, 
neither of these cases would have made it 
impossible that we should meet. I am truly 
sorry that the impediment was insurtuoinila- 
ble while it lasted, for such in fact it was. 
The sight of any face, except Jlrs. Unwin's, 
was to me an insupportable grievance ; and 
when it has hapiH'iied that, hy fnrcinir him- 
self into my hiding place, sonic friend has 
found me (Uit, he has had no great cause to 
e\ult in his success, as Mr. Bull can tell you. 
Friim this dreadful condition of mind I 
emerged suddenly; so suddenly, that Mrs. 
Unwin, having no notice of such a change 
herself, could give none to anybody ; and 
when it obtained, how long it might last, or 
bow far it was to be depended on, was a mat- 
ter of the greatest uncertainty. It aflects me 
on the recollection with the more concern, 
because I learn from your last, that I have 
not only lost an interview with you myself, 
but have stood in the way of visits that you 
would have gl.tdly ])aid to others, and who 
would liiive been happy to have seen you. 
You should have forgdtteu (but you are not 
good at forgetting your friends) that such a 
creature as myself existed. 

I rejoice that Jlrs. Cowper has been so 
comfortably supported. She must have se- 
verely felt the loss of her son. She has an 
nfTectionate heart toward her children, and 
could but be sensible of the bitterness of 
such a cup. But God's presence sweetens 
e\erv bitter. Desertion is the only evil that 
a Christian cannot bear. 

I have done a deed for wliicli I find some 
people thank me little. Perhaps I have only 
burned my lingers, and had better not have 
meddled. Last Sunday se'nnight I drew up 
a petition to Loril Dartmouth, in behalf of 
Mr. I'ostlethwaite. We signed it and all 
the principal inhabitants of Weston followed 
our example.! What we had done was soon 

• Private corrcspomtt'iicp. 

t Ttie livintr of t >lin-\ liatl Ijt'coinc viicnnt by the deatti 
of tlie Kcv. Muso^ Brown, and iin attvlDpt vtas miulf \o 



known in Olncy, and an evening or two ago 

Mr. R called here to inform me (for that 

seemed lobe his errand) how little the meas- 
ure that I had taken was relished by some 
of his neighbors. I vindicated my proceed- 
ing on the [irinciples of justice and mercy to 
a laborious and well-deserving minister, to 
whom I li.ad the satisfictioti to lind that none 
could allege one serious objection, and that 
all, except one, who objected at all, are per- 
sons who ill reality ought to have no vote 
upon such a question. The alVair seems 
still to rem.iin undecided. If his lordship 
waits, which I a little suspect, till his .steward 
shall have taken tiie .sense of those with 
whom lie is likely to converse upon the sub- 
ject, and means to be determined by his re- 
port, .Mr. I'ostlethwaite's case is desperate. 

1 beg that you will remember me alVection- 
atcly to iMr. Bacon. We rejoice in Mrs. 
Newton's amended health, and when we can 
hear that she is restored, shall rejoice still 
more. The next summer may prove more 
propitious to us than the past ; if it should, 
we shall be happy to receive you and yours. 
Mrs. Unwin unites with me in love to you 
all three. She is tolerably well, and her 
writing was prevented by nothing but her 
expectation that 1 should soon do it myself. 
Ever yours, W. C 



TO LADY HESKETIl. 

Tlie Lodge, Nov. 10, 17eT. 

The parliament, my dearest cousin, pro- 
rogued continually, is a meteor dancing be- 
fore my eyes, promising me my wish only to 
disappoint me, and none but the king and his 
minist'ers can tell when you and I slu.ll come 
together. I hope, however, that the period, 
though so often postponed, is not far distant, 
and tliat once more I shall behold you, and 
experience your power to make winter gay 
and sprightly. 

I have a kitten the drollest of all creatures 
th.at ever wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are 
not to be described, and would be incredible, 
if they could. In point of size she is likely 
to be a kitten alway.s, being extremely small 
of her age, but time, I sujipose, that spoils 
everything, will make her also a eat. You 
will see ber, I hope, before that melancholy 
period .shall arri\e, for no wisdom that she 
may gain by expcriencir and reflection here- 
after will compensate the loss of her pres- 
ent hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoise- 
shell suit, and I know that you will delight 
in her. 

Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to-morrow 
in her chaise to Chicheley. The event, how- 
ever, must be supposed to depend on ele- 
ments, at least on the state of the atmo.s- 

wcnro it for llie U.'v. Mr. rostlilliu'iutc, Ihc curttlc. Mr. 
' lU-nn wiis ulliiuati'ly ajiiKjiiited. 



28(5 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



pliere, whicli is turbulent beyond measure. 
Yestordav it thundered, last niglit it lii;lit- 
ened, and at three this niomiiiij I saw the 
sky as red as a city in flames could have 
made it, I have a leech in a boUle that lore- 
tells all these prodigies and convulsions of 
nat\ire. No, not as you will naturally con- 
jecture, by articulate utterance of oracular 
notices, but by a variety of n-esticulations, 
which here I have not room to give an ac- 
count of. Suffice it to say, that no change 
of weather surprises him, and that, in poiut 
of the earliest and most accurate intelligence 
he is worth all the barometers in the world. 
None of them, all, indeed, can make the 
least pretence to foretell thunder — a species 
of capacity of which he has given the most 
unequivocal evidence. I g.ave but six-pence 
for him, which is a groat more than the mar- 
ket price, though he is in fact, or rather would 
be, if leeches were not found in every ditch, 
an invaluable acquisition. W. C 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Nov. 16, 1787. 

I thank you for the solicitude that you ex- 
press on the subject of my present studies. 
The work is undoubtedly long .and laborious, 
but it has an end, and, proceeding leisurely, 
with a due attention to the use of air and ex- 
ercise, it is possible that I may live to finish 
it. Assure yourself of one thing, that, though 
to a by-stander it may seem an occupation 
surpassing the powers of a constitution never 
very athletic, and at present not a little the 
worse for wear, I can invent for myself no 
employment that does not exhaust my spir- 
its more. I will not pretend to account tor 
this ; I will only say, that it is not the lan- 
guage of predilection for a favorite amuse- 
ment, but that the fact is reidly so. I have 
even found that those plaything-avocations 
which one may execute almost without any 
attention, fatigue me, and wear me away, 
while such as engage me much .and attach 
me closely, are rather serviceable to me than 
otherwise. W. C. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Nov. 27, 17S7. 

It is the part of wisdom, my dearest cous- 
in, to sit down contented under the demands 
of necessity, because they are such. I am 
sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's pres- 
ent inlirm state, and of which it is not possi- 
ble to expect any considerable amendment, 
indulge either us or yourself with a journey 
to Weston. Your-scif. I s.iy, both because I 
know it will give you pleasure to see Causi- 
dice mi!" once more, especially in the com- 

* The appollalion which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to 
give him ill jest, when he wa-s of Ihe Temple. 



fortable abode where you have placed him, 
and because, after so long an imprisonment 
in London, you, who love the country, and 
have a taste for it, would, of course, be glad 
to return to it. For my own part, to me it 
is ever new, .ind though I have now been an 
inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and 
liave, during the half of that time, been at 
liberty to expatiate and to make discoveries, 
I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks 
which you would never be satisfied with en- 
joying — some of them are unapproachable 
by you, either on foot or in your carriage, 
liad YOU twenty toes (whereas I suppose 
you have but ten) you could not reach them ; 
and coach-wheels have never been seen there 
since the flood. Before it indeed, (as Burnet 
says, that the earth was tlicti perfectly free 
from all inequalities in its surface,)* they 
might have been seen tlicre every day. We 
have other walks, both upon hill tops and 
in valleys beneatli, ^ome of which, by the 
help of your carriage, and many of them 
without its help, would be always at your 
command. 

On Monday morning last, Sam brought 
me word that there was a man in the kitchen 
who desired to speak with me. I ordered 
him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made 
its appearance, and, being desired to sit, 
spoke as follows: ''Sir, I am clerk of the 
p.irish of All-saints in Northampton; bro- 
ther of .Mr. C. the upholsterer. It is custom- 
ary for the person in my ollice to annex to 
a bill of mortality, wliich he publishes at 
Christmas, a copy of verses. You will do 
me a great favor. Sir, if you would furnish 
me with one." To this I replied, " Mr. C, 
you have several men of genius in your 
town, why have you not applied to some of 



There is a namesake of yours in 



tin 

particular, C , the statuary, who, every- 
body knows, is a first-rate maker of \erses. 
lie surely is the man of all the world for 
your purpose." — ".\las! Sir, I have hereto- 
fore borrowed help from him, but he is a 
gentleman of so much reading that the peo- 
ple of our town cannot understand him." I 
confess to you. my dear, I felt all the force 
of the compliment implied in this speech, 
and was almost ready to answer, "Pcrhap-i, 
my good friend, they may find me unintelli- 
gible too for the same rea: on." But on ask- 
ing him whether he liad walked over to Wes- 
ton on purpose to implore the assistance of 
my muse, and on his replying in the alfirma- 
five, I felt my mortified vanity a little con- 
soled, and, pitying flic poor man's distress, 
which appeared to be considerable, promised 
to supply him. The wagon has accordingly 
gone this day to Northampton loaded in p.irt 

* See nuriietV Theor>' of the Karlli, in wliich book, as 
well .OS by oUicr writers, the formation of motiiitaiiis is 
allributeil to the iijicaicy of llie great delii;;e. The depusit 
of luiu-iiie shells is alleged as favoring this liypothesis. 



with my cfTiisions in the inortu:iry style. A 
fii; for poets who write epitjiphs upon iiidi- 
viJuals 1 I have written une that serves twii 
humlral persons* 

A few liays since I received a second very 

obhi,'liig let"ter from Mr. M .f He tells 

nie that his own pa|>ers, which are hy far (he 
is sorry to say il) the most nnmerons, are 
ni:irl<ed V. I. /.( Accordin;.'ly, ray dear, I 
am h:ippv to hnd that 1 am en;,'ai;ed in a cor- 
respondence with Jlr. Viz, a jj;entlenian for 
whojn I have always entertained the profonnd- 
est veneration. l?nt the serions fact is, that 
the papers distinguished hy those signatures 
have ever pleased me most, and struck me as 
the work of a sensible man, who ki'ows the 
world well, and has more of Addison's deli- 
cate humor than anybody. 

A poor man begged food at the hall lately. 
The cook gave him some vermicelli soup. lie 
ladled it about some time w-ith the spoon, 
and tl>en returned it (o her, " I am a poor 
man it is true, .and I am very hungry, but yet 
I cannot eat br»th with maggots in it." Once 
more, my dear, a thous.and thanks for your 
box full of good things, useful things, and 
beautiful things. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Tlie Lodge, Dec. 4, 1787. 

I am gl.id, my dearest coz, tluit my last 
letter proved so diverting. You may assure 
yourself of the literal truth of the whole 
narration, and that, however droll, it was not 
in the least indebted to any embellishments 
of mine. 

You say well, my dear, that in Mr. Throck- 
morton we have a peerless neighbor: we 
have so. In point of information upon all 
important subjects, in respect too of expres- 
sion and address, and, in short, everything 
that enters into the idea of a gentleman, 1 
h ive not found his equal (not ofien) nny- 
u here. Were I a-sked, who in my judgment 
approaches nearest to him in all his amiable 
qualities and ciualitications. 1 should certainly 
answer, his brother George, who, if lie be 
not his exact counterpart, endued with pre- 
cisi'ly the same measure of the same aeeom- 
plishments, is nevertheless delicient in none 

* We intniduco one stanza from llicse verees:— 
" Like crowtI'Ml foresl tree* we stand, 
AimI sftine are inarke>l (o fall: 
The axe will smile al (Jnd's ci>tnniand. 
And s'.nm shall smite us all." 
t s' Henry Mackenzie.) This popular writer flnit he- 
CJinie know as Uie atilhor of "The Man of Feeling," 
which was published in 177J. and of other works of a, 
tjimilur character. Ite afterwards became a ineinlter of 
a literary society, estattlished at Edinburch, in 177H, 
under the title of the .Mirror ('lilt). Ilert; ori^'innted the 
Mirror and Lounv'er, periodical essays writl4-ii after the 
manner t»f the Spectator, of which he wils the udilor and 
principal contributor. He died in If<ll. 
i lu a periodical called "The Lounger.'^ 



of them, and is of a character singularly 
agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, 1 h.ad 
almost said heroic, frankness, with which his 
air strikes one .•ilinost immediately. So far 
as his oj)portunities have gone, he has ever 
been as friendly and obliging to us as we 
could wish him, and, were he lord of the hall 
to-morrow, would, I dare say, conduct him- 
self towards us in such a manner as to leave 
us as little sensible as possible of the re- 
moval of its present owners. But all this I 
say, my dear, merely for the sake of stating 
the matter as it is; not in order to obvi.ite or 
to prove the ine.xpedienec of any future plan 
of yours concerning the place of our resi- 
dence. Providence and time shape every- 
thing — I should rather .say Providence alone, 
for time has often no hand in the wonderful 
changes that we experience : they take place 
in a moment. It is not therefore worth 
while perhaps to consider much what we will 
or will not do in years to come, concerning 
which all that I can say with certainty at 
present i.s, tiiat those years will be the most 
welcome in which I can see the most of you. 

W. 0. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAROT. 

Weston, Dec. 0, 17H7. 

My dear Friend, — A short time since, by 
the help of Mrs. Throckmorton's chaise, Mrs. 
Unwin and I reached Chiehely. " Now," 
said 1 to Mrs. Chester, "I shall write boldly 
to your brother Walter, and will do it imme- 
diately. I have passed the gulf tliat parted 
us, and he will be glad to hear it." But let 
not the man who translates Homer be so 
l)resuinptuous as to have a will of his own, 
or to i)romise anything. A fortnight has, I 
suppose, elapsed since I paid this visit, and I 
am only now beginning to fulfil what I then 
undertook to accomjilish without delay. The 
old (irecian must answer for it. 

I spent my morning there so agreeably that 
I have ever since regretted more sensibly that 
there are live miles of a dirty country inter- 
posed between us. For the increase of my 
pleasure, I had the good fortune to find your 
brother, the Bishoj), there. We had much 
talk about many things, but most, I believe 
about }Iomer; and great satisfaction it gave 
me to find th.at on the most important pomts 
of that subject his Lordship and I were ex- 
actly of one mind. In the course of our con- 
versation, he produced from his pocket-book 
a translation of the lirst ten or twelve lines 
of the Iliad, and. in order to leave my judg- 
ment free, informed me kindiv at the same 
time that they were not his own. I read 
them, and. according to the best of my rec- 
ollection of the original, found them well 
executed. The Bishop indetul acknowledged 
that they iverc not faultless, neither did 1 linti 



them so. Had they been such, I should have 
felt their perfection as a discouragement 
hardly to be surmounted; for at that passage 
I have labored more abundantly than at any 
other, and hitherto with the least success. I 
am convinced that Homer placed it at the 
thresliold of his work as a scarecrow to all 
translators. Now, Walter, if tliou knowest 
the aiitlior of this version, and it be not trea- 
son against thy brotlier's confidence in thy 
secrecy, declare him to me. Had I been so 
happy as to have seen the Bishop ag.iin be- 
fore he left this country, I should certaiidy 
have asked him the question, liaving a curi- 
osity upon the matter that is extremely trou- 
blesome.* 

The awkward situation in which you found 
yourself on receiving a visit from an author- 
ess, wliose works, though preseuted to you 
long before, you had never read, made me 
laugh, and it was no sin against my friend- 
ship for you to do so. It was a ridiculous 
distress, and I can laugh at it even now. I 
hope she catechized you well. How did you 
extricate yourself? — Now laugh at me. Tlie 
clerk of the parish of All Saints, in tlie town 
of Northampton, having occasion for a poet, 
has appointed me to the office. I found my- 
self obliged to comply. The bell-man comes 
ne.xt, and tlien, I think, though even borne 
upon your swan's quill, I can soar no liiglicrl 
1 am, my dear friend, faithfully yours, 

VV. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Dec. 11), 1780, 

I thank you for the snip of cloth, com- 
monly called a pattern. At present I have 
two coats, and but one back. If at any time, 
hereafter, I should find myself possessed of 
fewer coats, or more backs, it will be of use 
to me. 

Though I have thought proper never to 
take any notice of the arrival of my MSS. 
together with the other good things in the 
box, yet certain it is that 1 received them. I 
have furbished up the tenth book till it is as 
bright as silver, and am now occupied in be- 
stowing tlie same labor upon the eleventh. 
The twelfth and thirteenth are in the liands 

of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are 

ready to succeed tliem. This notable job is 
the deliglit of my lieart, and how sorry shall 
I be wlien it is ended! 

The smitli and tlie carpenter, my dear, are 
both in tlie room hanging a bell : if I there- 
fore make a thousand blunders let the said 
intruders answer for them all. 

I thank you, my dear, for your history of 

the G s. Wliat changes in that family ! 

And how many thousand families have in tlie 

same time experienced changes as violent as 

* The author was Lord Bagot. 



theirs! The course of a rapid river is the 
justestofall emblems to express the varia- 
bleness of our .scene below. Sliak.speare 
says, none ever bathed himself twice in the 
same stream, and it is equally true that tlic 
world upon whicli we close our eyes at night 
is never the same with that on which we 
open tliem in the morning. 

I do not always say, give my love to my 
uncle,* because he knows that I always love 
him. I do not always present Jlrs. Unwin's 
love to you, partly for the same reason, 
(deuce take the smith and the carpenter,) 
and partly because I forget it. But to pre- 
sent my own, I forget never, for I always 
have to finish my letter, which I know not 
how to do, my dearest Coz, without telling 
you, that 1 am 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. 
Dear Sir, — Unless my memory deceives 
me, I forewarned you that I should prove a 
very unpunctual correspondent. The work 
that lies before me engages unavoid.-ibly my 
whole attention. The length of it, the spirit 
of it, and the exactness tliat is requisite to 
its due performance, are so many most inter- 
esting subjects of consideration to me, who 
find that my best attempts are only intro- 
ductory to others, and that what to-day I 
suppose finished to morrow I must begin 
again. Thus it fares witli a translator of 
Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a 
poet in a modern language is a task that no 
man can estimate tlie ditticulty of till lie at- 
tempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to 
hang him with trappings that do not belong 
to him, all this is comparatively easy. But 
to represent him with only his own orna- 
ments, and still to preserve his dignity, is a 
labor that, if I hope in any measure to achieve 
it, I am sensible can only be achieved hy the 
most assiduous and most unremitting atten- 
tion. Our .studies, however diftcrent in them- 
selves, in respect of the means by which they 
are to be successfully carried on, bear some 
reseinbhinee to each other. A perseverance 
that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of 
observation that suffers nothing to escape, 
and a determination not to be seduced from 
the straight line tliat lies before us by any 
images witli which fancy mny jiresent ns, are 
essentials that should be common to us both. 
There are, perliaps, few arduous undertak- 
ings that are not in fact more arduous than 
we at first supposed them. As we proceed, 
ditlieulties increase upon us, but our hopes 
gather strength also, and we conquer diffi- 
culties which, could we have foreseen them, 
we should never have had the boldness to 
* Ashley Cowper, Esq. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



389 



encounter. May this be your experience, as I 
doubt not that it will. You possess by na- 
ture all ttiat is necessary to success in the 
profession that you have chosen. What re- 
mains is in your own power. They say of 
jioets tliat tliey must be born such : so must 
nuathemalicians, so must great generals, and 
so must lawyers, and so indeed must men of 
all denominations, or it is not possible that 
they should excel. But, with whatever fac- 
ulties we are born, and to whatever studies 
our genius may direct us, studies they must 
still be. I am persuaded that Milton did not 
write his " Paradise liost," nor Homer his 
" Iliad," nor Newton his " Principia," without 
immense labor. Nature gave them a bias to 
their respective pursuits, and that strong pro- 
pensity, I suppose, is what we mean by 
genius. The rest they gave themselves. 
"Made esto," therefore have no fears for 
the issue ! 

I have had a second kind letter from your 

friend, Jlr. , which I have just answered. 

I must not, I tind, ho])e to see him here, at 
least, I must not much e.xpeet it. He has a 
family that does not permit him to fly south- 
ward. I have also a notion that we three 
could spend a few days comfortably toge- 
ther, especially in a country like this, abound- 
ing in scenes with which I am sure you would 
both be delighted. Having lived till lately 
at some distance from the spot that I now 
inhabit, and having never been master of any 
sort of vehicle whatever, it is but just now 
that I begin myself to be acquainted with 
the beauties of our situation. To you 1 may 
hope one time or other to show tiiem, and 
shall be happy to do it when an opportunity 
offers. 

Yours, most affectionately, W. C. 



TO LADT HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Jan. 1, IT88. 
Now for another story almost incredible ! 
A story that would be quite such, if it was 
not certain that you give me credit for any- 
thing. I have read the poem for the sake of 
which you sent the paper, and was much en- 
tertained by it. You think it perhaps, as 
very well you may, the only piece of that 
kind that was ever produced. It is indeed 
original, for I dare say Mr. .Merry* never saw 
mine ; but certainly it is not unique. For 
most (rue it is, my dear, that ten years since, 
having a letter to write to a friend of minct 
to whom I could write anything, I tilled a 

• He beloncred to what wa-s formerly Ictinwn by the 
name of tlie Di-lla Cru.tc;i School, at Florence, whose 
wrilins^ were 4'h;iraeterise(l by an afTectaUun of style 
and sentiment, which obtained il.H adniirert in thi-« cotin- 
try. 'I'lie indiunaot muse of Gilford, in his well-known 
Bnviail and M;eviad, at lentflh vindicated the cause uf 
Round taste and judgment ; and such was the ctfect of 
his caustic s.itire, that this spurious and cornipt style 
r.ipidly disappeared. 



whole sheet with a composition, both in meas- 
ure and in manner, precisely similar. I have 
in vain searched for it. It is either burnt or 
lost. Could 1 have found it, you would have 
had double postage to pay. For th.tt one 
man in Italy and atiother in England, who 
never saw each other, sliould stumble on a 
species of verse, in which no other m.an ever 
wrote (and I believe that to be tlie case) and 
upon a style and maimer too of which, I sup- 
pose, that neither of them had ever seen an 
example, appears to me so extraordinary a 
fact that I must have sent you mine, what- 
ever it had cost yon, and .-im really vexed that 
1 cannot authenticate the story by producing 
a voucher. The measure I recollect to have 
been perfectly the same, and as to the man- 
ner I am equally sure of that, and from this 
circumstance, that Mrs. Unwin and I never 
laughed more at any production of mine, per- 
haps not even at John Gilpin. But for all 
this, my dear, you must, as I said, give me 
credit, for the thing itself is gone to that 
limbo of vanity where alone, says Milton, 
things lost on earth are to be met with. 
Said limbo is, as you know, in the moon, 
whither I could not at present convey myself 
without a good deal of difficulty and incon- 
venience. 

This morning, being the morning of new 
year's day, I sent to the hall a copy of verses, 
addres.icd to Jlrs. Throckmorton, entitled 
"The Wish, or the Poefs New Year's Gift." 
We dine there to-morrow, wlien I suppose I 
shall hear news of them.* Their kindness is 
so great, and they seize with such eagerness 
every opportunity of doing all lliey think will 
please us, that I held myself almost in duty 
bound to treat them with this stroke of my 
profession. 

The small-pox lias done, I believe, all that 
it has to do at Weston. Old folks, and even 
women with child, have been inoculated. 

* The poet's wish is so expressive of the poet's taste, 
and there is so beautiful a turn in these complimentary 
verses, that wc cannot resist the pleasure of inserting 
Ihem. 

TUU rOKT's NKW VEAR's aiFT 
To .MRS. THROCKMORTON. 
" Maria ! i have every good 

I'"or thee wish'd ni.iny a time, 
Ilotti sad and in a cheerful mood. 
But never yet in rhyme. 

To wish tliee fairer is no need. 
Mure prudent, or more sprightly, 

< ir more ingenious, or more freed 
from lemper-llaws unsightly. 

What favor then not yet possess'd 

Can I for thee refpiire, 
Iti wedded love already blest. 

To thy wliole heart's desire V 

None hen- is happy but in part 

full bliss is hli,ss diviiu^; 
There dwells .some wish in every heart. 

And doubtless one in thine. 

Tli.'it wish, on some fair future day, 

Wliieh fale shall briKlltly gild, 
('Tis blameless, be it what it may.) 

1 wish it all fuinil'd." 
19 



290 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We talk of our freedom, and some of us are 
free enough, but not the poor. Dependent 
;is Ihey are upon parish bounty, they are 
sometimes obhged to submit to impo.sitions 
wliicli, perhaps in France itself, could hardly 
lie paralleled. Can man or woman be said 
to be free, who is commanded to take a di.s- 
lemper sometimes, at least, mortal, and in 
rircumstances most likely to make it so 1 No 
c-.ircumstanee wliatever was permitted to ex- 
enjpt the inhabitants of Weston. The old 
as well as the young, and the pregnant as 
well as they who had only themselves within 
lliem, have been inoculated. Were I asked 
who is the most arbitrary sovereign on earth, 
I should answer, neither the king of France, 
jior the grand signior, but an overseer of the 
poor in England.* 

I am as heretofore occupied with Homer: 
ray present occupation is the revisal of all I 
have done, viz., the first fifteen books. I 
stand amazed at my own exceeding dexterity 
in the business, being verily persuaded that, 
as far as I have gone, I have improved the 
work to double its value. 

That you may begin the new year and end 
it in all health and happiness, and many more 
when the present shall have been long an old 
one, is the ardent wish of Mvs. Unwin and of 
yours, my dearest coz., most cordially, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER RAGOT. 

Weston, Jan. 5, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for your in- 
formation concerning the author of the trans- 
l.ation of those lines. Had a man of less 
note and ability than Lord Bagot produced 
it, I .should have been discouraged. As it is, 
I comfort myself with the thought that even 
he accounted it an achievement worthy of 
his powers, and that even he found it diffi- 
cult. Though I never had the honor to be 
known to his lordship, I remember him well 
at Westnn'nsfer, and the reputation in which 
he stood there. Since that time I have never 
seen him except once, many years ago, in the 
House of Commons, when I heard him speak 
on the subject of a drainage bill better than 
any member there. 

My first thirteen books have been criticised 
in London ; have been by me acconunodated 
to those criticisms, returned to London in 
their improved state, and sent back to Wes- 
ton with an imprimatur. This would satisfy 
some poets less anxious than myself about 
what they expose in public ; but it has not 
satisfied me. I am now revising them again 
by the light of my own critical taper, and 
make more alterations than at first. But are 

* The discovery of vaccination, since the above period, 
ha-s entitled the name of Jenner to ranlc among the bene- 
factors of mankind. 



they improvements? you will ask. Is not 
the spirit of the work endangered by all this 
attention to correctness? I think and hope 
that it is not. Being well aware of the pos- 
sibility of such a catastrophe, I guard partic- 
ularly against it. Where I find that a ser- 
vile adherence to the original would render 
the passage less animated than it would be, 
I still, as at the first, allow myself a liberty. 
On all other occasions I prune with an un- 
sparing hand, determined that there shall not 
be found in the whole translation an idea that 
is not Homer's. My ambition is to produce 
the closest copy possible, and at the same 
time as harmonious as I know how to make 
it. Tliis being my object, you will no longer 
think, if indeed you have thought it at all, 
that I am unnecessarily and over-much in- 
dustrious. The original surpasses evei'y- 
thing; it is of an immense length, is com- 
posed in the best language ever used upon 
earth, and deserves, indeed demands, all the 
labor that any translator, be he who he may, 
can possibly bestow on it. Of this I am 
sure ; and your brother, the good bishop, is 
of the same mind, that at present mere Eng- 
lish readers know no more of Homer in 
reality than if he had never been translated. 
That consideration indeed it was, which 
mainly induced me to the undertaking; and 
if, after all, either through idleness or dotage 
upon what I have already done, I leave it 
chargeable with the same incorrectness as 
my predecessors, or indeed with any other 
that I may be able to amend, I had better 
have amused myself otherwise : and you, I 
know, are of my opinion. 

I send you the clerk's verses, of which I 
told you. They are very clerk-like, as you 
will perceive. But plain truth in plain words 
seemed to me to be the ?ie plus ultra of com- 
position on such an occasion. I might have 
attempted something very fine, but then the 
persons principally concerned, viz., my read- 
ers, would not have understood me. If it 
puts them in mind that they are mortal, its 
best end is answered. 

Jly dear Walter, adieu ! 

Yours faithfully, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodcce, Jan. 19, 1788. 
When I have prose enough to fill my paper, 
which is always the case when I write to you, 
I cannot find in ray heart to give a third part 
of it to verse. Yet this I must do, or I must 
make my packets more costly than worship- 
ful, by doubling the postage upon you, which 
I should hold to be unreasonable. See then 
the true reason why I did not send you that 
same scribblement* till you desired it. The 

* The verses on the new year. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



291 



thouglit which naturally presents itself to me 
on all such occasions is this: — Is not your 
cousin cominjf'! Why arc you impatient? 
Will, it not l»e time enough to show her 
your fine things when she arrives? 

Fine things indeed 1 have few. He who 
lias Homer to transcribe may well be con- 
tented to do little else. As when an ass, 
being h;u-nessed with ropes to a sand-cart, 
drags with hanging ears his heavy burden, 
neither (illing the long-eeiioing streets with 
his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his 
heels bcliin<l, frolicsome and airy, as iisses 
less engaged are wont to do ; so I, satisfied 
to lind myself indispensably obliged to ren- 
der into the best possible English metre 
eight-and-forly Greek books, of which the 
two finest poems in the world consist, :ic- 
eouDt it quite sulhcient if I may at last 
achieve that labor, and seldom allow myself 
those pretty little vagaries in which I should 
otherwise delight, and of which, if I should 
live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy 
my fill. 

This is the reason, my dear cousin, if I 
may l>e permitted to call you so in the same 
breath with which I have uttered this truly 
heroic comparison ; this is the reason why I 
produce at present but ti'W occasional poems, 
and the preceding reason is that which may 
account satisfactorily enough for my with- 
holding the very few that I do produce. A 
thought sometimes strikes me before I rise ; 
if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish 
it before breakfast, it is well ; otherwise it 
dies and is forgotten; for all the subsequent 
hours are devoted to Homer. 

The day before yesterday I saw for the 
first time Bunbury's* new print, the '• Propa- 
gation of a Lie." Mr. Throckmorton sent it 
for the amusement of our party. Bunbury 
sells humor by the yard, and is, I suppose, 
the first vender of it who ever did so. He 
cannot therefore be said to have humor with- 
out measiu-e (pardon a pun, my dear, from a 
man who has not made one before tliese 
foriy years) though he may certainly be said 
to he immeasurably droll. 

The original thouglit is good, and the ex- 
frnplitiealion of it in those very expressive 
figures, admirable. A poem on the same 
subject, displaying all that is displayed in 
those attitudes and in those features (for 
faces they cau hardly be called) would be 
most excellent. Tlie allinity of the two arts, 
viz., verse aiul painting, has been often ob- 
served : possibly the happiest illustration of 
it would be found, if some poet would ally 
himself to home draughtsman, as Bunbury, 
and undertake to write everything he should 
draw. Then let a musician be admitted of 
the i>arty. lie should compose the said 
poem, adapting notes to it exactly accommo- 
* The celebrated caricaturist. 



dated to the theme ; so should the sister arts 
be proved to be indeed sisters, and the world 
die of laughing. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

.Ian. 21, nea 
My dear Friend, — Vourlast letter informed 
us that you were likely to be much occupied 
for some time in writing on a subject that 
must be interesting to a person of your feel- 
ings — the slave trade. I was unwilling to 
interrupt your ]>rogres8 in so good a work, 
and have therefore enjoined myself a longer 
silence tlian I should otherwise have thought 
excusable ; though, to say the truth, did not 
our once intimate fellowship in the things of 
God recur to my remembrance, and present 
me with something like a warrant for doin" 
it, I should hardly prevail with myself to 
write at all. Letters, such as mine, to a 
person of a character such as yours, are like 
snow in harvest; and you well say, that if I 
will send you a letter that you can answer, 
1 shall make your part of the business easier 
than it is. This I would gladly do : but though 
I abhor a vacuum as much as nature herself is 
said to do, yet a vacuum I am bound to feel 
of all such matter as may merit your perusal. 
I expected that before this time 1 should 
have had the pleasure of seeing your friend 
Mr. Bean.f but his stay in this country was 
so short, that it was hardly possible he should 
find an opportunity to call. I have not only 
heard a high character of that gentleman 
from yourself whose opinion of men, as well 
ns of other matters, weiglis more with me 
than anybody's ; but from two or three dif- 
ferent persons likewise, not ill qualified to 
judge. From all that I have heard, both 
from you and them, I have every reason to 
expect that I shall find him both an agree- 
able and useful neighbor ; and if he can be 
content with me (for that seems doubtful, 
poet as I am, and now, alas I iu)thing more), 
it seems certain that I shall be highly satis- 
fied with him. 

Here is much shifting and changing of 
ministers. Two are passing away, and two 

are stepping into the phu-es. Mr. B , I 

suppose, whom I know not, is almost upon 

the wing: and Mr. P ,1 with whom I 

have not been very much acquainted, is either 
going or gone. A Mr. C is come to oc- 
cupy, for the iwesent at least, the place of 
the former; and if he can possess himself of 
the two curacies of Ravenstone and Weston, 
will, I imagine, take up his abode here. Hav- 
ing, as 1 understood, no engagements else- 
where, he will doubtless be iiappy to obtain 
a lasting one in this country. NV'hat accept- 

* Privjitc (Murespoudonco. 

t r6rMU'rl.v Vicfir ol" 01ne.v, and also one of the Libra- 
rians of tlic BriliHli Museum. 
t Mr. PosUctbwaitc. 



292 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ance he finds among the people of Raven- 
stone I liave not heard, but at Olney, where 
he has prenched once, he was hailed as the 
sun by the Greenhanders after half a year of 
lamp-light. 

Providence interposed to preserve me from 
the heaviest affliction that 1 can now suffer, 
or I had Lately lost Mr.s. Unwin, and in a 
way the most shocking imaginable. Having 
kindled her fire in the room where she dresses 
(an office that she always performs for lier- 
sejf), she placed the candle on the hearth, 
and, kneeling, addressed herself to her devo- 
tions. A thought struck her, while thus 
occupied, that the candle, being short, might 
possibly catch her clothes. She pinched it 
out with the tongs, and set it on the table. 
In a few minutes the chamber was so filled 
with smoke that her eyes watered, and it 
was hardly possible to see across it. Sup- 
posing that it proceeded from the chinmey, 
she pushed the billets backward, and, whih^ 
she did so, casting her eye downward, per- 
ceived that her dress was on fire. In fact, 
before she extinguished the candle, the mis- 
chief that she apprehended was begun ; and 
when she related the matter to me, she 
showed me her clothes with a hole burnt in 
them as large as this sheet of paper. It is 
not possible, perhaps, that so tragical a death 
should overtake a person actually engaged 
ill prayer, for her escape seems almost a 
miracle. Iler presence of mind, by which 
she was enabled, without calling for help 
or waiting for it, to gather up her clothes 
and plunge them, burning as they were, in 
wafer, seems as wonderful a part of the oc- 
currence as any. The very report of fire, 
though distant, has rendered hundreds tor- 
pid and incapable of self-succor; how much 
more was such a disability to be expected, 
when the fire had not seized a neighbor's 
hou.se, or begun its devastations on our own, 
but was actually consuming the apparel that 
she wore, and seemed in possession of her 
|)erson. 

It draws toward supper-time. I therefore 
heartily wish you a good night; and, with 
our best affections to yourself, Mrs. Newton, 
and Miss Catleft, I remain, my dear friend, 
truly and warmly yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Tlie Lodge, Jan. 30, 1788. 
My dearest Coz., — It is a fortnight since I 
heard from you, that is to say, a week 
longer than you have accustomed me to wait 
for a letter. I do not forget that you have 
recommended it to me, on occasions some- 
what similar, to banish all anxiety, and to 
ascribe your silence only to the interruptions 
of company. Good advice, ray dear, but not 
easilv taken bv a man circumstanced as I 



am. I have learned in the school of adver- 
sity, a school from which I have no expecta- 
tion lli.at I shall ever be dismissed, to appre- 
hend the worst, and have ever found it the 
only course in which I can indulge myself 
wiihout the least d.-inger of incurring a dis- 
appointment. This kind of experience, con- 
tinued through mnny years, has given me 
such an habitual bias to the gloomy side of 
everything, that I never have a moment's 
ease on any subject to which I am not indif- 
ferent. How then can I be easy when I am 
left afloat upon a sea of endless conjectures, 
of which you furnish the occasion. Write, 
I beseech yon, and do not forget that I am 
now a battered actor upon this turbulent 
stage ; that what little vigor of mind I ever 
had, of the self-supporting kind I incin, has 
long since been broken ; and that, though I 
can bear nothing well, yet anything better 
than a state of ignorance concerning your 
welfare. I have spent hours in the night lean- 
ing upon my elbow, and wondering what your 
silence means. I entreat you once more to 
put an end to these speculations, which cost 
me more animal spirits than I can spare ; if 
you cannot, without great trouble to your- 
self, which in your situation may very pos- 
sibly be the case, contrive opportunities of 
writing so frequently as usual, only say it, 
and I am content. I will wait, if you desire 
it, as long for every letter, but then let them 
arrive at the period once fixed, exactly at the 
time, for my patience will not hold out an 
hour beyond it.* W. C. 



- TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 1, 178S. 
Pardon me, my dearest cousin, the mourn- 
ful difty that I sent you last. There are 
times when I see everything through a me- 
dium that distresses me to an insupportable 
degree, and that letter was written in one of 
them. A fog that had for three days oblit- 
erated all the beauties of Weston, and a 
north-east wind, might possibly contribute 
not a little to the melancholy that indited it. 
But my mind is now easy ; your letter has 
made it so, and I feel myself as blithe as a 
bird in comparison. I love you, my cousin, 
and cannot suspect, either with or without 
cause, the least evil in which you may be 
concerned, without being greatly troubled! 
Oh, trouble ! The portion of all mortals — 
but mine in particular ; would I had never 
known thee, or could bid thee farewell 
forever ; for I meet thee at every turn : 
my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very 
roses smell of thee, and even ray cousin, who 

* Thia letter proves how much the sensitive mind of 
Cowper was liiible to be rulTlcd by e.\ternal incidents. 
I^ife presents too many real sources of anxiety, to justify 
us in adding those which are imaginary and of our vwn 
creation. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



293 



would cure me of all trouble K" she could, is 

.■iomotiiiH's innocently the cause of trouble 
to nil'. 

I now see tlie uni-c:ison;ibiciioss of my 
late trouble, and would, if I could trust my- 
self so far, promise never ajfain to trouble 
cither myself or you in the same manner, 
unless warranted by some more substantial 
ground of apprehension. 

What I said concerninrr Homer, my dear, 
was spoken, or rather written, merely under 
the influence of a ccrlaiii jocularity that 1 
felt at that moment. I am in reality so far 
from thinkini,' myself an ass, and my trans- 
lation a sand-cart, that I rather seem, in my 
own account of the matter, one of tho.se 
flaming steeds harne.s.sed to the chariot of 
Apollo, of which we read in the works of the 
ancients. I have lately, I know not how, 
acquired a certain superiority to myself in 
this business, and in this last revisal have 
elevated the expression to a degree far sur- 
passing its former boast. A few evenings 
since, I had an opportunity to try how far I 
might venture to expect such success of my 
labors as can alone repay them, by reading 
the first book of my Iliad to a frieiul of ours. 
He dined with you once at Olney. His 
name is Greatheed, a man of letters and of 
taste. He dined with us, and, the evening 
proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to 
take a bed. I entertained him as I tell you. 
He heard me with great attention, and with 
evident symptoms of the highest .satisfaction, 
which, when I had finished the exhibitioji, 
he put out of all doubt by expressions which 
1 cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. 
Unwin, while I was in another room, that he 
had never entered into the spirit of Homer 
before, nor had anything like a due concep- 
tion of his manner. This I have s.aid, know- 
ing that it will please you, and will now say 
no more. 

Adieu ! my dear, \\ ill you never speak of 
coming to Weston more .' W. C. 



Mrs. King, to whom the following letter is 
addressed, was the wife of Mr. King, Rector 
of Perten Hall, near Kimbolton, and a con- 
nexion of the late Professor Martyn, well 
known for his botanical researches. The 
perusal of Cowper's Poems had been the 
means of conveying impressions of piety 
to her mind: and it was to record her grat- 
itude, and to cultivate his aciiuaintancc, that 
she wrote a letter, to which this is the reply. 

TO MRS. KINK, PERTEN HALL, NEAR KLMBOL- 
TON, HUNTS.* 

Wusloli Lmlgc, Feb. 1'2, 1788. 

Dear Jfadam, — A letter from a lady who 
was once intimate with my brother could not 
• Private corTcspondcnce. 



fail of being most acceptable to me. I lost 
him just in the moment when those truths 
which have recommended my volumes to 
your apjirobation were become his daily sus- 
tenance, as they had long been mine. But 
the will oi' (iod was done. I have sometimes 
thought that had his life been spared, being 
made brothers by a stricter tie than ever iii 
the bonds of the same faith, hope, and love, 
we should have been happier in each otiier 
than it was in the power of mere natural af- 
fection to make us. But it was his blessing 
to be taken from a world in which he had no 
longer any wish to continue, and it will be 
mine, if, while I dwell in it, my time may not 
be altogether wasted. In order to efl'eet that 
good end, I wrote what I am happy to find it 
has given you pleasure to read. But for that 
pleasure, madam, you are indebted neither to 
me, nor to my Muse ; but (as you arc well 
aware) to Him who alone can make divine 
trnths palatable, in whatever vehicle con- 
veyed. It is an establislied philosophical 
axiom, that nothing can communicate what it 
has not in itself; but, in the efiects of Chris- 
tian communion, a very strong exception is 
found to this general rule, however self-evi- 
dent it may seem. A man himself destitute 
of all spiritual consolation may, by occasion, 
impart it to others. Thus I, it seems, who 
wrote those very poems to amuse a mind 
oppres.sed witli melancholy, and who have 
myself derived from them no other benefit 
(for mere success in authorship will do me 
no good), have, nevertheless, by so doing, 
comforted others, at the same time that they 
administer to me no consolation. But I will 
jn'oceed no farther in this strain, lest my 
prose should daiup a pleasure that my verse 
has happily excited. On the contrary, I will 
endeavor to rejoice in your joy, and especially 
because I have been myself the instrument 
<d' conveying it. 

iSince the receipt of your obliging letter, I 
have naturally had recinir.se to my recollec- 
tion, to try if it would furnish me with the 
name that I find at the bottom of it. At the 
same time I am aware that there is nothing 
more probable than that my I)rother might be 
honored with your friendship without men- 
tioning it to me : for, except a very shyrt 
period before his death, we lived necessarily 
at a considerable distance from each other. 
Ascribe it, madam, not to an impertinent 
curiosity, but to a desire of better acquaint- 
ance with yon, if I take the liberty to at-k 
(since ladies' names, at least, are changea- 
ble) whether yours was at that time the s.iuie 
as now. 

Sincerely wishing you all happiness, and 
especially that which I am sure you covet 
most, the happiness which is from above, I 
remain, dear madam — earlv as it may seem 
to say it, Aftectionately yours, W. C. 



294 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodsc, Teb. H, JTSS. 

Denr Sir, — Thougli it be long since I re- 
ceived j'our last, I have not yet forgotten the 
inijiression it made upon me, nor how sensi- 
bly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved 
ami friendly communications. I will not apol- 
ogize for my silence in the interim, because, 
apj/rized as you are of my present occupa- 
tion, tlie e.xcHsc that I might allege will pre- 
sent itself to you of course, and to dilate upon 
it would therefore be waste of paper. 

You are in possession of tlie best security 
imaginable for the due improvement of your 
time, which is a just sense of its value. Had 
I been, when at your age, as much affected by 
that important consideration as I am at pres- 
ent, I sliould not liave devoted, as I did, all the 
earliest parts of my life to amusement only. 
I am now in the predicament into which the 
thoughtlessness of youth betrays nine-tenths 
of mankind, who never discover that the 
health and good spirits which generally ac- 
company it are, in reality, blessings only ac- 
cording to the use we make of them, till ad- 
advanced years begin to threaten them with 
the loss of both. How much wiser would 
thousands h.ave been than now they ever will 
be, had a puny constitution, or some occa- 
sional infirmity, constrained them to devote 
those hours to study and reflection, which for 
want of some such check they had given en- 
tirely to dissipation! I, tbereforc, account 
you happy, who, young as you are, need not 
be informed that you cannot always be so, and 
who already know that the materials upon 
which age can alone build its comfort should 
be brought together at an earlier period. 
You have, indeed, in losing a father, lost a 
friend, but you have not lost his instructions. 
His e.\ample was not buried with him, but 
happily for you (happily because you are de- 
sirous to avail yourself of it), still lives in 
your remembrance, and is cherished in your 
best aft'ections. 

Your last letter was dated from the house 
of a gentleman who was, I believe, my school- 
fellow. For the Mr. C , who lived at Wat- 
ford, while I had any connexion with Hert- 
fordshire, must have been tlie lather of the 
present, and, according to his age and the 
state of his health when I saw him last, must 
have been long dead. I never was acquaint- 
ed with the family further than by report, 
which always spoke honorably of them, 
though, in all my journeys to and from my 
father's, 1 must have passed the door. The 
circumstance, however, reminds me of the 
beautiful rellection of Glaucus in the si.xth 
Iliad : beautiful as well for the affecting na- 
ture of the observation as for the justness of 
the comparison and the incomparable sim- 
plicity of the expression. I feel that I shall 
not be satisfied without transcribing it, and 



yet perhaps my Greek may be difficult to 
decipher. 

Oi/j ncp 0v^Xwv ytviri^ roirjit Ki\t av&pwv. 

Tri\c(io(Dan tpvElj cafjis & Etrtyiyi'trat topq. 
Qf avdpoiy yzvctt, i) ficv ipvti, j) d' anoXriyii.* 

Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man 
whose Homer is always before him ! What 
would I give that he were living now, and 
within my reach! I, of all men living, have 
the best excuse for indulging such a wish, 
unreasonable as it m.ay seem; for I have no 
doubt that the fire of his eye, and the smile 
of his lips would put me now and then in 
possession of his full meaning more efiectu- 
ally than any commentator. I return you 
many thanks for the elegies which you sent 
me, both which I think deserving of much 
commendation. I should requite you but ill 
by sending you my mortuary verses, neither 
at present can I prevail on myself to do it, 
having no frank, and being conscious that 
they are not worth carriage without one. I 
have one copy left, and that copy I will keep 
for you. W. C. 

The public mind was, at this time, greafiy 
excited by the slave trade — that nefarious 
system, which was once characterized in the 
House of Lords, by Bishop Horsley, as " the 
greatest moral pestilence that ever withered 
the happiness of mankind." The honor of in- 
troducing this momentous question, in which 
the interest of humanity and justice were so 
deeply involved, was reserved for William 
Wilberforee, Esq. How he executed that 
task, is too well known to require either 
detail or panegyric. The final .abolition of 
the slave trade was an era in the history of 
Great Britain, never to be forgotten ; and 
the subsequent legislative enactments for 
al)olishing slavery itself completed wluat w.as 
wanting, in this noble triumph of national 
benevolence. 

The following letter alludes to this inter- 
esting subject. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. 
I have now three letters of yours, my dear- 
est cousin, before me, all written in the space 
of a week; and must be indeed insensible of 
kindness did I not feel yours on this occasion. 
I cannot describe to you, neither could you 
comprehend it if I should, the manner in which 

•^ "We insert Pope's translation, as being the most 
familiar to the reader. 
'■ Lilte leaves on trees the race of man is fonnci, 

Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; 

Another race the following spring supplies, 

They fall successive, and successive rise : 

So generations in their course decay. 

So flourish these, when those have passM away." 

Pope^s Vergion, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



295 



my mind is sometimes impressed with mel- 
aiiclioly on particular subjects. Your late 
silence was siicli a subject. I heard, saw, and 
felt, a thousand terrible things, which had no 
real existence, and was haunted by them 
night and day, till they at last e.xtorted from 
me the doh-lul epistle which I have since 
wished had been burned before I sent it. But 
the cloud has passed, and, as far as you are 
concerned, my heart is once more at rest. 

Before you gave me the hint, I had once 
or twice, as I lay on my bed, walching the 
break of day, ruminated on the subject which, 
in your last but one, you recommend to me. 

Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as 
the poor negroes have endured, or perhaps 
both these topics together, appeared to me a 
theme so important at the present juncture, 
and at the same time so susceptible of poetical 
management, th.at I more than once jjcrceived 
myself ready to start in that career, could I 
have allowed myself to desert Homer for so 
long a time as it would have cost me to do 
them justice. 

While I w.is pondering these things, the 
public prints informed me that Miss More was 
on the point of publication, having actually 
finished what I had not yet begun.* 

The sight of her advertisement convinced 
me that my best course would be that to 
which I felt myself most inclined, to perse- 
vere without turning aside to attend to any 
other call, however alluring, in the business I 
liave in hand. 

It occurred to me likewise, that I have 
already borne my testimony in favor of my 
black brethren, and that I was one of the 
earliest, if not the tirst, of those, who have in 
the present day expressed their detestation of 
the diabolical traffic in question.f 

* Fur the Kralificalion of llio3c wiio are not in posses- 
sion ot'lhis pucm, wi! insert ttic following extract: — 
'* Whcne'iT to Afric's shores I turn my eyes. 
Horrors of deepest, deadliest tjuilt arise : 
I see, liy nmri* than FanryV mirror shown, 
The Imniini,' \ illa'^'e afid the blazint* town : 
See the due viclini torn from social life, 
Tlic shriekin;^ babe, the agonizing wife ; 

By felon hands, by one relentless stroke, 
-See the foiiU link.s of feeling nature broke I 
The llbres twisting roimd a parent's heart 
Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part.'' 
We add one more passage, a.s it contains an animated 
ajipeul against the injustice of this nefarious tratHc. 
"What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression plead. 
To smooth the crime, and sanctify the deed? 
What strange otlence, what aggravated sinV 
They st;uid convicted — of a darker skin! 
Barbarians, hold I the opprobrious commerce spare, 
iti-spcct His sacred imiige which they bear. 
Tbiriigh dark and savage, igaorant and blind. 
They claim the common privilege of kind ; 
Let malice sirip them of eacli other plea. 
They still are men, and men should sliU be free." 

.See Miss .Morc's Poetn, entitled TJie SUue Trade. 
t With re3i>ecl to Itie claim of priority, or who first de- 
nounced the inju.stice and ht)rrors of slavery, we believe 
the following is a correct historical narrative on this im- 
portant sultject. 

The celebrated De Las Casas (born at Seville in 1-174. 
and who accompained t^Iumbus in his voya^'c in 14tt3) 



On all these accounts I judged it best to be 
silent, and especially because I cannot doubt 
that some eft'ectiial measure will now be taken 
to alleviate the miseries of their condition, 
the whole nation being in possession of the 
case, and it being impossible also to allege an 
arginnent in behalf of man-merchandise thai 
can deserve a liearing. I should be glad to 
see Hannah More's poem; she is a favoriti' 
writer with me, and has more nerve anil 
energy both in her thoughts and language 
than half the he-rhymers in the kingdom. 
The " Thoughts on the Manners of the Great" 
will likewise be most aece|)table. 1 want to 
learn as much of the world as I can, but to 
acquire that learning at a distance ; and a book 
with such a title promises fair to serve the 
purjiose effectually. 

I recommend it to you, my dear, by all 
means to embrace the fair occasion, and to 
put yourself in the way of being squeezed 
and incommoded a few hours, for the .sake 
of hearing and seeing what you will never 
have an opporjunity to see and hear hereafter, 
the trial of a man who has been greater and 
more feared than the great Mogul himself. 
Whatever we are at home, we have certainly 
been tyrants in the East, and if these men 
have, as they are charged, rioted in the 
miseries of the Innocent, and dealt death to 
the guiltless, with an unsparing hand, may 
they receive a retribution that shall in future 
make all governors and judges of ours, in 
those distant regions, tremble. While I speak 
thus, I equally wish them acquitted. They 
were both my school-fellows, and for Hast- 
ings I had a particular value. Farewell.* 

W. C. 

wna so deeply impressed with the cruelties and oppres- 
sions of shivery, thiit he returned tu F,urope,aiid pleadnl 
the cause of humanity before the Kmpcror ('hnrles V. 
This prince was so Car moved by his representations iw 
to pass royal ordinances to mitiijato the evil ; but his 
intentions were unh;ipi>ily il.'IV;iu-<l. The K.-v. Mi>ruan 
fJodwyn, ii Welshinun, \s ihr iii-.\l in onler. About the 
middle of the last ci-nlurj, .l.ihn Wuultnan and Anthony 
Benezet, belomnnii to the society of Friends, endeavi>red 
to rouse the public attimtion. In 175-*, the Society itself 
took up the cause with so much zeal and success, that 
there is not at this day n single slave in the possession 
of any acknowledged Quaker in Pennsylvania. In 1776. 
Granville Sharj) addressed to tlie liritish pubhc his 
".lust Liniitatiun of Slavery," his "Ei*8ayon Slavery," 
and his " Law of Ketrilmtiim, or a Serious Warninif to 
<;reat Itrilain and ber Colonies." 'I'he poet Shenstone 
also wrote an iletry on the subject, be^iiming: — 
"See Ibe poor native quit the Lybinn shores," &.c. &c. 
Ramsey and Clarkson brini; down the list to the time <tf 
Cowjjer, whose in<li[,'nant muse in 1783 poured forth \\\'* 
detestation of this Irafllc in his poem on Charity, an ex- 
tract of which we shall sliorlly lay before the reader. 
The disIiMLTuishcd honor was, however, reserved fur 
ThoiniLs Clarkson, ti) be the instrument of tlrst en^agini; 
the zeal and etotjuence of Mr. Wilberforce in the jrreat 
cause of the abolition of the Slave Trade. 'I'he per- 
severinfc exertions of Mr. Fowell Buxton and those of Ih'' 
Anti-slavery Sneiety achi4'ved tlu" (Inal triumph, and U-d 
to the k'rirat Ic:,'is!;iihf t-nai-imcnt which alMiIishetl sla- 
very itself in lb'- llrilish rutuniiM; and nothing now re- 
mains but to a-><rs .n;iale France. Ilif Ilrazils. and America, 
in the noble enterprise of pn'riainiin:,' On- blc'^sinc:^ of 
liberty to Ave remainini? milli'di^ nf Uiis i|. -..'riKlrd race. 
* The trial of Warren Maslin:^* .•xcili-d ttnivfrsal inter- 
est, from the otllcial rank of the ;u:cu3ed, on Governor- 



296 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 22, 1738. 

I do not wondiT that your cir.s and feel- 
ings were liurt by Mr. Burke's severe invec- 
tive. But you .ire to know, my dear, or prol)- 
ably you know it already, th.it tlie prosecution 
of public delinquents lias .always, and in all 
countries, been tlius conducted. The style 
of a criminal ch.irge of this kind has been an 
.affair settled among orators from the days of 
Tully to tlie present, and, like all other prac- 
tices that have obtained for ages, this in par- 
ticular seems to have been founded originally 
in reason and in the necessity of the case. 

lie who accuses another to the st.ite must 
not appear himself unmoved by the view of 
crimes with which he charges him, lest he 
should be suspected of fiction, or of pre- 
cipitancy, or of a consciousness that after all 
he shall not be able to prove hi.s allegations. 
On the conlrary, in order to impress the minds 
of his hearers with a per-suasion that he him- 
self at least is convinced of the criminality of 
the prisoner, he must be vehement, energetic, 
rapid ; must call him tyrant, and traitor, and 
everything else that is odious, and all this to 
his face, because all this, bad as it is, is no 
more than he undertakes to prove in the 
sequel, and if he cannot prove it he must him- 
self appear in a light very little more desirable, 
and at the best to have trifled with the tribunal 
to which he has summoned him. 

Thus Tully, in the very first sentence of 
his oration ag.ainst Catiline, calls him a 
monster : a manner of address in which he 
per.sisted till said monster, unable to supi)ort 
the fury of his .accuser's eloquence any longer, 
rose from his seat, elbowed for himself a pas- 
sage through the crowd, and at last Imrst from 
the senate house in an agony, as if the Furies 
themselves had followed him. 

And now, my dear, though I have thus 
spoken, and have seemed to plead the cause 
of that species of eloquence which you, and 
every creature who has your sentiments, must 
necessarily dislike, perhaps lam not alto- 
gether convinced of its propriety. Perhaps, 
at the bottom, I am much more of opinion, 
that if the charge, unaccompanied by any in- 
General of India, the number and magnitude of tlie ar- 
ticles of impeachment, the splendor of the scene, (which 
was in Westminster Hall,) and the impassioned elo- 
qnence of Mr. Burke, who conducted the prosecution. 
The proceedings were protracted for nine successive 
years, when Mr. IIaslinG;s was tinally acquitted. He is 
said to have incurred an expense of X3fl,000 un this occa- 
sion, a painful proof of the costly character and delays 
of llrilisli jttri.-|irudence. Some of the highest specimens 
of elotjuriii-e lliiit ever adorned any age or country were 
delivered during Ibis trial; among which ought to be 
specilied the address of the celeljrated Mr. Sheridan, 
who caplivitted the atteidion of the assembly in a speech 
of three hours and a half, distinguished by all the graces 
.'Mid powers of the most finished oratory. At the close 
of this speech, Mr. Pitt rose and proposed an adjourn- 
metit, observing that they were then too mtich under the 
influence of the wand of the enchanter to be capable of 
exercising the functions of a sound and deliberate judg- 
ment. 



flaram.atory matter, and simply detailed, being 
once delivered into the court, and read aloud, 
tlie witnesses were immediately examined, 
and sentence pronounced according to the 
evidence, not only the process would be 
shortened, much time and much expense sa\ ed, 
but justice would h.ave at least as fair play as 
now she lias. Prejudice is of no use in weigh- 
ing the question, guilty or not guilty, and the 
principal aim, end, and eft'cet of such intro- 
ductory harangues is to create as much pre- 
judice as possible. When you and I, therefore, 
shall have the sole management of such a 
business entrusted to us, we will order it 
otherwise. 

I was glad to learn from the papers that 
our cousin Henry shone as he did in reading 
the charge. This must have given much 
pleasure to the Gener.tl.* 

Thy ever affectionate W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston, March I, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — That my letters may not 
be exactly an echo to those which I receive, I 
seldom read a letter immediately before I 
answer it ; trusting to my memory to suggest 
to me such of its contents as m.iy call for 
particular notice. Thus I dealt with your last, 
which lay in my desk, while I was writing to 
you. But my memory, or rather my recollec- 
tion failed me, in that instance. I h.ad not 
forgotten Jlr. Bean's letter, nor my obligations 
to you for the communication of it ; but they 
did not happen to present themselves to me 
in the proper moment, nor till some hours 
after my own had been ifespatched. I now 
return it, with many thanks for so favonible 
a specimen of its author. That he is a good 
man, and a wise man, its testimony proves 
sufliciently ; and I doubt not, that when ho 
shall speak for himself he will be found an 
agreeable one. For it is possible to be very 
good, and in many respects very wise; yet at 
the same time not the most delightful com- 
panion. Excuse the shortness of an occasional 
scratch, which I send in such haste ; and 
believe me, my dear friend, with our united 
love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, of whose 
health we hope to hear a more favorable ac- 
count as the year rises, 

Your truly afl:'ectionate W. G. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston Lodge, March 3, 1788.} 
My dear Friend, — I had not, as you may 

* The poet addressed some complimentary verses on 
this occasion to Mr. Henry Cowper, beginning thus: — 
" Cowpcr,who3e silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,"&c^ 
Henry Cowper, Esq., was reading clerk in the House of 
Lords. 

t Private correspondence. 

i The date having been probably written on the latter 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



297 



imagine, read more than two or three lines of 
the enoldsed, before I perceived that I li;ul 
accidentally come to the possession of aiiotlicr 
man's property; who, by the same misadven- 
tnre, has doubtless occupied mine. I accord- 
ingly folded it ;ii,''ain the nionieiit after havinji; 
opened it, and now return it. The bells of 
OIney, lioth last niglit and this morning, have 
announced the arrival of ilr. Bean. I under- 
stand that he is now come with Ins family. It 
will not be long therefore, before we shall be 
acipiainted. 1 rather wish than hope that he 
may fiud himself comfortably situated ; but 

the parishonera' admiration of Mr. C , 

whatever tlie bells may say, is no good omen. 
It is hardly to be expected that the same 
people should admire both. 

I have lately been engaged in a corre- 
spondence with a lady whom I never saw. 
She lives at I'ertcn-hall, near Kimbolton.and 
is the wife of a Dr. King, wlio has the living. 
She is evidently a Christian, and a very gra- 
cious one. I would that she had you for a 
correspondent rather than me. One letter 
from you would do her more good than a 
re.am of mine. But so it is; and since I 
cannot depute ray office to you, and am bound 
by all sorts of considerations to answer her 
this evening, I uiust necessarily quit you that 
I may have time to do it. 

w. c. 



TO !«RS. KING.* 

Weslon Lodge, March a, 1788. 

I owe you many acknowledgments, dear 
m.adam, for that unreserved communication, 
both of your history and of your sentiments, 
with which you favored me in your last. It 
gives me great pleasure to learn that you are 
so happily circumstanced, both in respect of 
situation and frame of mind. Willi your 
view of religious subjects, you could noi, in- 
d -ed, speaking properly, be pronounced un- 
happy in any circumstances ; but to have 
received from above, not oidy that faith which 
reconciles the heart to affliction, but many 
(mtward comforts also, and especially that 
greatest of all earthly comforts, a coinforta- 
bU" home, is happiness indeed. May you 
long enjoy it ! As to health or .sicknes's, yon 
have learue.d already their true value, "and 
know well that the former is no blessing, 
unless it be sanctilied, and that the latter is 
one of the greatest we can receive, when we 
are en.abled to make a proper use of it. 

There is nothing in my story that can pos- 
sibly be Worth your knowledge ; yet, lest I 
should seem to treat you with a reserve which 
at your hands I have not experienced, such 
as it is, I will relate it. — I was bred to the 

lijiif of this IfUtT, wliic'li is torn olT. tlio Mitor liiis en- 
Ue:tvnru(l to supply ii fntm ttic following to Mre. King. 
• Private correspondence- 



law : a profession to which I was never 
much inclined, and in which I engaged rather 
because I was desirous to gratify a most in- 
dulgent father, than because I had any hope 
of success in it myself I spent twelve years 
in the Tcinitle, where I made no progress in 
that .science, to cultivate which I was sent 
thither. During this time my father died ; 
not long after him died my mother-in-law: 
and .at the expiration of it a melancholy 
seized me, which obliged me to quit London, 
and consequently, to renounce the bar. I 
lived some time at St. Alban'.s. After hav- 
ing sullered in that place long and extreme 
attliction, the storm was suddenly dispelled, 
and the same day-spring from on high which 
has arisen upon you, arose on me also. I 
spent eight years in the enjoyment of it ; 
and have, ever since <be expiration of those 
eight years, been occasionally the prey of 
the same melancholy as at first. In the 
depths of it I wrote "The Task." .and the 
volume which preceded it ; and ni the same 
deeps I am now translating Homer. But to 
return to St. Alban's. I abode there a year 
and half Thence I went to Cambridge where 
I spent a short time with my brother, in 
whose neighborhood I determined, if po.ssi- 
ble, to pass the remainder of my days. He 
soon found a lodging for me at tluntingdon. 
At that place I had not resided long, when I 
w.as led to an intimate connexion with a" 
family of the name of Unwin. I soon quit- 
ted my lodging and took up my abode with 
them. I h.ad not lived long under their roof, 
when Mr. Unwin, as he was riding one Sun- 
day morning to his cure at Gravely, was 
thrown from his horse ; of which fall he 
died. Mrs. Unwin, having the same views 
of the gospel as myself, and being desirous 
of attending a purer ministration of it than 
was to be found at Huntingdon, removed to 
Olney, where Mr. Newton was at that time 
the preacher, and I with her. There we 
continued till Mr. Newton, whose family was 
the only one in the place with which we could 
have a connexion, and with whom we lived 
always on the most intimate terms, left it. 
After his departure, finding the situation no 
longer desirable, and our house threatening 
to fall npon our heads, we removed hitbi'r. 
Here we have a good house in a most beaut ilnl 
vill.age, and for the greatest part of the year, 
a most agreeable neighborhood. Like you, 
m.adam, I stay much at home, and have not 
triivelled twenty miles from this place and its 
environs more than once these twenty years. 

All this I have written, not for the singu- 
larity of the matter, as you will perceive, but 
partly for the reason which I gave .at the out- 
set, and partly that, seeing we are become cor- 
respondents, we may know as much of each 
other as we can, and that as soon as possible. 

I beg, madam, that you will present my 



298 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



best respects to Mr. King, whom, together 
with yourself, should you at any time here- 
after take wing for a longer flight than 
usual, we sliall be happy to receive at Wes- 
ton ; and believe me, dear madam, his and 
your obliged and atfectionatc, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 3, 1789. 
One day last week, Mrs. Unvvin and I, 
having taken our morning walk, and return- 
ing homeward through tlie Wilderness, met 
the Throekmortons. A minute after we had 
met, them, we heard the cry of hounds at no 
great distance, and, mounting the bro.ad 
stump of an elm, which had been felled, and 
by the aid of which we«were enabled to look 
over the wall, we saw tiiem. They were all 
at that time in our orch.ard: presently we 
heard a terrier, belonging to Mrs. Throck- 
morton, which you m.iy remember by the 
name of Furj-, yelping with much vehemence 
and saw her running through the thickets 
within a few y.ards of us at her utmost speed, 
as if in pursuit of something which we 
doubted not was the fox. Before we could 
reach the other end of the Wilderness, the 
hounds entered also ; and when we arrived 
at the gate which opens into the grove, there 
■ we found the whole weary cavalcade assem- 
bled. The huntsman, dismounting, begged 
leave to follow his hounds on foot, for he 
was sure, he said, that they had killed him — 
a conclusion which I suppose he drew from 
their profound silence. He was accordingly 
admitted, and, with a sagacity that would not 
have dishonored the best hound in the world, 
pnrsuingpreciselythe same track which the fox 
and the dogs had taken, though he had never 
had a glimpse at either after their first en- 
trance through the rails, arrived where he 
found the slaughtered prey. He soon pro- 
duced dead reynard, and rejoined us in the 
grove with all his dogs about him. Having 
an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I 
was pretty sure would never fall in my way 
again, I determined to stay, and to notice all 
that passed with the most minute attention. 
The huntsman, having, by the aid of a pitch- 
fork, lodged reynard on the arm of an elm, at 
the heiglil of ahout nine feet from the ground, 
there left him for a considerable time. The 
gentlemen sat on their horses contemplating 
the fox, for which they had toiled so hard ; 
and the hounds, assembled at the foot of the 
tree, with faces not less expressive of the 
most rational delight, contemplated the same 
object. The huntsman remounted; cut oft" a 
foot, and threw it to the hounds — one of them 
swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then 
once more, alighted, and, drawing down the 
fox by the hinder legs, desired the people, 



who by this time were rather numerous, to 
open a lane for him to the right and left. 
He was instantly obeyed, when, throwing the 
fox to the distance of some yards, and scream- 
ing like a fiend, "tear him to pieces," at least 
six times repeatedly, he consigned him over 
absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes 
devoured him completely. Thus, my dear, 
as Virgil says, what none of the gods could 
have ventured to promise me, time itself, pur- 
suing its .accustomed course, has of its own 
accord presented me with. I have been in at 
the death of a fox, and you now know as much 
of the matter as I, who am as well informed 
as any sportsman in England. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The LodKO, March ]2, HW. 

Slavery, and the Manners of the Great, I 
h.ive read. The former I admired, as I do all 
that Miss More writes, as well for energy of 
expression, as for the tendency of Ihe design. 
I have never yet seen any production of her 
pen that has not recommended itself by bolli 
these qualifications. There is likewise much 
good .sense in her manner of treating every 
subject, and no mere poetic cant (which is the 
thing that I .abhor) in her manner of treating 
any. And this I say, not because you now 
know and visit her, but it has long been my 
avowed opinion of her works, which I have 
both spoken and written, as often as I ha\e 
had occasion to mention them.* 

Mr. Wilberforce's little book (if he was 
the author of it) has also charmed me. It 
must, I should imagine, engage the notice of 
those to whom it is addressed. In that cafe 
one may say to them, either answer it or be 
set down by it. They will do neither. They 
will approve, commend and forget it. Such 
has been the fate of all exhortations to re- 
form, whether in prose or verse, and however 
closely pressed upon the con.science, in all 
ages : here and there a happy individual, to 
whom God gives grace and wisdom to profit 
by the admonition, is the better for it. But 
the aggregate body (as Gilbert Cooper used 
to call the multitude) remain, though with a 
very good understanding of the matter, like 
horse and mule who have none. 

* We here bes: p.irticnlarly to recommend the perusal 
of the Memoirs of .Mrs. Hannah More. They are replete 
with peculiar interest, not only in detailing the history 
of her own life, and the incidents connected with her 
numerous and valuable productions, but as elucidatm,' 
the character of the times in which she lived, arid e.x- 
hiliiting a lively portrait of the distinguished literary per- 
sons with whom she associated. The Blue Stocking 
Club, or '■ Bas bleu," is minutely described — we are pres- 
ent at its coteries, introduced to its pei-sonages, and 
familiar with its manners and habits. The Monlagiis, 
the Boscawens, the Vcseys, the Carters, and the Pepyses. 
all p.ass in review before us : and prove Iiow cenversa- 
tion might be made subservient to the improvement of 
the intellect, and the enlargement of the heart, if boUi 
were cultivated to answer these exalted ends. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



29S 



We shall now soon lose our neighbors at 
the Hall. We shall truly miss thoin and loii';: 
Cur tlieir return. Jlr. Throekmorton said lo 
me last ni;^lit, with sparklinij eyes, and a t'aee 
expressive of tlie highest pleasure — " W'e 
CDinpared vou this morniiiif with I'ope ; we 
read your fourth Iliad and his, and I verily 
think' we shall beat him. He has many 
superfluous lines, and does not interest one. 
When I read your translation, I am deeply 
affeeted. I see plainly your advant.ige, and 
am convinced that Pope spoiled all by at- 
tempting the work in rhyme." His brother 
George, who is my most active amanuensis, 
and who indeed first introduced the subject, 
seconded all he said. More would have 
passed, but, Mrs. Throckmorton having 
seated herself at the harpsichord, and for my 
amusement merely, my attention was of 
course turned to her. The new vicar of 
Olney is arrived, and we have exchanged 
visit.s. He is a plain, sensible man, and 
pleases me much. A treasure for Olney, if 
Olney can understand his value. 

W. C. 



The public mind, inflamed by details of the 
most revolting atrocities, which characterised 
the Slave-Trade, became daily more agitated 
on this important subject, and impressed with 
a sense of its cruelty and injustice. To 
strengthen the ardor of these generous feel- 
ings, the relatives of Cowper solicited the 
co-operation of his pen, which was already 
known to have employed its powers in the 
vindication of oppressed Africa.* General 
Cowper. among others, suggested th.at the 
composition of songs or b.illads written in 
the simplicity peculiar to that style of poetry, 
and adapted to popular airs, might perhaps 
be the most efficient mode of promoting the 
interests of the cause. The poet lost no time 
in complying with this solicitation, and com- 
posed three ballads, one of which he trans- 
mitted to the General, with the following 
letter. 

TO GENEKAL COWPER. 

Weston, 1788. 
My dear General, — A letter is not pleasant 
which excites curiosity, but docs not gratify 
it. Such a letter was my last, the defects of 
which I therefore take the first opportunity 
to supply. When the condition of our ne- 
(rroes in the islands was first presented to 
me as a subject for songs, I felt myself not 
at all allured to the undertaking ; it seemed 
to offer only images of horror, which could 
by no means be accommodated to the style of 
that sort of composition. But having a de- 
sire to co'mply, if possible, with the request 
made to me, after turning the matter in my 
• See Poem on Charity. 



mind as many ways as I could, I at last, as I 
told you, produced three, and that which ap- 
pears to myself the best of those three I have 
sent you. Of the other two, one is serious, 
in a strain of thought perhaps rather too 
.serious, and I could not help it. Tlii^ other, 
of which the slave-trader is himself tlie sub- 
ject, is somewhat ludicrous. If I could think 
them worth your seeing, I would, as oppor- 
tunity should occur, send them also. If this 
amuses you I shall be glad. W. U. 

THK MORNING DRKAM, A BALLAD. 

To the tune of " Tweed Side"* 

'Twas in the glad season of spring, 

.Vslcep at the dawn of the day, 
I dream d what I cannot but sing, 

.So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
I dream'd that on ocean afloat. 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
While the billows high lirteil the boat, 

And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that she wore, 
Whose beauty impressed me with awe, 

Ne'er taught me by woman before : 
She sat. and a shield at her side 

Shed liffht like a sun on the waves, 
,\nd smihng divinely, she cried — 

'• I go to make freemen of slaves." 

Then, raising her voice to a strain. 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
She sung of the slave's broken chain 

Wherever her glory appear'd. 
Some clouds which had over us hung 

Fletl, chas'd by her melody clear, 
.\m\ methought, while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, 

To a slave-cultured island we came. 
Where a ileraon. her enemy, stood, 

Oppression his terrible name : 
In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 

\ scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
And stood looking out tor his prey, 

From .Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But soon as. approaching the land. 

That gockless-like woman he view'd, 
The si'ourgc he let fall from his hand, 

With blood of his subjerts imbrued. 
I saw hirn both sicken and die. 

And, the moment the monster expir'd, 
Heard shouts that ascended the sky. 

From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 

.\waking. how could I but muse 

At what such a dream .should betide. 

But soon mv ear caught the ghul news. 
Which serv'il my weak thought for a guide — 

That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves, 
For the hatred she ever has shown 

To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves. 
Resolves to have none of her own. 

• These verses wen- set to a popular tune, for the pur- 
pose of Kenentl circulation, unit to aid tliu cfTorta tfaea 
mslung for the aliolition of Iho slave-trade. 



300 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Few subjects have agitated this country 
more deeply than the important question of 
tlie abolition of the Slave-Trade ; if we ex- 
cept, what was its final and necessary conse- 
quence, the extinction of Slavery itself. 
The wrongs of injured Africa seemed at 
length to have come up in remembrance be- 
fore God, and tiie days of mourning to be 
approaching to their end. The strife of pol- 
itics and the passions of contending parlies 
gave way to the great cause of humanity, and 
a Pitt and a Fox, supported by many of tlicir 
respective adherents, here met on common 
and neutral ground. The walls of parlia- 
ment re-echoed with the tones of an elo- 
quence (he most sublime and impassioned, 
because it is the generous emotions of the 
heart that invigorate the intellect, and give 
to it a persuasive and commanding power. 
In the meantime the mammon of unright- 
eousness was not inactive ; commerci.al cu- 
pidity and self-interest raised up a severe and 
determined resistance, whicli protracted the 
final settlement of this question for nearly 
twenty years. But its doom w,as sealed. 
The moral feeling of the country pronounced 
the solemn verdict of condemnation, long be- 
fore the decision of Pariiament confirmed 
that verdict by the authority and sanction of 
law. William Wilberforce, Esq., the great 
champion of this cause, who had pleaded its 
rights with an eloquence that had never been 
surpassed, and a perseverance and ardor that 
no opposition could subdue, lived to see the 
trafbc in slaves declared illegal by a legis- 
lative enactment ; his own country rescued 
from an injurious imputation ; and himself 
distinguished by the honorable and nobly 
earned title of The Liberator of Africa.* 

We have already stated that Cowper was 
urged to contribute some popular ballads in 
behalf of tliis benevolent enterprise, and that 
he composed three, one of which is inserted 
in the previous page. We now insert an- 
other production of tlie same kind, which wc 
think possesses more pathos and spirit than 
the former. 

THE negro's CO.MPLAINT. 

Forced from home and all its pleasures, 

Afric's coast I lefl forlorn; 

To increase a stranger's treasures, 

O'er the raging billows borne. 

Men from England bought and sold me, 

Paid niy price in paltry gold; 

But, though slave they have enroll'd me, 

Minds are never to be sold. 

Still in thought as free as ever. 
What are England's rights, I ask, 
Me from my delights to sever, 
Me to torture, me to task 1 
Fleecy locks and black complexion 
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 

* The slave trade wa3 abolishod in the year 1807 ; de- 
clared lo be felony, in 1811 ; and lo be piracy, in 1H24. 



Skins may differ, but affection 
Dwells in white and black the same. 

Why did all-creating Nature 
Make the plant lor which we toil 1 
.Siglis must ian it, tears must water, 
Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
Think, ye masters iron-hearted, 
Lolling at your jovial boards, 
Think how many backs have smarted 
For the sweets your cane affords. 

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 
Is there One who reigns on high? 
Has he bid you buy and sell us, 
Speaking from his throne, the sky 1 
Ask him, if your knotted scourges, 
Matches, blood-extorting screws. 
Are the means that duty urges 
Agents of his will to use 1 

Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, 
.Strewing yonder sea with wrecks. 
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 
Are the voice with which he speaks. 
He, foreseeing what vexations 
Afric's sons should undergo, 
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 
Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 

By our blood in Afric uasted, 
Ere oar necks received the chain ; 
By the miseries that we tasted, 
Crossing in your barks the main; 
By our sujf'erijigs, since ye brought us 
Yo tlie man-degrading mart; 
All sustain\l by patience, taught us 
Only by a broken heart: 

Deem our nation brutes no longer, 
Till some reason ye shall find 
Worthier of regard, and stronger, 
Than the color of our kind. 
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
Tarnish all your boasted powers. 
Prove that you have human feelings, 
Ere you proudly question ours I 

Sec Poems. 

To the Christian and philosophic mind, 
which is accustomed to trace the origin and 
operation of principles that powerfully atl'ect 
the moral dignity and happiness of nations, 
it is interesting to enquire what is the rise 
of that high moral feeling, that keen and in- 
dignant sense of wrong and oppression, which 
form so distinguishing a feature in the 
character of this country ? Why, too, when 
the crime and guilt of slavery attached to 
France, to Portugal, to Spain, to Holland, 
and above all to America, not less justly than 
to ourselves, was Great Britain the first to 
lead the way in this noble career of human- 
ity, and to sacrifice sordid interest to the 
claims of public duty ? 

This in(pnry is by no means irrelevant, be- 
cause the same question suggested itself to 
the mind of Cowper, and he thus answers 
itr— 
The cause, though worth the search, may yet 

elude 
Conjecture and reinark, hjwever shrewd. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



301 



They tiikc perhaps a vvell-dirceted aim. 
Who seek it in fiU climate and hi^i frame. 
Liberal in all things else, yet nature here 
VVitli stern severity deals out the year. 
NVinter invades the spring, and ollen pours 
A ehilhni; Hood on suaiiiirr's drooping llowers; 
Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal beams, 
Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams; 
The peasants urge their harvest ply the fork 
NVith double toil, and shiver at their work; 
Thu.-^ with a ri^or^for his eood designed. 
She rears her J'aroritc man of all mankind. 
I/is form robtist and of elastic tone, 
Proportioned well, half muscle and half bone. 
Supplies with warm actiritij and force 
A mind well-ladged and mascldine of course, 
ifcnre liberty, street liberty in.tpircs. 
And keeps alicc hi^erce but noble fres.* 

Table Talk. 

The foundation of tliis high national feclini^ 
most I'vidently be sought in the cause.s here 
specified. To these inay 4c added the in- 
fluence arising frotii the conslitution of our 
government, the character of our institu- 
tions, and the freedom ^\■ith wliich every sub- 
ject undergoes the .severe ordeal of public 
discussion. 

May it always be so wisely directed, as 
never to incur the risk of becoming the 
foaming and heedless torrent ; but rather re- 
semble the majestic river, so beautifully de- 
scribed by the poet Denham : 

" Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full." 
Cooper's Hill. 

It is due, liowever, to the venerable name of 
(iranville Sharp, to record, more particularly, 
the zeal with which he called forth and fos- 
tered these feelings, and devoted bis time, 
bis talents, and bis labors, in exposing the 
cruelty and injustice of this nefarious traffic. 
He brought it to the test of Scripture. lie 
ril'uted those arguments wliicb p#etended to 
justify the practice from the supposed au- 
thority of the Jlosaic law, by proving that 

• The following lines from Goldsmilh's '' Tniveller.'* 
Iiiive alwiiys been justly admired, and are so muct» in 
teiU'in with the verse.s of Cowper. quoted above, that 
we fi-el persuaded we slmll consult the ta-ste of the reader 
by inserting thctn. 
*• Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. 
And lliea where Britain courts the western sprincr ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, " 
And brishter streams than famed Hydaspes glide I 
There all around the ;;entle3t breezes stray. 
There i;i'nlh' mtisic melts on every spray; 
Creation's mihlest charms are there combined, 
Kxtremes are only in the master's mind, 
.^lern oVr each bo.^om reason holds her state. 
With darim; aims irregularly great. 
Pride in their port, detlanee in their eye ; 
I sec the lord-i of human kind pa'is by ; 
Intent on hiitli desiijns, a thou'^btful i>and. 
Rj' forms uiiftisliioiied, fre-*h frttm Nature's hand ; 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right, above control: 
While e'en the peasant boa.sts these rights to scan. 
And learns to venerate himself as man.'' 
Tlie celebrated Dr. .lohnson once quoted these lines, 
with so much persuieU feeling and interest, that the tears 
are said to have started into his eyes. —See lioi^rertrg Life 
iff M'lin^tfu. 



(he servitude there mentioned was a limited 

service, and accompanied by the year of re- 
lease* and jubilee, lie cited passages from 
that law, e.vpressly prohibiting and condemn- 
ing it. " Thiiu sluilt nut oppress a stranger. 
for ye know the heart of a .slranair. seeing 
ye were strangers in the land of Kgypt." 
E.\od. .\xiii. 9. "If a stranger sojourn with 
thee, in your land, ye shall not vex the stran- 
ger," &c. &.C. '■ Thou shall locc him as thij- 
self.'' Lev. xix. 33. " Love ye therefore the 
stranger, for ve were strangers in the land of 
Egypt." DeiU. x. 17—19. He showed :;t 
large that slavery was directly ojiposed to 
the genius and spirit of the Go.spel, which 
connects all mankind in the bonds of fellow- 
ship and love. He adduced the beautiful 
ami iifl'eeling remark of St. Paul, who, in his 
address to Philemon, when he beseeches him 
to take b.tck his servant Onesimus, observes, 
and yet " nnt noiv as a servant, but abnve a 
serraiit, a brother beloved, specially to me, but 
how much more urUo thee, both in thejli-sh and 
in the Lord." Ver. 16. 

After urging various other arguments, and 
insisting largely, in bis " Law of Ketribution," 
on the extent and enormity of the national 
sin, and its fearful consequences, be draws 
;in aflecting picture of the desolation of 
Africa, quoting the following words of bis 
illustrious ancestor, Archbishop Sharp : — 
" That Africa, which is now more fruitful of 
monsters, than it was once of excellently 
wise and learned men ; that Africa, which 
formerly afforded us our Clemens, our Origni, 
our Tcrtnltian, our Cijprian, our .\ugnsline, 
and many other extraordinary lights in the 
church of God ; that famous Africa, in whose 
soil Chris'ianiti/ did thrive so prodigiously, 
and which could boast of so many flourishing 
churches, alas I is now a wilderness. 'The 
wild botir out of the wood doth wtiste it, and 
the wild beast of the field doth devour it.' 
'and it briiigeth forth nothing but briars and 
thorns.*" 

Such were the appeals of Granville Sharp 
to the generation that is now swept awav by 
the raj)id current of time. The grave' has 
entombed their prejudices. The great judg- 
ment day will pronounce the final verdict. 
It is a melancholy proof of the slow progress 
of truth, antl of the influence of prejudice 
and error, that Ue Las Casas pleaded the in- 
justice of slavery, before the Emperor Charles 
v., nearly three hundred years from the pres- 
ent time: and lh:it it re<iuired this long and 
protr:icted period before the cause of hu- 
manity linally triumphed ; ;ind even then, the 
triumph was restricted to the precincts of one 
single kingdom. That kingdom is Great 
firitnin ! Five millions are said to be still 



* "In the seventh year thou shall let him go free from 
1he<'. And when tlioii sendt-sl hiiu mil fie.' from tie-, 
thou shall nol let liim go away enij-ty." Deut. xv. lit, IJ 



H02 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



reserved in bondage and oppression.* May 
this foul stain be speedily effaced, and civil- 
ized nations learn, that they can never found 
a title to true greatness till the rights of hu- 
manity and justice are publicly recognized 
and respected ! 

We could have dwelt with delight on the 
zeal of Ramsay and Clarkson, but our limits 
do not allow further digression, and the name 
of Cowper demands and merits our attention. 

How much the cause is indebted to his 
zeal and benevolence, may be collected from 
ilie following extracts. 

Canst thou, and honored with a Christian name, 

Buy what is woman-horn, and teel no shame; 

Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 

Expedience as a warrant for the deed ? 

So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold 

To quit the forest and invade the fold : 

So may the ruffian, who with gliostly glide, 

Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 

Not he, but his emergence forced the door, 

He tbund it inconvenient to be poor. 

Charity. 

The verses which we next insert unite the 
inspiration of poetry with the manly feelings 
of the Englishman, and the ardor of genuine 
humanity. 

I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me. to fan me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bou<iht and sold have ever earn'd. 
No : dear as freedom is and in my heart's 
Just estimation prized above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave. 
And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home. — Then why abroad ? 
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us. are emancipate and loos'd. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England : if tiieir lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.f 

* It is computed that there arc two millions of slaves 
belont<int; to thp United States of America; a similar 
number in the Brazils ; and that the remainder are under 
the control of other governments. 

t The force and beauty of this passage will be best 
understood by the fnllowins; statement. A slave, of the 
name of Somerset w.is iirniiLiht over to Kngland from the 
West Indies, by his m:i:^t<T, Mr. Stewart. Shortly after, 
he absented himself, and refused to return. He was jmr- 
sued and arrested, and by Mr. Stewart^s orders forcibly 
put on board a ship, the captain of which was called 
Knowles. He was there detained in custody, to bo car- 
ried out of the kingdom and sold. The cnsc biint,' nuide 
known was brouylit before Lord Cliit^-f .In-^licc Manslield, 
in the Court of King's Bench, .Tunc 2-2, 1'7-J. The judt;- 
ment of Lord Mansfield, on this occiision was as fol- 
lows: — "A foreigner cannot be imprisoned //erf, on the 
authority of any law existing in his own country. The 
power of a master over his servant is different in all 
countries, more or less limited or extensive ; the exercise 
of it therefore must always be regulated by the laws of 
the place where exercised. The power claimed by this 
icturn was never in use here. No master ever was al- 
lowed here to take a slave by force, to be sold abroad, 
because he had deserted from his service, or for any 
other reason whatever. We cannot say the cause set. 
forth by this return is allowed or approved of by the laics 
of this fiin^dom, and therefore the man viust be dis- 
chnrffedy " In other irorrf.*," says a report of the case, 
'• a negro siave, coming from the colonies into Great Brit- 
ain, becomes ipso facto Free.'''* 



That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
And Jet it circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 

The Ta^-k—The Timepiece. 

But, highly as we appreciate the manly 
spirit of the Englishman, and the ardor of 
the philanthropist, in the foregoing verses, it 
is the missionary feeling, glowing in the fol- 
lowing passage, that we most admire, as ex- 
pressing the only true mode of requiting in- 
jured Africa. Let us not think that we have 
discharged the debt by an act of emancipa- 
tion.* In conferring the boon of liberty, we 
restore only that of which they ought never 
to have been deprived. Restitution is not 
compensation. We have granted compensa- 
tion to the proprietor, but where is the com- 
pensation to th« negro ? Never will the 
accumulated wrongs of ages be redressed, 
till we say to the sable sons of Africa, Be- 
hold your God! We have burst the chains 
from the body, let us now convey to them 
the tidings of a nobler freedom, a deliver- 
ance from a worse captivity than even 
African bondage and oppression. Let us 
announce to them that God " hath made of 
one blood all nations of men that dwell on 
the face of the earth." Acts xvii. 26. Let 
their minds be expanded by instruction, and 
the Bible, that great charter of salvation, be 
circulated wherever it can be read, and thus 
Britain may acquire a lasting and an honor- 
able title to their gratitude and love. 

Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 
'■ Beauty for ashes" is a gill indeed, 
And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 

* With what feelings of deep gratitude ought we to re- 
cord the final eni;inci[i:itiou of eight hundred thousand. 
Negroes, in the West India Colonies, by an act which 
passed the British h-^nslature, in the year 1H34, dating 
the commencement of that niemoiable event from the 
first of August. The sura of twenty millions was voted 
to the proprietors of slaves, as a cnin|n'iis;iiion for any 
loss they might incur. Mr. Wilberforco was at this time 
on his dying bed, as if his life had been protracted to 
witness this noble consummation of all his laboi's. When 
he heard of this splendid act of national generosity, he 
lifted up his feeble hands to heaven, exchiiming, '• Thank 
Ood, that I have lived to sec nvj countnj vise twenty mil-' 
lion.': to abolish slavery.-^ 

The noble grant of ihe British and Foreign Bible So- 
ciety (to commemorate this great event) of a copy of a 
New Testament and Ps;ilter (o i-\-ery emancipatetf negro 
that was able to read, deserves In'lie recorded on this 
occasitm. The measure (Migitialed in a suggestion of the 
Rev. Hugh Sluwell. It wa^^ i-(iui|nited Unit, out of a 
population of eight hundred lliousaiid negroes, one hun- 
dred and fifty tliousand were c;ipaljle of reading, and 
Ibat an expenditure of twenty Ihnnsand pounds would 
be necessary to supply this demand. Forty tons cubic 
vieasurr of JVfW '/'fsldiiii nis irrre destined to Jamaira 
alone. The Colonial d('|iar[int'nf was willing lo assist In 
the transfer, but the (.nivernnient packets were found to 
be too small lor this purims,.. n is u'reaiiy In the honor 
of some ship-owners, dit-lingiiishcd for their benevolence 
and public spirit, in the city of London, tli;it tlu-y offered 
to convey this valuable deposit, free of freightage and 
expense, to its place of destination. The sum of fifteen 
thousand pounds was eventually contributed. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



303 



Then would he say. submissive at thy feet, 
While jxralitude and love made service sweet — 
'■ My dear deiivtrrer out ot' hopeless ni^ht. 
Whose bounty boujlit uic but to give me Ught, 
1 was a bondman on my native plain, 
Sin forged, and ignoranec made fast the chain; 
Thv lips have slied instruction as the dew. 
Taught me what palh to shun and what pursue; 
Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 
For Africa's once loved, benighted shore; 
Serving a benel'actor, I am free, 
At my best home, if not exiled from thee." 

Charity. 

That Etiiiopia shall one day stretch out 
hor hands unto God we have the a.ssurance 
of a specific prophecy, as well as the general 
declarations of sacred .scripture. "AH the 
ends of the world shall remember and turn 
unto the Lord, and all the kindreds of the 
n.itions shall worship before thee." At what 
time or in what manner the prophecy will be 
accomplished, it is not for us to determine. 
But should it plea.sc divine provideifce that 
tJie liyht <if the {josptl, through the instru- 
mentality of Britain, should first spring forth 
from among that people in our own West 
India colonics, the land of their former servi- 
tude and oppression; should they subse- 
quently, with bowels yearning for their own 
country, see fit to return, seized with a de- 
sire to communicate to the land of their n.i- 
tivity that gospel, the power of which they 
have previously feJt for themselves; and 
should the hitherto inaccessible and unex- 
plored parts of that vast continent thus be- 
come evangelised, such an event will furnish 
one of the most remarkable instances of an 
over-ruling Power, educing good out of posi- 
tive evil, ever recorded in the annals of man- 
kind. 

We beg to add one more remark. The 
Hhicks are considered to be the descendants 
of Ham, who first peopled Africa. It pleased 
(jod to pronounce an awful curse on him and 
his posterity. " Cursed be Can:ian, a servant 
of servants .shall he be." For the long period 
of four thousand years has that curse impend- 
ed over their lieads. They have drunk the cup 
of bitterness to its lowest dregs. We con- 
ceive this terrible interdict to be now ap- 
proaching to its termination. The curse be- 
gan to be repealed, in pari, when the aboli- 
tion of slavery «as first proclaimed by a 
British parliament. This was the seed-time 
of the future harvest: the example of Brit- 
ain cannot be exhibited in vain: other na- 
tions must follow that example, or sutler the 
consequences of their neglect. They must 
concede the liberty which is the great inher- 
ent right of all mankiiul, or expect to behold 
it wrested from them amidst scenes of car- 
nage and blood. Policy, justice, and human- 
ity, therefore, require the concession. .We 
have said that the repeal of the curse had be- 
gun in part ; it v\ ill be completed when civil 



privileges shall be considered to bo only the 
precursors of that more glorious liberty fiow- 
ing from tlie communication of the gospel of 
peace. Then will Africa be raised up from 
her state of moral degradation, and be ele- 
vated to the rank and order of civilized na- 
tions. Then will she once more boast of 
her Cyprians, her Tertullians, and her Au- 
gustines; and the voice of the Lord, speak- 
ing from his high and holy place, will pro- 
claim to her sable and afflicted sons, "Arise, 
shine, for thy light is come, and the glory of 
the Lord hath arisen upon thee." " There is 
neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor iincir- 
cmncision, barbarian, Scylhian, bond, nor free: 
but Christ is all, and in all.''' Col. iii. II. 

How sweetly does the muse of Cowpcr pro- 
claim the blessing.s of this spiritu;il liberty! 

But there is yet a liberty, unsung 

By poets, and by senators unprais'd, 

Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs 

Of earth and hell confedrate take away; 

A liberty which persecution, fraud, 

Oppressions, prisons, have no power to bind : 

Which whoso tastes can he enslav'd no more. 

'Tis lil)erty of heart deriv'd from heav'n, 

Bouglit with His blood, who gave it to mankind, 

And seal'd with the same token. It is held 

By charter, and that charter sanction 'd sure 

By th' unimpeachable and awful oath 

Anil promise of a God. His other gills 

All bear the royal stamp, that speaks them his. 

They are august; but this transcentls them all. 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes tree, 
.\nd all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as Samson hi.s green withes. 
He looks al)road into the varied field 
Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compar'd 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. 
His arc the mountains, and the valleys hi.s, 
.4nd the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy 
With a propriety that none can feel 
But who, with filial confidence inspir'd. 
Can hit to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye 
.•InJ smiling say — ' My Father made them all !" 
iVinler Morning Wait. 

The interesting nature of the subject, .and 
its popularity at the present moment, must 
plead our excuse for tJiese lengthened re- 
marks and extracts. But we were anxious 
to prove how much this gre;it cause of hu- 
m;inity was indebted, in the earlier stages of 
its progress, to the powerful appeals and re- 
presentations of Cowpcr. 

We now resume the correspondence. 

TO MltS. HILL.* 

Weslon I.od^e, Mnreh 17, t7»8. 

My dear Madam — A thousand thanks to 
you for your obliging and most acceptable 
present, which I received safe this evening. 
* Private correspondence. 



304 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Had you known my occasions, you could 
not possibly have timed it more exactly. 
Tlie Throckmoiion family, wlio live in our 
neighborliood, and who sometimes take a 
dinner with us, were, by engairement made 
with tliem two or three days ago, appointed 
to dine with us just at the time when your 
turkey will be in perfection. A turkey from 
Wargrave, the residence of my friend, and a 
turkey, as I conclude, of your breeding, stands 
a fair eliance, in my account, to e.\ce] all otlier 
turkeys ; and the ham, its companion, will be 
no less welcome. 

I sliall be happy to hear tliat my friend 
Josepli has recovered entirely from liis late 
indisposition, which I was informed was 
gout; a distemper which, however painful in 
itself, brings at least some comfort with it, 
both fur the patient and those who love him, 
the hope of length of days, and an exemption 
from numerous other evils. I wish him just 
so much of it as may serve for a confirmation 
of this hope, and not one twinge more. 

Your husband, my dear madam, told me, 
some time since, that a certain library of 
mine, concerning which I have heard no 
other tidings these five-and-twenty years, is 
still in being.* Hue and cry have lieen made 
after it in Old Palace-yard, but hitlierto in 
vain. If he can inform a bookless student 
in what region, or in what nook, his long- 
lost volumes m.ay be found, he will render 
me an important service. 

I am likely to be furnished soon with 
shelves, which my cousin of New Norfolk- 
street is about to send me ; but furniture for 
these slielves_ I shall not preseiUly procure, 
imless by recovering my stray autfiors. I 
am not young enough to think of making a 
new collection, and shall probably possess 
myself of few books hereafter but such as I 
may put forth myself, wliich cost me nothing 
but what I can better spare tlian money — 
time and consideration. 

I beg, my dear madam, that you will give 
my love to my friend, and believe me, with 
the warmest sense of his and your kindness, 
Your most obliged and aft'ectionate 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEVVTON.f 

Weston Lwlt'o, March 17, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — The evening is almost 
worn away while I have been writing a let- 
ter, to which I was obliged to give immediate 
attention. An application from a l.ady, and 
backed by you, could not be less than irre- 
sistible. The lady, too, a daughter of Mr. 
Thornton's.| Neither are these words of 
course: since I returned to Homer in good 

* Cowpor's IxiokH had been lost, owin?; to his ori8:inal 
illness, anil his suildi'ii removal to St, Alban's. 
t Private n,i*rrs[.undence. 
i Lady Uuli^onie. 



earnest, I turn out of my way for no consid- 
eration that I can possibly put aside. 

With modern tunes I am unacquainted, and 
have therefore ticeommodated my \erse to an 
old one; not so old, however, but that there 
will be songsters found old enough to re- 
member it. The song is an admirable one 
for which it was made, and, though political, 
nearly, if not tjuite, as serious as mine. On 
such a subject as 1 had before me, it seems 
impossible not to be serious. I shall be 
happy if it meet with your and Lady Bal- 
gonie's approbation. 

Of Jlr. Bean I could say much ; but Iiave 
only time at present to say that I esteem and 
love him. On some future occasion I shall 
speak of him more at large. 

We rejoice th.at Mrs. Newton is better, and 
wish nothing more than her complete recov- 
cry. Dr. Ford is to be pitied.* His wife, I 
suppose, is going to heaven ; a journey whicli 
she can better aft'ord to take than he to ptirt 
with her. 

I am, my dear friend, with our united love 
to vou all three, most truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER EAGOT. 

March 19, 17SK. 

BIy dear Friend, — The spring is come, but 
not, I suppose, that spring which our poets 
have celebrated. So I judge at least by the 
extreme severity of the season, sunless skies, 
iind freezing blasts, surpassing all that we 
experienced in the depth of winter. How- 
do you dispose of yourself in this houling 
month of Blarch ? As for me, I walk daily, 
be the weather what it may, take bark, and 
write verses. Ry the aid of such means as 
these I combat the north-east wind with some 
measure of success, and look forward, with 
the hope of enjoying it, to tlie v.armth of 
summer. 

Have you seen a little volume, lately pub- 
lished, entitled, "The Manners of the Great?" 
It is said to have been written by Jlr. Wilber- 
force, but whether actually written by him or 
not, is undoubtedly the work of some man 
intimately acquainted with the subject, a gen- 
tleman, and a man of letters.f If it makes 
the impression on those to whom it is ad- 
dressed, that may be in some degree expect- 
ed from his arguments, and from his manner 
of pressing them, it will be well. But you 
and I have lived long enough in the world to 
know that the hope of a general reformation 
in any class of men whatever, or of women 
either, may easily be too sanguine. 

I have now given the last revisal to as 

* Dr. Ford was Vicar of Melton Mowbray, well knowa 
and respected, and a particular friend of Mr. Newton's. 

t The author of this work proved to be -Miss ilannaii 
More. 



much of my translation as was ready for it, 
and do not know that 1 shall bestow another 
single stroke of my pen on that part of it 
before I send it to the press. My bnsiness 
at present is with the sixteenth book, in 
which I have miide some ])roirress, but have 
not yet actually sent forth Patroclus to the 
battle. My first translation lies always be- 
fore me ; line by line I examine it as I pro- 
oeed, and lino by line reject it. I do not, 
however, hold myself altogether indebted to 
my erilies for the better judgment that I 
seem to e.xcreise in this matter now than in 
the first instance. By long study of him, I 
am in fact become much more familiar with 
Homer than at any time heretofore, and 
have possessed myself of such a taste of his 
manner, as is not to be attained by mere 
cursory reading for amusement. But, alas! 
'tis after all a mortifying consideration that 
the majority of my judges hereafter, will be 
no judges of this. Grcccum est, non potest 
le;^i, is a motto that would suit nine in ten 
of those who will give themselves airs about 
it, and pretend to like or to dislike. No 
matter. I know I shall please ynu, because 
I know »'/(«/ pleases you, and I am sure that 
I have done it. 

Adieu ! my good friend, 

Ever atl'ectionately yours, W. C. 



Cowper alludes in the following letters, to 
the progress of his version, and the obstruc- 
tions to the negro cause. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ., 

Weston, March 29, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you have 
so successfully performed so long a journey 
without the aid of hoofs or wheels. I do 
not know that a journe\' on foot exposes a 
man to more disasters than a carriage or a 
liorse : perliaps it may be the safer way of 
travelling, but the novelty of it impressed 
me with some anxiety on your account. 

It seems almo.st incredible to myself that 
my company should be at all desirable to 
you, or to any man. I know so little of the 
world as it goes at present, and labor gen- 
erally under such a depression of spirits, es- 
pecially at those times when I could wi.sli to 
I)e most cheerful, that my own share in 
every conversation appears to me to be the 
most insipid thing imaginable. But you .say 
you found it otherwise, and 1 will not for 
my own sake doubt your sincerity: de gusti- 
bus non cs/ rlispiilanilurn, and since such is 
yours, I shall leave you in quiet possession 
of it, wishing indeed both its continuance 
and increase. I shall not find a properer 
place in which to say, accept of Mrs. Un- 
win's acknowledgements, as well as mine, 
for the kindness of your expressions on this 



subject, and be assured of an undissembling 
welcome at all times, when it shall suit you 
to give us your company at Weston. As to 
her, she is one of the sinccrest of the human 
race, and if she receives you with the appear- 
ance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. 
Her behavior on such occasions is with her 
an affair of conscience, and she dares no 
more look a falsehood than utter one. 

It is almost time to tell you, that I have 
received the books safe : they have not suf- 
fered the least detriment by the way, and I 
am much obliged to you for them." If my 
translation should be a little delayed in con- 
sequence of tliis favor of yours, you must 
take the blame on yourself It is impossible 
not to read the notes of a commentator so 
learned, so judicious, and of so tine a taste 
as Dr. Clarke,* having him at one's elbow. 
Though he has been but few hours under my 
roof, 1 have already peeped at him, and find 
that he will be imtar omnium to me. They 
are such notes exactly as I wanted. A trans- 
lator of Homer should ever have somebody 
at hand to say, " That's a beauty," lest he 
should slumber where his author does not, 
not only depreciating, by such inadvertency, 
the work of his original, but depriving per- 
haps his own of an embellishment, which 
wanted only to be noticed. 

If you hear ballads sung in the streets on 
the hard.ships of the negroes in the islands, 
they arc probably mine.f It must be an 
honor to any man to have given a stroke to 
that chain, however feeble. I fear however 
that the attempt will fail. The tidings which 
have lately reached n)e from London con- 
cerning it are not the nio.st encouraging. 
While the matter slept, or was but slightly 
adverted to, tlie English only had their share 
of shame in common with other nations on 
account of it. But. since it has been can- 
vassed and scarclicd to the bottom, since the 
public attention has been riveted to the hor- 
rible si'heme, we can no longer plead either 
that we did not know it, or did not think of 
it. Woe be to us if we refuse the poor cap- 
tives the re iress to which they have so clear 
a rii'ht, and prove ourselves in the sight of 
God and men. indifferent to all considerations 
but those of gain If 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO LADV HESKETH. 

Tlie I,iid:;c, March 31, 1788. 

My dearest Cousin, — Jlrs. Throckmorton 

* Well knuwii for his cch-hrHted works, on the " Being 
and altriliuti'H of Cod," and the " Kvidcnccs of Natural 
and Revealed lleltijion." 

t They were, after all, never appropriated to that pur- 
pose. 

J The interests of commeree were too mnch at vari- 
ance with this 1,'real cause of humanity not to oppose a 
lonsc and |>iTs,-veriii:,' resistance to ita pro>;ress in parlia- 
ment. Though Mr. Pitt supportt'd the measure. It was 
not made a government question. 
20 



306 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



1ms promised to write to me. I beg that, as 
(ifteii as you shall see her, you will give her 
a smart pinch, and say, " Have you written 
to my cousin?" I build all my hopes other 
performance on this expedient, and for so 
doing these my letters, not patent, shall be 
your sufficient warrant. You are thus to give 
iier the question till she shall answer, " Yes." 
I have written one more song, and sent it. 
It is called the "Morning Dream," and may 
be sung to the tune of Tweed-Side, or any 
other tune that will suit it, for I am not nice 
on that subject. I would have copied it for 
vou, had I not almost filled my sheet with- 
out it ; but now, my dear, you must stay till 
the sweet sirens of London shall bring it to 
you, or, if that happy day should never ar- 
rive, I hereby acknowledge myself your 
debtor to that amount. I shall now prob- 
ably cease to sing of tortured negroes, a 
theme which never pleased me, but which, 
in the hope of doing them some little ser- 
vice, I was not unwilling to handle. 

If anything could have raised Miss More 
to a higher place in my opinion than she 
possessed before, it could only be your in- 
formation that, after all, she, and not Mr. 
Wilberforce, is author of that volume. How 
comes it to pass, that she, being a woman, 
writes with a force and energy, and a cor- 
rectness hitherto arrogated by the men, and 
not very frequently displayed even by the 
men themselves ? 

Adieu, W. C. 

The object of this valuable treatise is not 
to attack gross delinquencies, but to show 
the danger of resting for acceptance on mere 
outward decorum and general respectability 
of character, while the internal principle, 
which can alone elevate the affections of llie 
heart and influence the life, is wanting. We 
select the following passage as powerfully 
illustrating this view. Speaking of the rich 
man, who is represented by our Lord as 
lifting up his eyes in torments. Miss More 
observes, " He committed no enormities, that 
have been transmitted to us; for that he 
dined well and dressed well could hardly 
incur the bitter penalty of eternal misery. 
That his e.vpenscs were suitable to his sta- 
tion, and his splendor proportioned to his 
opulence, does not exhibit any objection to 
his cliaracter. Nor are we told that he re- 
fused the crumbs which Lazarus solicited: 
and yet this man, on an authority we are not 
permitted to question, is represented in a 
future state as lifting up his eyes, being in 
lormeiUs. His punisliment seems to have 
been the consequence of an irreligious, a 
worldly spirit; a heart corrupted by the 
softnesses and delights of life. It was not 
because he was rich, but because he trusted 
in riches ; or, if even he was charitable, his 



charily wanted that principle which alone could 
sanctify it. His views terminated here ; this 
world'' s good, and this world's applause, were 
the motives and the end of his actions. He for- 
got God; he was destitute of piety; and the 
absence of this great and first principle if hu- 
man actions rendered his sliining deeds, how- 
ever they 7night be admired among men, of no 
value in the sight of God." 

Admonitory statements like these are in- 
valuable, and demand the earnest attention 
of those to whom they apply. 

Nor is the next p.assage less important on 
the subject of sins of omission. 

"It is not less against negative than against 
actual eiil, that affectionate exhortation, live- 
ly remonstrance, and pointed parable are ex- 
hausted. It is against the tree which bore 
no fruit, the lamp which had no oil, the un- 
profitable servant who made no use of his 
talent, that the severe sentence is denounced, 
as well as against corrupt fruit, bad oil, and 
talents ill employed. We are led to believe, 
from the same high authority, that omitted 
duties and neglected opportunities will furnish 
no inconsiderable portion of our future con- 
demnation. A very awful part of the de- 
cision, in the great day of account, seems to 
be reserved merely for carelessness, omis- 
sions, and negatives. Y^e gave me no meat, 
ye gave me no drink ; ye took me not in, ye 
visited me 710/. On the punishment attend- 
ing positive crimes, as being more naturally 
obvious, it was not, perhaps, thought so 
necessary to insist."* 

This work was the first important appeal, 
in those days, addressed to the fivshionable 
world, and Miss More's previous intercourse 
with it admirably qualified her to write with 
judgment and effect. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

Weslon Lodge, April 11, 1788. 
Dear Madam, — The melanclioly that I have 
mentioned, and concerning which you are so 
kind as to inquire, is of a kind, so far as I 
know, peculiar to myself It does not at all 
alfect tiie operations of my mind on any sub- 
ject to w-hich I can attach it, whether serious 
or ludicrous, or whatsoever it may be ; for 
which reason I am almost always employed 
either in reading or writing when I am not 
engaged in conversation. A vacant hour is 
my abhorrence, because when I am not occu- 
pied I suffer under the whole influence of my 
unhappy temperament, I thank you for the 
recomniendalion of a medicine from which 
you have received benefit yourself; but there 
is hardly anything that I have not proved, 
however beneticiai it may have been found by 
others, in my own case utterly useless. I 

* Thoughts on the Manners of the Great. 
t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



307 



liave, thercforo, Ions since hid adieu to all 
hope tVom luiiiiiiii iikmiis, — the nicutis except- 
ed ot'pL'i-pctual employment. 

I will not say that we shall never meet, 
bci-:iuso it is not for a creature who knows 
not what shall bo to-morrow to assert any- 
thin;^; positively concerning the future. Things 
more unlikely I have yet seen brouirht to 
pass, and things which, if I had expressed 
myselj' of tlicni at all, 1 should have said 
were impossible. But, being respectively 
circumstanced as we are, there seems no pres- 
ent probability of it. You speak of insuper- 
able hindrances ; and I also have hindrances 
that would be equally ditlicult to surmount. 
One is, that I never ride, that I am not able 
to perforin a journey on foot, and that chaises 
do not roll witliin the sphere of that economy 
which my circumstances oblige nie to observe. 
If this were not of itself sulticient to excuse 
me, w'hen I decline so obliging an invitation 
as yours, I could mention yet other obstacles. 
But to what end ? One impracticability 
makes as eti'ectual a harrier as a thousand. 
It will be otherwi.se in other worlds. Either 
we shall not bear about us a body, or it will 
be more easily transportable than this. In the 
mc.iiitime, by the help of the post, strangers 
to e;ich other may cease to be such, as you 
and I have already begun to e.'iperience. 

It is indeed, madam, as you say, a foolish 
world, and likely to continue such till the 
Great Tcach(-r shall himself vouchsafe to 
make it wiser. I am persuaded that time 
alone will never mend it. But there is 
doubtless a day appointed when there shall 
be a more general manifestation of the 
beauty of holiness than maidiind have ever 
yet beheld. When that period shall arrive 
there will be an end of profane represent;i- 
tions, whether of lieaven or hell, on the 
stage : — the great realities will supercede 
them. 

I have just discovered that I have written 
to you on p.iper so transparent that it will 
hardly keep the contents a secret. E.xcuse 
the mistake, and believe me, dear madam, 
with my respects to Jlr. King, 

Ati'ectionately yours, VV. C. 



The slow progress of the abolition cause, 
and the nature of the ditiiculties, are .idverted 
to in tlie following letter. 

TO T1!E REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weslon, April 19, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — I thank you for your 
last, and for the verses in particular therein 
continued, in which there is not only rhyme 
but rca-son. And yet I fear that neither you 
nor I, with all our reasoning and rhyming, 
• Private corrcspomlcnce. 



shall effect much good in this matter. So 
far as 1 can learn, and I have had intelligence 
from a ([uarter within the reach of such as is 
respectable, our governors are not animated 
altogether with such heroic ardor as the oc- 
casion might inspire. They consult freciuent- 
ly indeed in the cabinet about it, but the fre- 
quenc^y of their consnltalions in a case so 
plain as this would be, did not what Shak- 
speare calls commodity, and what we call 
political expediency, cast a cloud over it, 
rather bespeaks a desire to save appearances 
than to interpose to purpose. Laws will, I 
suppose, be enacted for the more humane 
treatment of the negroes ; but who shall see 
to the exeeutioji of them .' Tiie planters will 
not, and the negroes cannot. In fact, we 
know that laws of this tendency have not 
been wanting, en.acted even among.st them- 
selves, but there has been always a want of 
prosecutors, or righteous judges : deficiencies 
which will not be very easily supplied. The 
newspajjcrs have lately told us that these 
merciful masters have, on this occasion, been 
occupied in passing ordinances, by which the 
lives and limbs of their slaves are to be se- 
cured from wanton cruelty hereafter. But 
who does not innuediately detect the artifice, 
or can give them a moment's credit for any- 
thing more than a design, by this show of 
lenity, to avert the storm which they think 
hangs over them i On the whole, I fear 
there is reason to wish, for the honor of Eng- 
land, that the nuisance had never been troub- 
led, lest we eventually make ourselves justly 
chargeable with the whole ofienee by not re- 
moving it. The enormity cannot be palli- 
ated ; we can no longer plead that we were 
not aware of it, or tliat our atti'ntion was 
otherwise engaged, and shall be iiiexcus.able 
therefore ourselves if we leave the least part 
of it unredressed, yuch arguments as Pha- 
raoh might have used to justify the de- 
struction of the Israelites, substituting only 
sugar lor bricks, may lie ready for our use 
also ; but I tliijik we can find no better. 

We are tolerably well, and shall rejoice to 
hear that, as the year rises, Jlrs. Newton's 
health keeps pace with it. Believe me, my 
dear friend, 

Aflectionately and truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESICETH. 

The Lodsc, M.iy 6, 1788. 

My dearest Cousin, — You ask me how I 

like Smollett's Don Quixote ? I answer, well ; 
perhaps better than anybody's : but, having 
no skill in the original, some diflidence be- 
comes me: that is to s.ay, I do not know 
whether I oujrht to prefer it or not. Yet, 
there is so little deviation from other versions 
which I have seen that 1 do not much hesi- 



308 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tate. It has made me laugh I know immod- 
erately, and in such a ease r,a siiffil. 

A thousand thanks, my dear, for the new 
convenient-e in the way of stowage wiiich you 
are so kind as to intend me. There is noth- 
ing in which I am so deficient as repositories 
for letters, papers, and litter of all sorts. 
V'our last present has helped me somewhat, 
but not with respect to such things as require 
lock and key, which are numerous. A bo,\, 
therefore, so secured, will be to me an invalu- 
able acquisition. And, since you leave me 
to my option, what shall be the size thereof, 
I of course prefer a folio. On the back of 
the book-seeming bo.\, some artist e.xpert in 
those matters, may inscribe these words, 

Collectanea curiosa, 

the English of which is, a collection of curi- 
osities. A title which I prefer to all others, 
because if I live, I shall take care that the 
box shall merit it, and because it will operate 
as an incentive to open that which being 
locked cannot be opened : for in these cases 
the greater the baulk the more wit is dis- 
covered by the ingenious contriver of it, viz., 
myself 

The General, I understand by his last letter, 
is in town. In my last to him I told him 
news, possibly it will give you pleasure, and 
ought for that reason to be made known to 
you as soon as possible. My friend Rowley, 
who I told you has, after twenty-five years' 
silence, renewed his correspondence with me, 
and who now lives in Ireland, where he has 
many and considerable connexions, has sent 
to me for thirty subscription papers.* Row- 
ley is one of the most benevolent and friend- 
ly creatures in the world, and will, I dare say, 
do all in his power to serve me. 

I am just recovered from a violent cold, 
attended by a cough, which split my head 
while it lasted. I escaped these tortures all 
the winter, but whose constitution, or what 
skin, can possibly be proof against our vernal 
breezes in England 'i Mine never were, nor 
will be. 

When people are intimate, we say they are 
as great as two inkle-weavers, on which ex- 
pression I have to remark, in the first place, 
that the word great is here used in a sense 
which the corresponding term has not, so far 
as I know, in any other language, and second- 
ly, that inkle-weavers contract intimacies with 
each other soonijr than other people on ac- 
count of their ju.xtaposition in weaving of 
inkle. Hence it is that Mr. Gregson and I 
emulate those happy weavers in the close- 
ness of our connexion.! We live near to e.ach 
other, and while the Hall is empty are each 
other's only extraforaneous comfort. 

Most truly thine, W. C. 

• For his version of Homer. 

t Mr. Gregson was cliiiplain to Mr. Throckmorton. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weslon, May S, 1788. 
Ahis ! my library — I must now give it up 
for a lost thing forever. The only consoh^ 
tion belonging to the circumstance is, or 
seems to be, that no such loss did ever befall 
any other man, or can ever befall me again. 
As far as books are concerned I am 

Totus teres atque rotundus, 

and may set fortune at defiance. The books, 
which had been my father's, had, most of 
them, his arms on the inside cover, but the 
rest no mark, neither his name nor mine. I 
could mourn for them like Sancho for his 
Dapple, but it would avail me nothing. 

You will oblige me much by sending mo 
"Crazy Kate." A gentleman last winter 
promised me both her and the " Lace-raaker," 
but he went to London, that place in which, 
as in the grave, "all things are forgotten," and 
I have never seen either of them.* 

I begin to find some prospect of a con- 
clusion, of the Iliad at least, now opening 
upon me, having reached the eighteenth book. 
Your letter found me yesterday in the very 
fact of dispersing the v\'hole host of Troy, by 
the voice only of Achilles. There is nothing 
extravagant in the idea, for you have wit- 
nessed a similar effect attending even such a 
voice as mine, at midnight, from a garret 
window, on the dogs of a whole parish, whom 
I have put to flight in a moment. 

W. C. 



His high sense of the character and quali- 
fications of Lady Hesketh is pleasingly e.\- 
pressed in the following letter, where Mrs. 
Montagu's coteries in Portman-square are 
also alluded to. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The I^dge, May 12, 1788. 

It is probable, my dearest coz., th.at I shall 
not be able to write much, but as much as I 
can I will. The time between rising and 
breakfast is all that I can at present find, and 
tills morning I lay longer than usual. 

In the style of the lady's note to you, I 
can easily perceive a sraatch of her charac- 
tcr.f Neither men nor women write with 
such neatness of expression, who have not 
given a good de.al of attention to language, 
and qualified themselves by study. At the 
same time it gave me much more pleasure to 
observe, that my coz., though not standing 
on the pinnacle of renown quite so elevated 

* He alludes to engravings of these two characters, 
which had acquired much popularity with the public, 
especially Crazy Kate, beginning, 
"There ofan wanders one, whom belter days," &c. &c. 

t Mrs. Montagu. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



309 



as that which lifts Mrs. Montagu to the 
clouds, falls in no degree short of her in this 
particular; so that, should she make you a 
nioinber of her academy,* she will do it honor. 
Suspect me not of Mattering you, for I aldior 
the thought; neither icill you suspect it. 
Recollect that it is an invariable rule witli 
me never to pay compliments to those I love. 

Two days, vn suite, I have walked to Gay- 
hurst.f a longer journey than I have walked 
on foot these seventeen years. The first day 
I went alone, designing merely to make the 
experiment, and choosing to be at liberty to 
return at whatsoever point of my pilgrimage 
I should find myself fatigued. For I was 
not without suspicion that years, and some 
other things no less injurious tlian years, 
viz., melancholy and distress of mind, might 
by this time have unfitted me for such achieve- 
ments. But I found it otherwise. I reached 
the church, which stands, as you know, in 
the garden, in fifty-five minutes, and returned 
in ditto time to We.ston. The ne,\t day 1 
took the same walk wi'th Mr. Powley, having 
a desire to show him the prettiest pl.ace in 
the country-! ' ""' *>"'>' performed these 
two e.vcursions without injury to my health, 
but have by means of them gained indisput- 
.•ible proof that my ambulatory faculty is not 
yet impaired : a discovery which, considering 
that to my feet alone I am likely, as I have 
ever been, to be indebted always for my 
transportation from place to place, I find very 
delectable. 

You will find in the last Gentleman's Mag- 
azine a sonnet, addressed to Henry Cowper, 
signed T. II. I am the writer of it. No 
creature knows this but yourself; you will 
make what use of the intelligence you shall 
see good. W. C. 

— » 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Tlie Lodge, May SI, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — For two e.vcellent prints 
I return you my sincere acknowledgments. 

• The Blue-stockini; Clut>. or ll(u* bleiL 

The ftilluwiiig i:* Ihu account of tlie oriijin of the Blue- 
fttockin^ Club, extracted from Bos-AeU's *' Life of Johii- 
Bon:" "About this time (1781) it wius much the fmthion 
for several ladiea to have evening n.'^semblies, where the 
fair sex iai%\\\ participate in conversation with literary 
and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. 
These societies were denominated Htitc-stncking Ctuh.^, 
the ori'.:in of which title beui'j; liule known, it may he 
worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent mem- 
bers of these sticieties, when they llrst iviiiimeiiced, wjis 
Mr. Itenjaniin ^tilliuK'tleet, (atlthor of tracts relali[iL< to 
natural history, itc.) whose dress wjis rem.arkably Krave, 
and in particular it was ob-erved that Itr wore blue atork- 
in^f. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that 
his absence vtns felt a.s so threat a loss, that it used to be 
said, ^Wu can do notbinc: wilhuul the btite ftoekiitps ;^ 
and thus by degrees the title was established. Sliss 
Hiuinah More has admirably described a lilut-xtotking 
Chby in her * lias B/cm,' a poem in which many of the 
persiuis who were most conspicuous there are men- 
tioned." 

t A larije mansion near NeAport Pagncl, formerly be- 
longiu'.; to Miss Wright. 

J The liifv. Mr. IVwley married Mrs. Unwin's daughter. 



I cannot say that poor Kate resembles much 
the original, who was neither so young nor 
so handsome as the pencil has represented 
her ; but she has a figure well suited to the 
account given of her in "The Task," .and 
has a face exceedingly expressive of despair- 
ing melancholy. The Lace-maker is acci- 
dentally a good likeness of a young woman, 
once our neighbor, who was hardly less hand- 
some than the picture twenty years ago ; 
but the loss of one husband, and the acqui- 
sition of another, h.ave, since that time, im- 
paired her much ; yet she might still be sup- 
posed to have sat to the artist.* 

We dined yesterday with your friend and 
mine, the most companionable and domestic 

Jlr. C .f The whole kingdom can hardly 

furnish a spectacle more pleasing to a man 
who has a taste for true happiness, than him- 
self, Mrs. C , and their multitudinous 

family. Seven long miles are interijosed 
between us, or perhaps I should oftener have 
an opportunity of declaiming on this subject. 

I am now in the nineteenth book of the 
Iliad, and on the point of displaying such 
feats of heroism performed by .\chilles as 
make all other .achievements trivial. I may 
well exclaim, '■ O for a Muse of fire !" es- 
pecially leaving not only a great host to cope 
with, but a great river also ; much, however, 
may be done \\'hen Homer leads the way. 
I should not have chosen to have been the 
original author of such a business even 
though all the Nine had stood at my elbow. 
Time has wonderful effects. We admire 
that in an ancient, for which we should send 
a modern bard to Bedlam. 

I saw at Mr. C 's a great curiosity — an 

antique bust of Paris, in Parian marble. 
Yon will conclude that it interested me ex- 
ceedingly. I pleased myself with supposing 
that it onee stood in Helen's chamber. It 
was in fact brought from the Levant, and, 
though not Well mended, (for it had sntfered 
much bv time,) is an admirable performance. 

w. c. 



Jlr. Bull had urged Copper once more to 
employ the powers of his pen, in what hp so 
eminently excelled, the composilion of hymns 
expressive of resignation to the will of God. 
it is much to be lamented that he here de- 
clines what would so essentially have pro- 
moted the interests of true religion. 

TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULLt. 

Weston, May M, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — Ask possibilities and 
they shall be performed ; but ask not hymns 

* Poor Kate atyl the Lace-maker were portraits drawn 
from real life, 
t Mr. Chester, of Chichelcy, near Newport PagoeL 
X Private corrcsjiondcnce. 



310 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



from a man suffering by despair as I do. I 

could not sing the Lord's song were it to 
save my life, banished as I am, not to a 
sirange land, but to a remoteness from his 
j.rest'nee, in comparison with which the dis- 
tance from east to west is no distance, is 
viciuily and cohesion. I dare not, either in 
prose or verse, allow myself to express a 
frame of mind which I am conscious does 
not belong to me; least of all can I venture 
to use the language of absolute resignation, 
lest, only counterfeiting, I should for that 
very reason be taken strictly at my word, 
and lose all my remaining comfort. Can 
tiiere not be found among those translations 
of Madame Guion somewhat that might 
serve the purpose? I should think there 
might. Submission to the will of Christ, 
ray memory tells me, is a theme that pervades 
them all. If so, your request is performed 
already ; and if any alteration in them should 
be necessary, I wiil with all my heart make 
it. I have no objection to giving the graces 
of the foreigner an English dress, but insu- 
perable ones to all false pretences and affected 
exhibitions of what I do not feel. 

Hoping that you will have the grace to be 
resigned most perfectly to this disappoint- 
ment, which you should not have suffered 
had it been in my power to prevent it, I 
remain, with our best remembrances to Mr. 
Thornton, 

Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 27, 1788. 

My dear Coz., — The General, in a letter 
which came yesterday, sent me inclosed a 
copy of my sonnet ; thus introducing it. 

" I send a copy of verses somebody has 
written for the Gentleman's Magazine for 
April last. Independent of my partiality 
towards the subject, I think the lines them- 
selves are good." 

Thus it appears that my poetical adven- 
ture has succeeded to my wish, .and I write 
to him by this post, on purpose to inform 
him that the somebody in question is my- 
self.* 

I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu 
stands at the head of all that is called learned, 
and that every critic vails his bonnet to her 

* Mr. Henry Cowper, who was reading-clerk in the 
House of Lords, was remarlvable for the clearness iind 
melody of his voice. This qualitlcation is happily al- 
luded tu by the poet, in the following lines : — 
" Thou art not voice alone, but hast besides 
Hoth heart and head, and couldst with music sweet 
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
Like thy renown'd forefathers,* far and wide 
Thy fanie diffuse, praised, not for utterance meet 
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own." 



• Lord-Chancellor Cowper, and Spencer Cowper, Chief- 
jQstice of Chester. 



superior judgment ; I am now re.ading, and 
have reached the middle of her Ess.iy on the 
Genius of Shakspeare ; a book of which, 
strange as it may seem, though I must have 
read it formerly, I had absolutely forgot the 
existence.* 

The learning, the good sense, the sound 
judgment, and the w'it displ.iyed in it, fully 
justify not only my compliment, but all com- 
pliments that either have been already paid 
to her talents, or shall be paid hereafter. 
Voltaire, I doubt not, rejoiced that his antag- 
onist wrote in English, and th.at his country- 
men could not possibly be judges of the dis- 
pute. Could they have known how much 
she was in the right, and by how many thou- 
sand miles the bard of Avon is superior to 
all their dramatists, the French critic would 
have lost half his fame among them. 

I saw at Mr. Chester's a head of Paris ; an 
antique of Parian marble. His uncle, who 
left him the estate, brought it, as I under- 
stand, from the Levant : you may suppose 
I viewed it with all the enthusiasm that 
belongs to a tr.inslator of Homer. It is in 
reality a great curiosity, and highly valuable. 

Our friend Sephusf has sent me two 
prints ; the Lace-maker and Crazy Kate. 
These also I have contemplated with pleas- 
ure, having, as you know, a particular inter- 
est in them. The former is not more beau- 
tiful than a lace-maker once our neighbor at 
Olney ; though the artist has assembled as 
many charms in her countenance as I ever 
saw in any countenance, one excepted. Kate 
is both younger and handsomer than the 
original from which I drew, but she is in 
good style, and as mad as need be. 

How does this hot weather suit thee, my 
dear, in London? as for me, with all my 
colonnades and bowers, I am quite oppressed 
by it. W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 3, 1788. 
My dearest Cousin, — The excessive heat 
of these last few days was indeed oppressive ; 
but, excepting the languor that is occasioned 
both in my mind and body, it was far from 
being prejudicial to me. It opened ten thou- 
sand pores, by which as many mischiefs, the 
effects of long obstructions, began to breathe 
themselves forth abundantly. Then came an 
east wind, baneful to me at all times, but fol- 

* This essay contributed ver>' much to establish the 

literary character of Mrs. Montagu, as a woman of taste 
and learning ; and to vindicate Shakspeare from the 
sallies of the w'it of Voltaire, who comprehended his 
genius as little as the immortal poem of the " Paradi.se 
Lost." It is well known how Voung replied to his 
frivolous raillery on the latter work : — 
"Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin. 

At once we think thee Milton's Death and Sin." 
t Mr. Hill. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



311 



lowing so closely such a sultry season, un- 
commonly noxious. To spcaU in the seaman's 
phrase, not entirely strange to you, / was 
taken all aback ; and ihc humors which would 
have escaped, it' old Eurus would have given 
them leave, tinding every door shut, have 
fallen into my eyes. But, in a country like 
this, poor miserable mortals must be content 
to sutler all that sudden and violent changes 
can inllict ; and if they are quit for about half 
the plagues that Caliban calls down on I'ros- 
pero, they may say, " We are well olV," and 
dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will 
let them. 

Did you ever see an advertisement by one 
Fowle, a dancing-master of Newport-Pagnel f 
If not, I will contrive to send it to yon for 
your amusement. It is the most extravagantly 
ludicrous atfair of the kind I ever saw. The 
author of it had the good hap to be crazed, 
or he had never produced anything half so 
clever ; for you will ever observe, that they 
who are said to have lost their wits have more 
than other people. It is therefore only a 
•slander, with which envy prompts the malig- 
nity of persons in their senses to asperse those 
wittier than themselves. But there are coun- 
tries in the world where the mad have justice 
done them, where they are revered as the sub- 
jects of inspiration, and consulted as oracles. 
Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. 

W. C. 



In the ne.\t letter Cowper declines writing 
further on the subject of the slave trade : the 
horrors connected with it are the reasons as- 
signed for this refusal. His past efibrls in 
that cause are the best evidence of his ability 
to write upon it with powerful effect. The 
sensitive mind of Cowper shrunk with terror 
from these appalling atrocities. 

TO THE REV. JOHM NEWTON.* 

WestoD Lodge, .lune 5, ITSS. 
My dear Friend, — It is a comfort to me 
that you are so kind as to make allowance 
for me, in consideration of my being so busy 
a man. The truth is that, could I write with 
both hand^i, and with both at the same time, 
verse with one and prose with the other, I 
should not even so be able to despatch both 
my poetry and my arrears of correspondence 
faster than I have need. The only opportu- 
nitic's tliit I can tiud for conversing with 
distant friends are in the early hour (and that 
.sometimes reduced to half a one) before 
breakfast. Neither am I c.\empt from hind- 
rances, which, while they last, are insurmount- 
able ; especially one, by which I have been 
occasionally a sufferer all my life. I mean 
an inflammation of the eyes; a malady under 
which I have lately labored, and from which 
I am at this moment only in a small degree 
* Private correspondtince. 



relieved. The last sudden change of the 
weather, from heat almost insupportable to a 
cold as severe as is commonly felt in midwin- 
ter, would have disabled me entirely for all 
sorts of .scribbling, had I not favored the weak 
part a little, and given my eyes a respite. 

It is certain that we do not live far from 
OIney, but snudl as the distance is, it has ton 
often the effect of a' separation between the 
Beans and us. He is a man with whom, 
when I can converse at all, I can converse on 
terms perfectly agreeable to myself; who 
does not distress me with forms, nor yet dis- 
gust me by the neglect of them ; whose 
manners are easy and natural, and Ids obser- 
vations always sensible. I often, therefore, 
wish them nearer neighbors. 

We have heard nothing of the Powleys 
since they left us, a fortnight ago, and should 
be uneasy at their silence on such an occasion, 
did we not know that she cannot write, and 
that he, on his first return to his pari.sh after 
a long absence, may possibly lind it dillicull. 
Herwe found much improved in herhealthand 
spirits, and him, as always, affectionate and 
obliging. It was an agreeable visit, and, as 
it was ordered for me, I happened to have 
better spirits than I have enjoyed at any time 
since. 

I sh.all rejoice if your friend Mr. Philips, 
influenced by wh.at you told him of my present 
engagements, shall waive his applicatoin to 
me for a poem on the slave-trade. I account 
myself honored by his intention to solicit me 
on the subject, and it would give me pain to 
refuse him, which inevitably I shall be con- 
strained to do. The more I have considered 
it, the more I have convinced myself that it 
is not a promising theme for verse. General 
censure on the iniquity of the practice will 
avail nothing. The world has been over- 
whelmed with such remarks already, and to 
particularize all the horrors of it were an em- 
ployment for the mind both of the poet and 
Ills readers, of which they would necessarily 
soon grow weary. For my own part, I cannot 
contemplate the subject very nearly, without 
a degree of abhorrence that affects my spirits, 
and sinks thorn below the pitch requisite for 
success in verse. Lady Ilesketli recom- 
mended it to me some months since, and then 
I declined it for these reasons, and for others 
which need not be mentioned here. 

I return you many thanks for all your in- 
telligCEice concerning the success of the gospel 
in far countries, and shall rejoice in a sight 
of .Mr. Van I, ier's letter,* which, being so vo- 
luminous, 1 think you should bring with you, 
when you take your flight to Weston, rather 
than commit to any other conveyance. 

Remember that it is now summer, and that 

* Mr. Vim Lior was a Dutcli miiiisUT, to whom the 
porusii! of .Mr. Ni'Wtt)n*s works had ln-rn made cmiiif ntly 
usi'ful. Wn !<liall liavc occasioD to alJudc lo this subject 
tti ila prupcr plucu. 



312 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the summer ilies fast, and that we shall be 
happy to see you and yours as speedily and 
for as long a time as you can afford. We are 
sorry, truly so, tliat Mrs. Newton is so fre- 
quently and so much indisposed. Accept our 
best love to you both, and believe me, my 
dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

After wliat I have said on the subject of 
my writing engagements, I doubt not but you 
will excuse my transcribing the verses to Mrs. 
Montagu,* especially considering that my 
eyes are weary with what I li.ave written this 
morning already. I feel soraewliat like an 
impropriety in referring you to the next 
"Gentleman's Magazine," but at the present 
juncture I know not how to do better. 



The death of Ashley Cowper, the father of 
Lady Hesketli and of Miss Theodora Cowper, 
the object of tlie poet's fond and early attach- 
ment, occurred at tliis period, and is the sub- 
ject of the following letters. His reflections 
on this occasion are interesting and edifying. 

TO JOSEPH IITLL, ESQ. 

Weston, June 8, 1788. 
My dear Friend, — Your letter brought me 
the very first intelligence of the event it men- 
tions. i\Iy last letter from Lady Hesketh 
gave me reason enough to e.\pect it, but the 
certainty of it was unknown to me till I 
learned it by your information. If gradual 
decline, tlie eonseijuence of great age, be a 
sufficient preparation of tlie mind to encounter 
such a loss, our minds were certainly prepared 
to meet it ; yet to you I need not .say, th.at no 
preparation can supersede the feelings of the 
heart on such occasions. While our friends 
yet live inhabitants of the same world with 

* These verses, " On Mrs. Monta^i's Feather Han£r 
ings," are characterized by elegant taste and a delicate 
turn of compliment. We insert an extract from them, 
as descriptive of her evening parties in Portman-square, 
the resort of cultivated wit and fa.shion, and so frequently 
alluded to in the interesting Memoirs of Mrs. More. 
To the same patroness resort. 
Secure of favor at her court, 
strong genius, from whose forge of thought 
Forms rise, to quick perlV-ctiori wrought, 
Which, though new-born, with vigor move. 
Like Pallas, springing armed Irora Jove — 
Im.aginali(>n, scattering round 
Wild roses over furrow'd ground. 
Which Labor of his frowns beguile. 
And teach Philosophy a smile — 
Wit, tlashing on Religion's side, 
Whoso fires, to sacred Truth applied. 
The gom, thttugh luminous before. 
Obtrude iin human notice more. 
Like sun-beams, on the golden height 
Of some tall temple piajing bright — 
Well-tutored Learning, irnni his books 
Dismiss'd with gravi-, not haughty, looks, 
Their order, on his shelves exact. 
Not more harmonious or compact 
Than that, to which he keeps confined 
The various treasures of his mind — 
All these to Montagu's repair. 
Ambitious of a shelter there. 



ourselves, they seem still to live to vs ; we 
are sure that they sometimes tliink of us ; and, 
however nnprobable it may seem, it is never 
impossible that we may see each other once 
again. But the grave, like a great gulf, swal- 
lows all such e.xpect.ations, and, in the moment 
when a beloved friend sinks into it, a thou- 
sand tender recollections awaken a regret that 
will be felt in spite of all reasonings, and let 
our warnings have been what they may. Thus 
it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley, 
whose heart towards me was ever truly paren- 
tal, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness 
and respect that will never leave me. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 10, 1788. 

My dear Coz., — Your kind letter of pre- 
caution to Mr. Gregson, sent him hither as 
soon as cliape! service was ended in the 
evening. But he found nie already apprized 
ijf the event that occasioned it, by a line from 
'Sephus, received a few hours before. My. 
dear uncle's death awakened in me many re- 
flections, which for a time sunk my spirits. 
A man like him would have been mourned 
had he doubled the age he reached. At any 
age his death would have been felt as a loss, 
that no survivor could repair. And though it 
was not probable that, for my own part, I 
should over see him more, yet the conscious- 
ness that lie still lived was a comfort to me. 
Let it comfort us now, that we have lost him 
only at a time when nature could afford him 
to us no longer; that, as his life was blame- 
less, so was his death without anguish, and 
that he is gone to heaven. I know not that 
human life, in its most prosperous state, can 
present anything to our wishes half so desir- 
able as such a close of it. 

Not to mingle this subject with others that 
would ill suit with it, I will add no more at 
present than a warm hope, that you and your 
sister* will be able effectually to avail your- 
selves of all the consolatory matter with which 
it abounds. You gave yourselves, while he 
lived, to a father, whose life was doubtless 
prolonged by your attentions, and whose ten- 
derness of disposition made him always 
deeply sensible of your kindness in this re- 
spect, as well as in m.tny others. His old age 
was the happiest that 1 have ever known, and 
I give you both joy of having had so fair an 
opportunity, and of having so well used it, to 
approve yourselves equal to the calls of such 
a duty in the sight of God and man. 

^ ° w. c. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 15, 1788. 
Although I know that you must be very 
* Miss Theodora Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



313 



much occupied on the present most affecting 
occasion, yet, not heariiinr from yoUi I bcff.in 
to be vcrv \ineasy on your account, and to I 
tear that your licaUli nii!,'lit have sntlercd by [ 
llie I'atic^uc both of body and spirits tliat you 
must have undergone, till a b'tter that reached 
uie yesterday from tlie General* set my lieart ' 
at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in ' 
question, lie speaks of my uncle in the ten- 
dercst terms, sucli as show how truly sensi- I 
ble he was of tlie amiablencss and excellence 
of his character, and how deeply he regrets 
his loss. \Vf have indeed lost one who has 
not left his like in the present generation of 
our fimily, and whose eiiual, in all respects, 
no future of it will probably pniduec. My 
memory retains so perfect an imjjrcssion of 
him, that, had I been painter instead of poet, 
I could from those faithful traces have per- 
petuated his face and form with the most 
minute exactness: and this I the rather won- 
der at, because some with whom I was equal- 
ly conversant live-and-twenty-years ago have 
almost faded out of all recollection with me. 
But he made impressions not soon to be 
effaced, and was in figure, in temper, in man- I 
ncr, and in numerous other respects, such as 
I shall never behold again. I often think [ 
wliat a joyful interview there has bei'u be- 
tween him and some of his contemporaries 
who went before him. The truth of the j 
matter is, my di'ar, that tliey are the happy 
ones, and that we shall never be s\u-h our- 
selves till we have joined the party. Can 
there be anything so worthy of our warmest 
wishes as to enter on an eternal, unehange- . 
able state, in blessed fellowship and com- i 
municin with those whose society we valued i 
most, and for the best reasons, while they 
continued with us? A few steps more I 
through a vain, foolish world, and this hap- ; 
piness will be yours. But be not hasty, my ' 
dear, to accomplish thy journey ! For of all 
that live thou art one whom I can least spare ; 
for tliou also art one, who shalt not leave thy 
equal behind thee. VV. C. 



The contrast between the awful scenes in 
nature, and those produced by the |)assions of 
men, is finely drawn in the following letter. 

TO THE KEY. WALTER BAGOT. 

Wpston, Juni.' 17, 1788. 

My dear Walter, — You think me, no doubt, 
a tardv corresi)ondent, and such I am, but not 
willingly. Many hindrances mwe intervened, 
and the most ditlieult to surmount have been 
those which the east and north-east winds 
have occasioned, breathing winter np(m the 
roses of June, and indaming my eyes, ten 
times more sensible of the inconvenience 
than they. The vegetables of England seem, 

* Gcncriil Cowper kua Dephow I'l Ashley Cowper. 



like our animals, of a hardier and bolder na- 
ture than those of other countries. In France 
and Italy (lowers blow because it is warm, 
but here in spite of the cold. The season 
however is somewhat mended at present, and 
my eyes with it. Finding myself this morn- 
ing in perfect ease of body, I seize the wel- 
come opportunity to do something at least 
towards the discbarge of my arrears to you. 

I am glad that you liked my song, and, if 
I liked the others myself so well as that I 
sent you, I would transcribe for you them 
also. But I sent tliat, because I accounted 
it the best. Slavery, and especially negro 
slavery, because the cruellest, is an odious 
and disgusting subject. Twice or thrice I 
have been assailed with entreaties to write a 
poem on that theme. But, besides that it 
would be in some sort treason against Homer 
to abandon him for any other matter, I felt 
myself so much hurt in my spirits the mo- 
ment I entered on the contemplation of it, 
that I have at last determined absolutely to 
have nothing more to do with it. There are 
some scenes of horror on which my imagina- 
tion can dwell not without some compla- 
cence. But, then, they are such scenes as 
God, not man, produces. In earthquakes, 
high winds, tempestuous sea.s, there is the 
grand as well as the terrible. But, wlicn 
man is active to disturb, there is such mean- 
ness in the design and such cruelty in the 
execution, that I both hate and despise the 
whole operation, and feel it a degradation of 
Poetry to employ her in the description of 
it. 1 hope also that the generality of my 
countrymen have more generosity in their 
nature than to want the fiddle of verse to go 
before them in the performance of an act to 
which they are invited by the loudest calls 
of liumanity. 

Breakfast calls, and then Homer. 

Ever your.s, W. C. 

Erratum. — Instead of Mr. Wilberforce as 
author of '• .Manners of the Great," read 
Ilainiah More. 

.My pajjcr mourns, and my seal. It is for 
the death of a venerable uncle, Ashley Cow- 
per, at tiie age of eighty-seven. 



Cowper's description of the variations of 
climate, and their intluence on the nerves 
and coi\slitution, is what most of his readers 
probably know from frequent experience of 
their etfects. 

TO MRS. KING.* 

Tlie LodRo, Juno 19, i:s8. 

My dear Madam, — You raiist think me a 
tardy correspondent, unless you have had 
• PriTale correspondence. 



314 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



charity enongli for me to suppose that I have 
met with other hindrances than those of in- 
dolence and inattention. With tliese I can- 
not charge myself, for I am never idle by 
ehoice ; and inattentive to you 1 certainly 
have not been, but, on the contrary, can 
safely atlirm that every day I have thought 
on you. My silence has been occasioned by 
a malady to which 1 liave all my life been 
subject — an inflammation of the eyes. The 
last sudden change of weather from exces- 
sive heat to a wintry degree of cold occa- 
sioned it, and at the same time gave me a 
pinch of the rheumatic kind ; from both which 
disorders I have but just recovered. I do not 
suppose that our climate has been much al- 
tered since the days of our forefathers, the 
Picts;* but certainly the human constitution 
in tills country has been altered much. Inured 
as we are from ouf cradles to every vicissi- 
tude in a climate more various than any 
other, and in possession of all that modern 
refinement has been 'able to contrive for our 
security, we are yet as subject to blights as 
the tenderest blossoms of spring; and are 
so well admonished of every change in the 
atmosphere by our bodily feelings as hardly 
to have any need of a weather-glass to mark 
them. For this we are, no doubt, indebted 
to the multitude of our accommodations ; for 
it was not possible to retain the hardiness 
that originally belonged to our race, under 
the delicate management to which for many 
years we have now been accustomed. I can 
liardly doubt that a bull-dog or a game-cock 
might be made just as susceptible of injuries 
from weather as myself, were he dieted and 
in all respects accommodated as I am. Or, 
if the project did not succeed in the first in- 
stance, (for we ourselves did not become 
what we are at once,) in process of time, 
however, and in a course of many genera- 
tions, it would certainly take efiect. Let 
such a dog be fed in his infancy with pap, 
Naples biscuit, and boiled chicken ; let him 
be wrapt in flannel at night, sleep on a good 
feather-bed, and ride out in a coach for an 
airing; and if his posterity do not become 
slight-limbed, puny, and valetudinarian, it 
will be a wonder. Thus our parents, and 
their parents, and the p.irents of both were 
managed ; and thus ourselves ; and the con- 
sequence is, that instead of being weather- 
proof, even without clothing, furs and flan- 
nels are not warm enough to defend us. It 
is observable, however, that though we have 
by these means lost much of our pristine 
vigor, our days are not fewer. We live as 
long as those whom, on account of the sturdi- 
iiess of their frame, the poets supposed to 
have been the progeny of oaks. Perhaps 
too they had little feeling, and for that rea- 
son also might be imagined to be so de- 
* The Picts were not our ancestors. 



scended. For a very robust athletic habit 
seems inconsistent with much sensibility. 
But sensibility is the sine qua non of real 
happiness. If, therefore, our lives have not 
been shortened, and if our feelings have been 
rendered more exquisite as our habit of body 
has become more delicate, on tlie whole per- 
haps we have no cause to complain, but are 
rather gainers by our degeneracy. 

Do you consider what you do when you 
ask one poet his opinion of another? Yet I 
think I can give you an honest answer to 
your question, and withont the least wish to 
nibble. Thomson was admirable in descrip- 
tion : but it always seemed to me that there 
was somewhat of affectation in his style, and 
that his numbers are sometimes not well har- 
monized. I could wish too, with Dr. John- 
son, that he had confined himself to this 
country; for, when he describes what he 
never saw, one is forced to read him with 
some .allowance for possible misrepresenta- 
tion. He was, however, a true poet, and his 
lasting fame has proved it. Believe me, my 
dear madam, witli my best respects to Mr. 
King, most truly yours, W. C. 

P. S. — I am extremely sorry that you have 
been so much indisposed, and hope that your 
next will bring me a more favorable account 
of your health. I know not why, but I rath- 
er suspect that you do ijot allow yourself 
sufHcient air and exercise. The physicians 
call them non-naturals, I suppose to deter 
their patients from the use of them. 



The providence of God and the brevity of 
human life are subjects of profitable remark 
in the following letter. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weslon, June 23, 1788. 

When I tell yon that an unanswered letter 
troubles my conscience in some degree like 
a crime, you will think me endued with a 
most heroic patience, who have so long sub- 
mitted to that trouble on account of yours 
not answered yet. But tlie truth is, "that I 
have been nmch engaged. Homer (j'on 
know) atlbrds me constant employment : 
besides which, I have rather what may be 
called, considering the privacy with which 1 
have long lived, a numerous correspondence: 
to one of my friends, in particular, a near and 
much loved relation, 1 write weekly, and 
sometimes tw^fe in a week ; nor are these my 
only excuses: ,the sudden changes of tlie 
weather have much affected me, and especial- 
ly with a disorder most unfavoriible to let- 
ter-writing, an inflammation in my eyes. 
With all these apologies, I approach yon 
once more, not altogether despairing of for- 
giveness. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



3ie 



It has pli-ased God to give ua rain, witli- 
out wliii'li tills part of tlie country at least 
must soon have heeomc a desert. The mea- 
dows have been parelied to u January brown, 
and we have foddered our cattle for some 
time, as in the winter. The ijoodness and 
power of (Jod are never (I believe) so uni- 
versally acknowledged as at the end of a loni^ 
droun^ht. Man is naturally a self-sufficient 
animal, and, in all concerns that seem to lie 
within the sphere of his own ability, thinks 
little or not at all of the need he always has 
of i)rotcction and furtherance from above. 
liut he is sensible that the clouds will not 
assemble at his bidding-, and that, though the 
clouds assemble, they will not fall down in 
showers, because he commands them. When 
therefore at last the blessing descends, you 
shall hear even in the streets the most irre- 
ligious and tlioughtlcss with one voice ex- 
claim, •• Thank God!" — confessing themselv(!s 
indebted to his favor, and willing, at least so 
far as words go, to give him the glory. I 
can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is 
sometimes parched, ami the crops endangered 
in order that the multitude may not want a 
memento to whom they owe them, nor abso- 
lutely forget the power on which all depend 
for all thing.s. 

Our solitary part of the year is over. Mrs. 
Unwin's daughter and son-in-law have lately 
spent some time with us. We shall shortly 
receive from London our old friends the New- 
tons (he was once minister of OIncy), and 
when tliey leave us, we e.\pect that Lady 
Hesketh will succeed them, perhaps to spend 
the summer here, and possibly the winter 
also. The summer indeed is leaving us at 
a rapid rate, as do all the seasons ; and though 
I have marked their flight so often, I know 
not which is the swiftest. Man is never so 
deluded as when he dreams of his own du- 
ration. The answer of the old patriarch to 
Pharaoh may be adopted by every man at 
the close of the longest life : " Few and evil 
have been the days of the years of my pil- 
grimage." Whether we look back from'fifly, 
or from twice fifty, the past ap|)ears equally 
a dream : and we can only be said truly to 
have lived, while we have been prolitably 
emiiloved. Alasl then, making the neces- 
s.-iry deductions, how short is life ! Were 
men in general to save themselves all the 
steps they take to no purpose, or to a bad 
one, what numbers, who arc now active, 
would become sedentary ! 

Thus I have sermonized through my pa- 
per. Living where you live, you can bear 
with me tbe better. I always follow the 
lea<ling of my unconstrained thoughts, when 
I write to a friend, be they grave or other- 
wise. Homer reminds me of you everyday. 
I am now in the twenty-fir.st Iliad. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

June 24, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that my letter 
found you at all points so well prepared to 
answer it according to our wishes. I have 
written to Lady Hcskelh to apprise her of 
your intended journey hither, and she, hav- 
ing as yet made no .assignation with us lier- 
self, will easily adjust her measures to tlie 
occasion. 

I have not lately had an opportunity of 
seeing Mr. Bean. The late rains, which have 
revived the hopes of the farmers, have inter- 
cepted our communication. I hear, how- 
ever, that he meets with not a little trouble 
in his progress towards a reformation of Ol- 
ney manners ; and that the S:ibbath, whiidi 
he wishes to have hallowed by a stricter and 
more general ob.servation of it, is, through 
the brutality of the lowest order, a day of 
more turbulence and riot than any other. 
At the latter end of last week he found him- 
self obliged to make another trip to the jus- 
tice, in company with two or three of the 
principal inhabitants. What passed I have 
mil learned ; but I understand their errand 
to have been, partly at least, to efface the 
evil impressions made on his worship's mind, 
by a man who had applied a day or two be- 
fore for a warrant against the constable ; 
whicli, however, he did not obtain. I rather 
fear that the constables are not altogether 
judicious in the exerci.se either of their jus- 
tice or their mercy. Some, who may have 
seemed proper objects of punishment, they 
have released, on a promise of better belui- 
vior ; and others, whose offence has been 
personal against themselves, though in other 
respects less guilty, they have set in the 
stocks. The ladies, however, and of course 
the ladies of Silver-End in particular, give 
them most trouble, being always active on 
these occasions, as well as clamorous, and 
both with impunity. For the sex are priv- 
ileged in the free use of their tongues and 
of their nails, the parliament having never 
yet laid them under any penal restrictions; 
and they employ them accordingly. Johnson, 
the con.stable, lost much of his skin, and 
still more of his coat, in one of those Sun- 
day battles; and had not Ashburner hast- 
ened to his aid, had jirobably been complete- 
ly stripped of both. With' such a zeal are 
these fair ones animated, though, unfortu- 
nately for all i)arties, rather erroneously. 

What you tell me of the efti?ct that the 
limitation of inimbers to tonnage is likely to 
have on the slave trade, gives me the great- 
est pleasure.! Should it amount, in the 
issue, to an abolition of the traffic, I shall 

• Private correspondence. 

t The credit of huvins? introduced this ret^ulntion is 
due to tho late much ix^spccted Sir WilUnm DulUcn, 
Bort. 



316 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



account it indeed an argument of great wis- 
dom in our youthful minister. A silent and 
indirect way of doing it, is, I suppose the 
only s:ife one. At the same time, in how 
horrid a light does it place the trade itself, 
when it comes to be proved by consequences 
that the mere article of a little elbow-room 
fui' the poor creatures in their passage to the 
islands could not be .secured by an order of 
parliament, without the utter annihilation of 
it 1 If so it prove, no man deserving to be 
called a man, can say that it ought to subsist 
a moment longer. My writing time is ex- 
pended, and breakfiist is at hand. With our 
joint love to the trio, and our best wishes for 
your good journey to Weston, I remain, my 
dear friend, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



The next letter contains an interesting in- 
cident, recorded of his dog Beau, and the 
verses composed on the occasion. 

TO LADY IIESKETH. 

The Lodge, June 27, 1788. 

For the sake of a longer visit, my dearest 
Coz, I can be well content to wait. The 
country, this country at least, is pleasant at 
all times, and when winter is come, or near 
at hand, we shall have the better chance for 
being snug. I know your passion for retire- 
ment indeed, or for what we call drvdy re- 
tirement, and, the F s intending to return 

to Bath witli their mother, when her visit 
at the Hall is over, you will then find here 
exactly the retirement in question. I have 
made in the orchard the best winter-walk in 
all the parish, sheltered from the east and 
from the north-east, and open to the sun, ex- 
cept at his rising, all the day. Then we will 
have Homer and Don Quixote ; and then we 
will have saunter and chat and one laugh 
more before we die. Our orchard is alive 
with creatures of all kinds; poultry of every 
denomination swarms in it, and pigs, the 
drollest in the world ! 

I rejoice that we have a cousin Charles 
also, as well as a cousin Henry, who has had 
the address to win the good likings of the 
Chancellor. May he fare the better for it. 
As to myself, I have long since ceased to 
have any expectations from that quarter. 
Yet, if lie were indeed mortified as you say 
(and no doubt you have particular reasons 
for thinking so), and repented to that degree 
of his hasty exertions in favor of the present 
occupant, who can tell ? He wants neither 
means nor management, but can easily at 
some future period redress the evil, if he 
chooses to do it. But in the meantime life 
steals away, and shortly neither he will be 
in circumstances to do me a kindness, nor I 



to receive one at his hands. Let him make 
haste, therefore, or he will die a promise in 
my debt, which he will never be able to per- 
form.* Your communications on this sub- 
ject are as safe as you can wish them. We 
divulge nothing but what might appear in 
the magazine, nor that without great consid- 
eration. 

I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. 
Walking by the river-side, I observed some 
water-hlies lloating at a little distance from 
the bank. They are a large white flower, 
with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. 
I had a desire to gather one, and, having 
your long cane in my hand, by the lielp of it 
endeavored to bring one of them within my 
reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I 
walked forward. Beau had all the while ob- 
served me very attentively. Returning soon 
after toward the same place, I observed him 
plunge into the river, while I was about forty 
yards distant from him ; and, when I had 
nearly reached the spot, he swam to land 
with a lily in his mouth, which he came and 
laid at my foot. 

Mr. Rose, whom I have mentioned to you 
as a visitor of mine for the first time soon 
after you left us, writes me word that he has 
seen my ballads against the slave-mongers, 
but not in print.f Where he met with them 
I know not. Mr. Bull begged hard for leave 
to print them at Newport-Pagnel, and I re- 
fu.sed, thinking th.at it would be wrong to 
anticipate the nobility, gentry, and others, at 
whose pressing instance I composed them, 
in their designs to print them. But perhaps 
I need not have been so squeamisli : for the 
opportunity to publish them in London 
seems now not only ripe, but rotten. I am 
well content. There is but one of them 
with whicli I am myself satisfied, though I 
have heard them all well spoken of. But 
there are very few things of my own com- 
position that I can endure to read, when they 
have been written a month, though at first 
they seem to me to be all perfection. 

Mrs. Unwin, who has been much the hap- 
pier since the time of your return hither has 
been in some sort settled, begs me to make 
her kindest remembrance. 

Yours, my dear, most truly, W. C. 

The following verses are so singularly 
beautiful, and interesting from the incident 
which gave rise to them, that, though they 
are inserted in the Poems, we cannot refrain 
from introducing them, in connexion with 
the letter which records the occasion of their 
being written. 



* Lord Thurlow, it will be rememhered, jik-dijed bim- 
self to make some provision for Cowper, if he became 
Lord Chancellor. 

t We have elsewhere observed that they never were 
printed as ballads, but were inserted in his worlds. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



3n 



THE DOO AND TIIK WATF.R-I.II.Y. 

No Fable. 

The noon was shmly. and soft airs 

Swept Oust)"s silent tide. 
When, 'scaped from literary cares, 

I wandered on liis side. 

My spaniel prettiest of his race, 

And hi<;h in i)i'di^ri'c% — 
Two nymphs* adorned with every grace 

That spaniel Ibund for me, — 

Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight. 
Pursued the swallow o^er the meads 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse displayed 

His hiies newly lilown; 
Their beauties I intent surveyed, 

And one 1 wished my own. 

With cane extended far I sought 

To steer it close to land ; 
But still the prize, though nearly caught 

Escaped my eager hand. 

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains 

With fixed considerate face. 
And, puzzling, set his puppy brains 

To comprehend the case. 

But, with a chirrup clear and strong. 

Dispersing all his dream. 
I thence withdrew, and followed long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I returned, 

Beau, trotting far before, 
The floating wreath again discerned, 

And plunging left the shore. 

I saw him, with that lily cropped. 

Impatient swim, to meet 
My quick ap|)roach. and soon he dropped 

The treasure at my feet. 

Charmed with the sight, " The world," I cried, 

'• Shall hear of this thy deed; 
yi\ dog shall mortily the pride 

Of man's superior breed. 

' But chief myself I will enjoin — 

Awake at duty's call. 
To show a love as prompt as thine 

To Him who gives me all." 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

July n, 178*. 

My dfar Friend, — " Bitter con.straint and 
sad occasion dear" have compelled ine to 
draw on you for the sum of twenty pounds, 
(layable to John Iliggins, Es(|., or order. 
The draft hears date Jiily 5th. You will 
excuse my giving; you this trouble, in con- 
sideration that I am a poet, and can conse- 
quently draw for money much easier than 
I can earn it. 

I heard of you a few days since, from 

* TliR Miss Uiiniiin^, the daughters of Sir Robert Gun- 
ning. H:irt. 
t Privule corre-ijioudcnco. 



Walter Bagot, who called here and told me 
that you were gone, I think, into Rutland- 
shire, to settle the accounts of a large estate 
unliquidated many years. Intricacies that 
would turn my brains are play to you. But 1 
give you joy of a long vacation at hand, vvlicii 
I suppose that even you will find it pleasant, 
if not to be idle, at least not to be hemmed 
around by business. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, July 28, 1784 

It is in vain that you tell me that you 
have no talent at description, while in fact 
you describe better than anybody. You 
have given me a most complete idea of your 
mansion and its situation; and I doubt not 
that, with your letter in my hand by way of 
map, could I be set down on the spot in :i 
moment, I should find myself qualified to 
take my walks and my pastime in whatever 
quarter of your paradise it should please me 
the most to visit. We also, as you know, 
have scenes at Weston worthy of descrip- 
tion ; but, bec.iuse you know them well, I 
will only say, that one of them has, within 
these few days been much improved; I mean 
the lime-walk. By the help of the a.\e and 
the wood-bill, which have of late been con- 
stantly em[)loyed in cutting out all strag- 
gling branches that intercepted the arch, J[r. 
Throckmorton has now defined it with such 
exactness that no cathedral in the world can 
show one of more magnificence or beauty. 
I bless myself that I live so near it : for, 
were it distant several miles, it would be 
well worth while to visit it, merely as an ob- 
ject of taste ; not to mention the refresh- 
ment of such a gloom both to the eyes and 
spirits. And these are the things which our 
modern improvers of parks and pleasure- 
grounds have displaced without mercy : be- 
cause, forsooth, they are rectilinear. It is a 
wonder that they do not quarrel with the 
sunbeams for the same reason. 

Have you seen the account of five hundred 
celebrated authors now living?* I am one 
of them : but stand charged with the high 
crime and misdemeanor of tot.ally neglecting 
method ; an accusation, which, if the gentle- 
man would take the pains to read me, he 
would find sufiiciently refuted. I am con- 
scious at least myself of having labored 
much ill the arrangement of my matter, and 
of having given to the several parts of every 
book of " The Task," as well as to each 
poem in the first volume, that sort of slight 
connexion which poetry demands; for in 
poetry (except professedly of the didactic 
kind) a logical precision would be stiff, pe- 

* A book full of Idimders and 8^'.:i.!al, arid de-Ututo 
both of itiforini.tt(m luid inlervsl. 



318 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



dantic, and ridiculous. But there is no pleas- 
ing some critics ; the comfort is, that I am 
contented whether they be pleased or not. 
At the same time, to my honor be it spol<en, 
the chronicler of us tive luindred prodigies 
bestows on me, for aught I know, nTore 
commendations than on any other of my 
confraternity. May he live to write the his- 
tories of as many thousand poets, and find 
me the very best among tliem ! Amen ! 

I join with you, my dearest coz, in wish- 
ing that I owned the fee simple of all the 
beautiful scenes around you, but such emol- 
uments were never designed for poets. Am 
I not happier tlian ever poet was in having 
thee for my cousin, and in the expectation 
of thy arrival liere whenever Strawberry-hill* 
shall lose thee. 

Ever thine, VV C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Aug. 9, 1788. 
The Newtons are still here, and continue 
with us, I believe, until the 15th of the month. 
Here is also my friend, Mr. Rose, a valuable 
young man, who, attracted by the effluvia of 
my genius, found me out in my retirement last 
January twelvemonth. I have not permitted 
him to be idle, but have made him Iranscribe 
for me the twelfth book of the Iliad. He 
brings me the compliments of several of the 
literati, with whom he is acquainted in town, 
and tells me, that from Dr. AIaclaiii,t whom 
he saw lately, he learns that my book is in tlie 
hands of sixty diflerent persons at the Hague, 
who are all enchanted with it; not foi^et- 
ting the said Dr. Machiin liimself, who tells 
him that he reads it every day, and is always 
the better for it. O rare we'! 

I have been employed this morning in 
composing a Latin motto for the king's 
clock, the embellishments of which are by 
Mr. Bacon. That gentleman breakfasted 
with us on Wednesday, having come tliirty- 
seven miles out of his way on purpose to 
see your cousin. At his request 1 have done 
it, and have made two, he will choose tliat 
which liketh him best. Mr. Bacon is a most 
e.vcellent nuui, .and a most agreeable com- 
panion ; I would that he lived not so remote, 
or thatheluid more opportunity of travelling. 
Tliere is not, so far as I know, a syllabfe 
of the rhyming correspondence between me 
and my poor brother left, save and except 
the six lines of it quoted in yours. I had 
the whole of it, but it perished in the wreck 
of a thousand other things when I left the 
Temple. 

Breakftist calls. Adieu ! VV. C. 

• The celebrated seat of Lord Orforcl, near Richmond 
where Lady Hesliclh was then visiting. 

t The well-ltnuwn translator of Mosheim's Ecclesias- 
tical History. 



TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ. 

Weston, .\ug. 18, 1788. 

My dear Friend,— I left you with a sensi- 
ble regret, alleviated only "by the consider- 
ation, that I shall see you again in October. 
I was under some concern also, lest, not 
being able to give you any certain direc- 
tions myself, nor knowing where you might 
find a guide, should you vvander and fatigue 
yourself, good walker as you are, before you 
could reach Nortliampton. Perhaps you 
heard me whistle just after our separation ; 
it was to call back Beau, who was running 
after you with all speed to entreat you to 
return with me. For my part, I took ray 
own time to return, and did not reach home 
till after one, and then so weary that I was 
glad of my great chair ; to the comforts of 
which I added a crust, and a glass of rum 
and w.ater, not without great occasion. Such 
a foot-traveller am I. 

I am writing on Monday, but whether I 
shall finish my letter tiiis inorning depends 
on Mrs. Unwin's coming sooner or later 
down to breakfast. Something tells me that 
you set off to-day for Birniingham; and 
though it be a sort of Irishism to say here, I 
beseech yon take care of your.self, for the 
day threatens great heat, 1 cannot help it ; 
the weather may be cold enough at the time 
when that good advice shall reach you, but, 
be it hot or be it cold, to a man who travels 
as you travel, take care of yourself can never 
be an unseasonable caution. I am some- 
times distressed on this account, for though 
you are young, and well made for such el;- 
ploit.s, those very circumstances are more 
likely than anvthing to betray you into dan- 
ger. 

Consule quid valeant plants, quid ferre re- 
cusent. 

The Newtons left us on Friday. We fre- 
quently talked about you after your depart- 
ure, and everything that was spoken was to 
your advantage. I know they will be glad to 
see you in London, and perhaps, when your 
summer and autunm rambles are over, you 
will artbrd them that pleasure. The Throck- 
morfons are e(|ually well disposed to you, 
and them also I recommend to you as a valu- 
able connexion, the rather because you can 
only cultivate it at Weston. 

I have not been idle since you went, having 
not only Labored .as usual "at the Iliad, bii't 
composed a spick and span new piece, called 
"The Dog, and the Water-Lily," which you 
shall see when we meet again. I believe I 
rebated to you the incident which is the sub- 
ject of it, I h.ave also read most of Lavater's 
Aphorisms : they appear to me some of them 
wise, in.any of them whimsical, a i'vw of them 
fal.se,' and not a few of them extravagant. 
i\'il ilii medium. If he finds iji a man the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



319 



feature or quality thiit ho approves, he deifies 
him ; if the eontrary, he is a devil. His ver- 
dict is in neither case, I suppose, a just one.* 

\V. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

August 28, ]"8S. 

My dear Afadani, — Should you discard me 
from the numlicr of your correspondents, you 
would treat me as I seem to deserve, though 
I do not actually deserve it. I have lately 
been engaged wilh company at our house, 
who resided uilh us live weeks, and have had 
much of tlie rlieumalisni into the bargain. 
Not in my lingers, you will say — True. But 
you know as well as I, that pain, be it where 
it may, indisgjfses us to writing. 

You express some degree of wonder that 
I found you out to be sedentary, at least 
much a stayer within doors, without any suf- 
ficient data for my direction. Now, if I 
should gness your figure and stature with 
equal success, you will deem me not only a 
poet but a conjurer. Yet in fact I have no 
pretensions of that sort. I have only formed 
a picture of yo\i in my own imagination, as 
we over do of a person of whom we think 
much.lhough we have never seen that person. 
Vour heiglit I conceive to be about five feet 
five inches, which, though it would make a 
short man, is yet height enough for a woman. 
If you insist on an inch or two more, I have 
no objection. You are not very fat, but 

* Cowpcr's strictures on f.avatcr are rattier severe; in 
a subsequent letter we sliall And tiiat lie expresses him- 
self almost ill liie lunizua^e of a disciple. We believe 
all men lo be physiognomists, that is, they are guided in 
their estimate of one another by external impressions, 
until tln^y ure fnrnisheil wilh better data to determine 
their judt<ment. The euunlenanee Is ollea the faithful 
mirror of the inward emotions of the soul, in the same 
manner a* the lii^ht and shade on the mountain's side 
exhibit the variations of the atmosphere. In the curious 
and valuable cabinet of Denon. in Paris, which was sold 
in 18-.!7, two casts talten from Robespierre and Marat 
were sln^uliu-ly expressive of the atrocity of their charac- 
ter. The caat of an id iot, in the same collection, denoted 
the total absence of intellect. But, whatever may be our 
sentiments on this subject, there is one noble act of bene- 
volence which has jiisl'y endeared the name of Lavater 
to his country. We allude to the celebrated Orphan In- 
stitution at Zurich, of which he v;as the founder. It is 
a handsiune and commo<lious esUiblishment, where these 
interestin'^ objects of hutuanity receive a miitable educa- 
tion, and are fitted for future usefulness. The church is 
sliown where .tolin (Jaspar Lavater officiated, surrounded 
tty his youthful auditory ; and an humble stone in the 
ciiurchyard hrielly records his name and virtues. His 
own Orphan-house is the most honorable monument of 
his fame. It is in visitint; scenes like these that we feel 
the mond dii,'nity of our nature, that the heart becomes 
expanded with i^eneroua emotions, and thsit we learn to 
imitate that Divine Master, who went about doing (rood. 
The IMilitr could not avoid re«retlini; thiit, in his own 
omntry, where charily assumes almost every pos.sible 
form, the. f irphan-houVe is of rare occurrence, lhou(;h 
aboundint; in most t,f the citie.s of Switzerland. Where 
are the philanthropists of Ilristol, Hirmin^hara, Liver- 
pool, Manchester, Norwich, and of our other i^eat 
towns? Surely, to wipe away the tear from the cheek 
of the orphan, t^i rescue want from destitution and un- 
protecteii innoctnice from exposure lo vice and min, 
must ever be cunsidered io be one of tbo noblest eflurts 
of Christian bcnevolenc«. 

t Private correspondence. 



somewhat inclined to be fat, and unless you 
allow yourself a little more air and e.\ercise, 
will incur some danger of exceeding in your 
dimensions before you die. Let me, there- 
fore, once more recommend to you to walk a 
little more, at least in your garden, and to 
amuse yourself occasionally with pulling up 
hero and there a weed, for it will be an incon- 
venience to you to be much fatter than you 
are, at a time of life when your strength will 
be naturally on the decline. I have given 
you a fair complexion, a slight tinge of the 
ro.se in your cheeks, dark brown hair, and, if 
the fashion would give you leave to show it, 
;in open and well-formed forehead. To all 
this 1 add a pair of eyes not quite black, but 
nearly approaching to that hue, and very an- 
imated. I have not absolutely determined 
on the shape of your no.se, or the form of 
your mouth ; but should you tell me that I 
have in other respects drawn a tolerable like- 
ness, have no doubt but I can describe them 
too. I assure you that though I have a great 
desire to read him, I have never seen Lava- 
ter, nor have availed myself in the least of 
any of his rules on this occasion. Ah, 
m.-idam ! if with all that sensibility of your.s, 
which exposes you to so much sorrow, and 
necessarily must expose you to it, in a world 
! like this, 1 have h.ad the good fortune to make 
j you smile, I h.ave then painted you, whether 
with a strong resemblance, or with none at 
all, to very good purpose.* 

I had intended to have sent you a little 
poem, which I have lately finished, but have 
no room to transcribe iff You shall h.ave it 
by another opportunity. Breakfast is on the 
table, and my time also fails, as well as my 
p.iper. I rejoice that a cousin of yours found 
my volumes .agreeable to him, for, being your 
cousin, I will be answerable for his good 
taste and judgment. 

When I wrote last, I was in mourning for 
a dt^ar tiiid much-valued uncle, Ashley Cow- 
per. He died at the age of eighty-six. My 
best respects attend Mr. King: and I am, 
dear madam. 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE EEV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston Lodge, Sept. 2, 1781. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and 
yours reached London safe, especially when 
I reflect that you performed the journey on a 
day so fatal, as I understand, to others trav- 
elling the same road. I found those com- 
forts in your visit which have formerly sweet- 
ened all our interviews, in part restorini. I 
knew you ; knew you for the same she])herd 

* Cowjter's fancy was never more erroneously em- 
ployed. The portrait he hero draws of .Mrs. King pos- 
sessed no resemblance to the original. 

t The Dot; and the Watcl^LUy. 

i Private correspondence. 



320 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



who was sent to lead me out of the wilder- 
ness into the pasture where the chief Shep- 
herd feeds his flock, and felt my sentiments 
of affectionate friendship for you the same as 
ever.* But one thing was still wanting, and 
that thing the crown of all. I shall find it 
in God's time, if it be not lost forever. 
When I say this, I say it trembling; for at 
what time soever comfort shall come, it will 
not come without its attendant evil; 'and, 
whatever good thing may occur in the inter- 
val, I have sad forebodings of the event, 
having learned by experience that I was born 
to be persecuted with peculiar fury, and as- 
suredly believing, that, such as my lot has 
been, it will be so to the end. This belief is 
connected in my mind with an observation I 
have often made, and is perhaps founded in 
great part upon it : that there is a certain 
style of dispensations maintained by Provi- 
dence in the dealings of God with every man, 
which, however the incidents of his life may 
vary, and though he may be thrown into many 
different situations, is never exchanged for 
another. The style of dispensation peculiar 
to myself has hitherto been that of sudden, 
violent, unlooked-for change. When I have 
thought myself falling into the abyss, I have 
been caught up again ; when I have thought 
myself on the threshold of a happy eternity, 
I have been thrust down to hell. The rough 
and the smooth of such a lot, taken together, 
should perhaps have taught me never to de- 
spair ; but, tln-ongh an unhappy propensity in 
my nature to forebode the worst, they have 
on the contrary operated as an admonition to 
me never to hope. A firm persuasion that I 
can never durably enjoy a comfortable state 
of mind, but must be depressed in proportion 
as I have been elevated, withers my joys in 
the bud, and, in a manner, entombs them be- 
fore they are born ; for I have no expectation 
but of sad vicissitude, and ever believe that 
the last shock of all will be fatal. 

Mr. Bean has still some trouble with his 
parishioners. The suppression of five public- 
houses is the occasion.! He called on me 
yesterday morning for advice ; though, dis- 
creet as he is himself, he has little need of 

such council as I can give him. , who 

is subtle as a dozen foxes, met him on Sun- 
day, exiictly at his descent from the pulpit, 
and proposed to him a general meeting of the 

* It was a singular delusion under which Cowper 
labored, and seems to be inexplicable ; but it is not less 
true that, for many years, he doubted the identity of Mr. 
Newton. When we'see the i>owers of a sreat mind liable 
to such instances of delusion, and occasionally suffering 
an entire eclipse, how irresistibly are we led to ex- 
claim, '• Lord, what is man !" 

t The late Rev. H. Colboume Ridley, the excellent 
vicar of llanibleden. near Henley-on-Thames, distin- 
guished tor his parncliial plans and f^eneral devotedness 
to his professional duties, once observed that the fruit of 
all his labors, durina: a residence of flv(^and-twenty years, 
was destroyed in tute sinde year by the introduction of 
beer-house's, and their demoralizing,' effects. 



parish in vestry on the subject. Mr. Bean, 
attacked so suddenly, consented, but .after- 
wards repented that he h.ad done so, assured 
as lie was that he should be out-voted. 
There seemed no remedy but to apprise them 
beforehand that he would meet them indeed, 
but not with a view to have the question de- 
cided by a majority : th.at he would lake tliat 
opportunity to make his allegations against 
each of the houses in question, which if they 
could refute, well : if not, they could no 
longer reasonably oppose his measures. — 
This was what he came to submit to my 
opinion. I could do no less than approve it; 
and he left me with a purpose to declare his 
mind to them immediately. 

I beg that you will give my affectionate 
respects to Mr. Bacon, and asuyre him of my 
sincere desire that he should think himself 
perfectly at liberty respecting the mottoes, to 
choose one or to reject both, as likes him 
best. I wish also to be remembered with 
much affection to Mrs. Cowper, and always 
rejoice to hear of her well-being. 

Believe me, as I truly am, my dear friend, 
most affectionately yours, 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, .Sept. 11, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — Since your dep.arture I 
have twice visited the oak, and with an inten- 
tion to push my inquiries a mile beyond it, 
where it seems I should have found another 
oak, much larger and much more respectable 
than the former ; but once I was hindered by 
the rain, and once by the sultriness of the 
day. This latter oak has been known by the 
name of Judith many ages, and is said to 
have been an oak at the time of the Con- 
quest.* If I have not an opportunity to 
reach it before your arrival here, we will at- 
tempt that exploit together, and even if I 
should have been able to visit it ere you come, 
I shall yet be glad to do so, for the pleasure 
of extraordinary sights, like all other pleas- 
ures, is doubled by the participation of a 
friend. 

You wish for a copy of my little dog's culo- 

* This celebrated oak, which is situated in Yardley 
Chase, near l^ord Northampton's residence at Castle 
Ashby, has funiished the muse of Cowper with an occa- 
sion for displaying all the graces of his rich poetical 
fancy. The poem will be inserted in a subsequent .part 
of tiie work. In the meaiUime wo e.xtract the following 
lines from "The Task," to show how the descriptive 
powers of Cowper were awakened by this favorite and 
inspiring subject. 

"Tlieoak 

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm '. 

He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 

The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 

Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 

He held the thunder ; but the monarch owes 

His firm stability to what he scorns. 

More fbced below, the more disturb'd above." 

The Sofa. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



321 



gium, which I will therefore transcribe, but 
by so doincT I shall loiive myself but scanty 
room for prose. 

I sh:ill be sorry if our neighbors at the Hall 
should have left it, when we have the pleasure 
of seeing you. 1 want you to see them soon 
again, thai a little ciinxurtudu may wear off 
restraint : and you may be able to improve 
the advantage yon have already gained in that 
quarter. I pitied you for tlie fears which de- 
prived you of your uncle's company, and the 
more having suffered so much by those fears 
myself Fight against that vicious fear, for 
snch it is, as strenuously as you can. It is 
the worst enemy that can attack a man de- 
stined to the forum — it ruined me. To asso- 
ciate as nuu-li as possible with the most re- 
spectable company, for good sense and good 
breeding is, I believe the only, at least I am 
sure it is the best remedy. The society of 
men of pleasure will not cure it, but rather 
leaves us more e,\posed to its influence in 
company of better persons. 

Now for the " Dog and the Watcr-Lily."* 

W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

We3lon Lodge, Sept. ->, 1788. 
Jly dearest Madam, — How surprised was I 
this moment to meet a servant at the gate, 
who told me that he came from you. He 
could not have been more welcome unless 
he had announced yourself. I am charmed 
with your kindness, and with all your elegant 
presents ; so is Mrs. Unwin, who begs me in 
particular to thank you warmly for the house- 
wife, the very thing she had just begun to 
want. In the firescreen you have sent me an 
enigma which at present I have not the inge- 
nuity to e.vpound ; but some muse will help 
me, or I shall meet with somebody able to 
instruct me. In all that I have seen besides, 
for that I have not yet seen, I admire both 
the taste and the execution. A toothpick 
case I had ; but one so large, that no modern 
waistcoat pocket could possibly contain it. 
It was some years since the Dean of Dur- 
ham's, for whose sake I valued it, though to 
me useless. Yours is come opportunely to 
supply the dehciency, and shall be my con- 
stant coin|)anion to its last thread. The 
cakes and apples we will eat, remembering 
wlio sent them, and when I s.ay this, I will 
add also, that when we have neither apples 
nor cakes to eat, we will still remember yon. 
What the MS. poem can be, that you sup- 
pose to have been written by me, I am not 
able to guess; and since you will not allow 
that I have gues.sed your person well, am be- 
come shy of exercising conjecture on any 
meaner subject. Perhaps they may be some 

* TlHS has alri'-'Kly been inserted, 
t Private correspundence. 



mortuary verses, which I wrote last year, at 
the request of a certain parish-clerk. If not, 
and you have never seen them, I will send 
you them hereafter. 

You have been at Bedford. Bedford is but 
twelve miles from Weston. When you are 
at home, we ari' but eighteen miles asunder. 
Is it possible that such a paltry interval can 
separate us always .' I will never believe it. 
Our house is going to be filled by a cousin 
of mine and her train, who will, I hope, spend 
the winter with us. I cannot, therefore, re- 
peat my inviUttion at present, but expect mb 
to be very troublesome on that theme next 
summer. I could almost scold you for not 
making Weston in your way home from Bed- 
ford. Though I am neither a relation, nor 
quite eighty-six years of age,* believe me, I 
should as much rejoice to see you and Mr. 
King, as if I were both. 

I send you, my dear madam, the poem I 
promised you, and sliall be glad to send you 
anything and everything I write, as fast as 
it flows. Behold my two volumes ! which, 
though your old acquaintance, I thought 
might receive an additional recommendation 
in the shape of a present from myself. 

What I have written I know not, for all 
has been scribbled in haste. I will not tempt 
your servant's honesty, who seems by his 
countenance to have a great deal, being equal- 
ly watchful to preserve uncorrupted the hon- 
esty of my own. 

1 am, my dearest madam, with a thousand 
thanks for this stroke of friendship, which I 
feel at my heart, and with Mrs. Uuwin's very 
best respects, most siticerely yours, 

W. C. 

P. S. My two hares died little more than 
two years since, one of them aged ten years, 
the other eleven years and eleven months.^ 

Our compliments attend Mr. King 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 25, 1788. 
Jly dear Friend, — 

Say what is the. thini;, by my riddle design'd. 
Which you carried to London, and yet left behind. 

I expect your answer, and without a fee. — 
The half hour lu'xt before breakfast I devote 
to you. The moment Mr.s. Unwin arrives in 
the study, be what I have written much or 
little, I shall make my bow, .and take leave. 
If you live to be a judge, as, if I augur right, 
you will, I shall expect to hear of a walking 
circuit. 

I was shocked at what you tell me of : 

• Mra. Batti^on, a relfltive of Mrs. King's, and at this 
advanced iige, was in a very declining state ol" health. 

t Ttiere i^ a little memoir of t',iw|nT's luiret*, writtoQ 
by himself, which will be inserted in his worka. 

21 



332 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



superior talents, it seems, give no security 
for propriety of conduct ; on tiie contrary, 
liavirig a natural tendency to nourish pride, 
they often betray the possessor into such 
mistakes as men more moderately gifted nev- 
er commit. Ability, therefore, is not wis- 
dom, and an ounce of grace is a better guard 
against gross absurdity than the brightest 
talents iu the world. 

I rejoice that you are prepared for tran- 
script work: here will be plenty for you. 
The day on which you shall receive this, I 
beg you will remember to drink one glass at 
least to the success of the Iliad, which I fin- 
ished the d.ay before yesterday, and yesterday 
began the Odyssey. It will be some time 
before I shall perceive myself travelling in 
another road ; the objects around me are at 
present so much the same ; Olympus, and a 
council of gods, meet me at my first entrance. 
To tell you the truth, I am weary of heroes 
and deities, and, with reverence be it spoken, 
shall be glad for variety's sake, to exchange 
their company for that of a Cyclops. 

Westoti has not been without its tragedies 
since you left us ; Mrs. Throckmorton's piping 
bullfincli has been eaten by a rat, and the 
villain left nothing but poor Bully's beak be- 
liind him. It will be a wonder if this event 
does not at some convenient time employ my 
versifying passion. Did ever fair lady, from 
the Lesbia of Catullus to the present day, 
lose her bird, and find no poet to commem- 
orate the loss ? W. C. 



Cowper here gives an amusing account 
of the manner in which he employed his 
nours of recreation, at different periods of his 
life. 

TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston Lodge, Oct. II, 1783. 
My dear Madam, — You are perfectly secure 
from all danger of being overwhehued with 
presents from me. It is not much that a 
poet can po.ssibly have it in his power to 
give. When he has presented his own 
works, he may be supposed to have exhaust- 
ed all means of donation. Tliey are his only 
superfluity. There was a time, but that time 
was before I commenced writer for tlie press, 
when I amused myself in a way somewhat 
similar to yours ; allowing, I mean, for tlic 
difference between masculine and female op- 
erations. The scissors and the needle are 
your chief implements; mine were the chisel 
and the saw. In those days you might have 
been in some danger of too plentiful a return 
for your favors. Tables, such as they were, 
and joint-stools, such as never were, might 
have travelled to Perten-hall in most incon- 
venient abundance. But I have long since 
* Private correspondence. 



discontinued this practice, and many others 
which I found it necessary to adopt that I 
might escape the wor.st of all evils, both in 
it.self and in its consequences — an idle life. 
Many arts I have exercised with this view, for 
which nature never designed me ; though 
among them were some in which I arrived at 
considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the 
most heroic perseverance. There is not a 
'squire in all this country who can boast of 
having made better .squirrel-houses, hutches 
for rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in 
the article of cabbage-nets I had no superior. 
I even had the hardiness to take in hand the 
pencil, and studied a whole year the art of 
drawing. Many figures were the fruit of my 
labors, which had, at least, the merit of being 
unparalleled by any production cither of art 
or nature. But, before the year was ended, 
I had occasion to wonder at the progress that 
may be made, in despite of natural deficiency, 
by dint alone of practice ; for I actually pro- 
duced three landscapes, which a lady thought 
w'orthy to be framed and glazed. I then 
judged it high time to exchange this occupa- 
tion for another, lest, by any subsequent pro- 
ductions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the 
honor I had so fortunately acquired. But 
gardening was, of all employments, that in 
which I succeeded best; though even in this 
I did not suddenly attain perfection. I began 
with lettuces and cauliflowers : from them I 
preceded to cucumbers ; next to melons. I 
then purchased an orange tree, to which, in 
due time, I added two or tliree myrtles. 
These served me day and night witli employ- 
ment during a whole severe winter. To de- 
fend them from the frost, in a situation that 
exposed them to its severity, cost me much 
ingenuity and much attendance. I contrived 
to give them a fire heat ; and have waded 
night after night through the snow, with 
the bellows under my arm, just before go- 
ing to bed, to give the latest possible pulf 
to the embers, lest the frost should seize 
them before the morning. Very minute be- 
ginnings have sometimes important conse- 
quences. From nursing two or three little 
evergreens, I became ambitious of a green- 
hou.se, and accordingly built one ; which, 
verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a 
longer time than any expedient of all the 
many to which I have fied for refuge from the 
misery of having nothing to lio. When I left 
Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a 
greenhouse of niv own ; but in a neighbor's 
garden I find a better, of which the sole man- 
agement is confined to me. 

I had need take care, when I begin a letter, 
that the subject with which I set off be of 
some importance ; for before I can exhaust it, 
be it what it may, I have generally filled my 
paper. But self is a subject inexh.nustible, 
which is the reason that though I have said 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



323 



little, and nothings, I am afraid, worth your 
hcarinnr, I have only room to add that I am, 
my de:ir madam, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

The Lodge, Nov. 29, 17H8. 

My dear Friend, — Not to fill my paper v.'ith 
apologies, I will only say that you know my 
occupation, and how little time it leaves me 
for other employments ; in which, had I leis- 
ure for them, 1 could take much pleasure. 
Letter-writing could be one of the most 
agreeable, and C'^pecially writing to you. 

Poor Jenny Raban is declining fast to- 
wards the grave, and as fast aspiring to the 
skies. I e.vpected to have heard yesterday 
of her death ; but learned, on imjuiry, that 
she was better. Dr. Kerr has seen her, and, 
by virtue I suppose of his prescriptions, her 
fits, with which she was frequently troubled, 
are become less frequent. But there is no 
reason, I believe, to look for her recovery. 
Her case is a consumption, into whieli I .saw 
her sliding swiftly in the spring. There is 
not much to bo lamented, or that ought to 
be so, in the death of those that go to glory. 

If you Hnd many blots, and my writing 
illegible, you must pardon them. In conslder- 
.atlon of the cause. Lady Hesketh and Mr.s. 
Unwin are both talking as if they designed 
t«i make themselves amends for the silence 
they are enjoined while I sit tr.inslating 
Homer. Mrs. Onwin is preparing the break- 
fast, and, not having seen eacii other since 
tliey p:irted to go to bed, they have conse- 
quently a deal to communicate. 

I have seen Mr. Greatheed, both in his 
own house and here.f Prosperity sits well 
on him, and 1 cannot fuid that this advan- 
tageous change in his condition has made 
anv alteration either in his views or his be- 
havior. Tlie winter is gliding merrily away, 
while my cousin is with us. She annihilates 
the did'erence between cold and heat, gloomy 
skies and cloudless. I have written 1 know 
not what, and with the despatch of legerde- 
m.'iin ; but with tlic utmost truth and con- 
sciousness of what I say, assure you, my 
dear friend, that I am 

Ever vours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 30, 1788. 

My dear Friend, — Vour letter accompany- 
ing the books with which you have favored 
me, and for which I return you a thousand 
thanks, did not arrive till yesterday. I .shall 
have great pleasure in taking now and then 

• Private correspondence. 

t Mr. Greatheed was now residing at Newport-Pagnel, 
and exercising his ministry there. 



a peep at my old friend Vincent Bourne ; the 
ne.atest of all men In his versification, though, 
when ] was under his ushership at West- 
minster, the most slovenly In his person. 
He was so inattentive to his boys, and so In- 
diti'erent wliether they brought him good or 
bad e.\erclses, or none at all, that he seeiued 
determined, as he was the best, so to be the 
Last Latin poet of the Westminster line ; a 
plot winch, I believe, he executed very suc- 
cessfully, for I have not heard of any who 
has deserved to be compared witli him. 

We have had hardly any rain or snow since 
you left us; the roads are accordingly as dry 
as in the middle of snnnner, and the opportu- 
nity of walking much more favorable. We 
have no season, in my mind, so pleasant as 
such a winter ; and I account it particularly 
fortunate, that such it proves, my cousin be- 
ing with us. She Is In good health, and 
cheerful, so are we all : and this I s.ay, know- 
ing you will be gl.id to hear It, for you have 
seen the tirue when this could not be said of 
all your friends at Weston. We shall re- 
joice to see you here .at ChrLstiuas; but I 
recollect, when I hinted such an excursion by 
word of mouth, you gave me no great en- 
couragement to ex])ect you. Minds alter, 
and yours may be of the number of those 
that do so : and, if it .should, you will he en- 
tirely welcome to us all. VVere there no 
otlier reason for your coming than merely the 
pleasure it will afford to us, that re.ason alone 
would be suliiciciit : but, after so many toils, 
and with so many more in prospect, it seems 
essential to your well-being that you .should 
allow yourself a respite, which pcrhap.s you 
can take as <'omfortably (I am sure as ijuietly) 
here as anywhere. 

The ladies beg to be remembered to you 
with all possible esteem and regard ; they 
are just come down to breakfast, and, being 
at this moment extremely talkative, oblige 
me to put an end to my letter. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO MRS. KINC* 

The L(k1-i-. Dec. C, 1788. 

My dear Madam, — It must, if you plea.sc, 
be a point agreed between us, that we will 
not m.ike punctuality In writing the lest of 
our regard for each other, lest we should incur 
the danger of pronouncing and suffering by 
an unjii.st sentence, and this mutually. I 
have told you, I believe, that the half hour 
before breakfast is my only letter-writing 
opportunity. In sumiuer I ri.se rather early, 
and consequently at that season can find 
more time for scribbling than at present. If 
I enter my study now before nine, I lind all 
at sixes and sevens ; for servants will t;ike, 
in part at least, the liberty claimed by their 
* Private correspondence. 



324 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



masters. That you may not suppose us all 
sluggards alike, it is necessary, however, that 
I should add a word or two on this subject, 
in justihcation of Mrs. Unwin, who, because 
the days are too short for the important con- 
cerns of knitting stockings and mending 
them, rises generally by candle-light; a prac- 
tice so much in the style of all the ladies of 
antiquity who were good for anything, that 
it is impossible not to applaud it. 

Mrs. Battison being dead, I began to fear 
tiiat you would have no more calls to Bedford ; 
but the marriage so near at hand, of the 
young lady you mention with a gentleman of 
that place, gives me hope again tliat you may 
occasionally approach us as heretofore, and 
that on some of those occasions you will 
perhaps find your way to Weston. The 
deaths of some and the marriages of others 
make a new world of it every thirty years. 
Within that space of time, the m.njority are 
displaced, and a new generation has suc- 
ceeded. Here and there one is permitted to 
stay a little longer, that there may not be 
wanting a few grave Dons like myself, to 
make the observation. Tliis thought struck 
me very forcibly, the otiier day, on reading a 
paper called the County Chronicle, which 
came liitlier in the package of some books 
from London. It contained news from 
Hertfordshire, and informed me, among other 
things, that at Great Berkhamstead, the place 
of my birth, there is hardly a family left of 
all those with whom, in my early days, I was 
so familiar. The houses, no doubt, remain, 
but the inhabitants are only to be found now 
by their grave-stones ; and it is certain that 
I might pass tiirough a town, in whicli I was 
once a sort of principal figure, unknowing 
and unknown. Tliey are happy who have 
not taken up their rest in a world fluctuat- 
ing as the sea, and passing away with the 
rapidity of a river. I wisli to my heart tliat 
yourself and Mr. King may long continue, as 
you have already long continued, exceptions 
i'rom the general trnth of this remark. You 
doubtless married early, and the tliirty-si,\ 
years elapsed may have yet other years to 
succeed them. I do not forget that your re- 
lation Mrs. Battison lived to the age of 
eighty-si.\. I am glad of her longevity, be- 
cause it seems to afford some assurance of 
yours ; and I hope to know you better yet 
before you die. 

I have never seen the Observer, but am 
pleased with being handsomely spoken of by 
an old school-fellow. Cumberland* and I 
boarded togetlier in the same house at West- 
minster. He was at tliat time clever, and I 
suppose has given proof sufficient to the 
world that he is still clever : but of all that 
he has written, it has never fallen in my way 

* Aiilhnr of the " Observer," " the West Indian," and 
of several driimatic pieces. 



to read a syllable, except perhaps in a maga- 
zine or review, the sole sources, at present, 
of all my intelligence. Addison speaks of 
persons who grow dumb in the study of elo- 
quence, and I have actually studied Homer 
till I am become a mere ignoramus in every 
other province of literature. 

My letter-writing time is spent, and I must 
now to Homer. With my best respects to 
3Ir. King, I remain, dear madam. 

Most affectionately yours, 

W. C. 

P. S. When I wrote last, I told you, I 
believe, th.at Lady Hesketh was with us. 
She is with ris now, making a cheerful winter 
for us at Weston. The acquisition of a new 
friend, and, at a late day, the recovery of the 
friend of our youth, are two of the chief 
comforts of which this life is susceptible. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

The Lodge, Dec. 9, 178S. 

My dear Friend, — Tliat I may return you 
the Latin manuscript as soon as pos.sible,f I 
take a short opportunity to scratch a few 
hasty lines, that it may not .arrive alone. J 
have made here and there an alteration, 
wliich appeared to me for the better : but on 
the wliole, I cannot but wonder at your 
adroitness in a business to which you have 
been probably at no time much accustomed, 
and which, for many years, you have not at 
all practised. If, when you shall have writ- 
ten the whole, you shall wish for a corrector 
of the rest, so far as my own skill in the 
matter goes, it is entirely at your service. 

Lady Hesketli is obliged to you for the 
part of your letter in which she is mentioned, 
and returns her compliments. She loves all 
my friends, and consequently cannot be in- 
different to you. The Throckmortons are 
gone into Norfolk, on a visit to Lord Petre. 
They will probably return this day fortnight. 

Mr. r is now preaclier at R.avenstone. 

Mr. C still preaches here. Tlie latter is 

warmly attended. The former has heard 
him, having, I suppose, a curiosity to know 
by what charm he held his popularity : but 
whether he has heard him to his own edifi- 
cation, or not, is more than I can say. Prob- 
ably he wonders, for I have heard, that he is 
a sensible man. His successful competitor 

^ Private correspondence. 

t We have already alluded to Mr. Van Lier, a Dutch 
minister of the Reformed (.'hlircli, to whom the perusal 
of Mr. Newton's writings was made inslrnmental in lead- 
ing his mind to clear and saving impressions of divine 
trnth. He communicated to Mr. Newton an interesting 
account of this spiritual change of mind, in the Latin 
manuscript here mentioned, which wsis transmitted to 
Cowper, and afterward translated by him, and published 
by Mr. Newton. It is entitled " The Power of Grace Illus- 
trated," and will be more parUcularly adverted to in a 
subsequent part of this booK. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



325 



is wise in nothing but his knowledge of the 
gospel. 

I am summoned to breakfast, and am, my 
dear friend, witli our best love to Mrs. New- 
ton, Jliss Catlett, and yourself. 

Most affectionately yours, W. C. 

I liave not the assurance to call this an 
answer to your letter, in wliich were many 
things deserving much notice ; but it is tlie 
best that, in tlie present moment, I .im able 
to send you. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lod^c, Jan. 13, 1789. 

Dear Sir, — I have taken since you went 
away many of the walks wliieh we liave taken 
together, and none of tliem, I believe, with- 
out thoughts of you. I have, though not a 
good memory in general, yet a good local 
memory, and can recollect, by the help of a 
tree or stile, what you said on tliat particular 
spot. For this reason I pur|)0se, when the 
summer is come, to walk with a book in my 
pockets: what I read at my fireside I forget, 
but what 1 re.ad under a hedge, or at the side 
of a pond, tliat pond and that hedge will al- 
ways bring to my remembrance ; and this is 
a sort of memoria teelmic.a, which I would 
reconnnend to you, if I did not know that 
you have no occasion for it. 

I iim reading Sir John Hawkins, and still 
hold the same opinion of his book .as when 
you were here.* There are in it undoubt- 
edly some awkwardnesses of phrase, and 
which is worse, here and there, some unequi- 
vocal indications of a vanity not easily par- 
donable in a man of his years; but on the 
whole I find it amusing, and to me at least, 
to whom everything tliat has passed in the 
literary world, within these fivc-and-twenty 
years, is new, sutiiciently replete with infor- 
mation. Mr. Thniekmorton told me, about 
three days since, that it was lately recom- 
mended to him by a sensible man, as a book 
that would give him great insight into the 
history of modern literature, and modern 
men of letters, a conmiendation which I 
really think it merits. Fifty years hence, 
perhap.s, the world will feel itself obliged to 
him. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, .I:m. 24, 1789. 

My dear Sir, — We have heard from my 
cousin in Norfolk-street ; she reached home 
safely, and in good time. An observation 
suggests itself, which, though I have but 
little lime for observation making, I must al- 

• Sir John Hjiwkins is known as the nnUior of four 
qiiarUi volumes on tlie ffencrul History of Music, and by 
a Life of Johnson. The former is now sujjenteded by 
Burney's, and Iho latter by Boswcll's. 



low myself time to mention. Accidents, as 
we call them, generally occur when there 
seems least reason to expect them ; if a 
friend of ours travels far in different roads, 
and at an unfavorable season, we are reason- 
ably alarmed for the .safety of one in whom 
we take so much interest, yet how seldom 
do we hear a tragical account of such a jour- 
ney! It is, on the contrary, at home, in our 
yard, or garden, perhaps in our parlor, that 
disaster finds us ; in any place, in short, 
where we seem perfectly out of the reach of 
danger. The lesson inculcated by such a 
procedure on the ptirt of Providence towards 
us seems to be that of perpetual dependence. 
Having preached this sermon, I must 
hasten to a close ; you know that I am not 
idle, nor can I afford to be so ; I would 
gladly spend more time with you, but, by 
some means or other, this d.ay has hitherto 
proved a day of hindrance and confusion. 

w. c. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Jan. 29, 1769. 

My dear Friend, — I shall be a better, at 
least a more frequent correspondent, when I 
have done with Homer. I am not forgetful 
of any letters that I owe, and least of all 
forgetful of my debts in that way to you; 
on the contrary, I live in a continual state of 
self-reproach for not writing more punctuallv ; 
but the old Greci.an, whom I charge myself 
never to neglect, lest I should never finish 
him, has, at present, a voice that seems to 
drown all other demands, and many to which 
I could listen with more pleasure than even 
to his Os rutundum. I am now in the 
eleventh book of the Odys.sey, conversing 
with the dead. Invoke the muse in my be- 
half, that I may roll the stone of Sisyphus 
with some success. To do it as Homer has 
done it is, I suppose, in our verse and lan- 
guage, impossible ; but I will hope not to 
labor altogether to as little purpose as Sisy- 
phus himself did. 

Though I meddle little with politics, and 
can find but little leisure to do so, the ju-es- 
ent state of things unavoidably engages a 
share of my attention. But, as they say, 
Arehimides, when Syracuse was taken, was 
found busy in the solution of a problem, so, 
come what ni.ay, I shall b^ found translating 
Homer. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The I.o<lge, Jan. 29, 17H). 
My dear Madam, — This morning I .s;iid to 
Mrs. Unwin, "I must write to ilrs. King: 
her long silence alarms me — something has 
• Private correspondence. 



326 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



li:ippened." These words of mine proved 
only ;i prelude to tlie nrrival of your mes- 
senger witli Ill's most welcome charge, for 
vvhieli 1 return you my siiiccrest thanks. 
Voii have scut me the very things I w.mted, 
and which I should have continued to want, 
had not you sent tliem. As often as the 
wine is set on the table, I have said to my- 
self, "This is all very well; but I have no 
bottle-stands;" and myself as often replied, 
" j\o matter ; you can make shift without 
them." Thus I and myself have conferred 
together many a day ; and you, as if you h.ad 
been privy to the conference, have kindly 
supplied the deficiency, and put an end to the 
debate forever. 

When your messenger arrived, I was be- 
ginning to dress for dinner, being engaged to 
dine with my neighbor, Mr. Throckmorton, 
from whose house I am just returned, and 
snatch a few moments before supper to tell 
you how much 1 am obliged to you. You 
will not, therefore, find me very prolix at 
present ; but it shall not be long before you 
shall hear further from me. Your honest 
old neighbor sleeps under our roof, and will 
be gone in the morning before I shall have 
seen him. 

I have more items than one by which to 
remember the late frost : it has cost me the 
bitterest uneasiness. Mrs. Unwin got a fall 
on the gravel-walk covered with ice, which 
has confined her to an upper chamber ever 
since. She neither broke nor dislocated any 
bones ; but received such a contusion below 
the hip, as crippled her completely. She 
now begins to recover, after having been 
helpless as a child for a whole fortnight, but 
80 slowly at present, that her amendment is 
even now almost imperceptible. 

Engaged, however, as 1 am with my own 
private an.xieties, I yet find leisure to interest 
myself not a little in the distresses of the 
royal family, especially in those of the 
Queen.* The Lord-Chancellor called the 
other morning on Lord Stafford : entering 
the room, he threw his hat into a sofa .at the 
fireside, and, clasping liis hands, said, " I have 
heard of distress, and I have read of it ; but 
I never saw distress equal to that of the 

* The uiifortuiiiite malady of George III. is lierc alluded 
to, whicti firsl occurred after a previ'His jndis|.usition, 
October 22nd, 1788. The nation was ])!ini^'('d in urief by 
this calamitous event, and a regency aiipuinleil, lu the 
exclusion of the Prince of Wales, which occasioned much 
discussion in Parliament at that time. Hai>pily the 
King's illness was only of a few month's duration : his 
recovery was aimounced to be complete, l^eb. 27, 1789. 
Few monarchs have been more justly venerated tlian 
George the Third, or have left behind them more im- 
questionable evidences of real personal piety. The Ibl- 
litwing lines written to commemorate his recovery, merit 
to be recorded. 

Not with more grief did Adam first survey, 
With doubts perplext, the setting orb of day ; 
Nor more his jny, th' ensuing morn, to view 
That splendid orb its glorious course renew ; 
Than was thy joy. Britannia, and thy pain, 
When set thy sun, and when he rose aj^ain. 



Queen." This I know from particular and 
certain .luthority. 

My dear madam, I have not time to en- 
large at present on this subject, or to touch 
any other. Once more, therefore, thanking 
yoti for your kindness, of which I am truly 
sensible ; and thanking, too, Mr. King for the 
favor he has done me in subscribing to my 
Homer, and .at the s:ime time begging you to 
make my best compliments to him, I con- 
clude myself, with Mrs. Unwin's acknowledg- 
ments of your most acceptable present to 
her. 

Your obliged and affectionate W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

March 12, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — I feel myself in no 
small degree unworthy of the kind solicitude 
which you express concerning me and my 
welfare, after a silence so much longer than 
I gave you reason to expect. I should in- 
deed account myself inexeus.able, had I not 
to allege, in my defence, |)erpetual engage- 
ments of such a kind as would by no means 
be dispensed with. Had Homer alone been 
in question, Homer should h.ave made room 
for you : but I have had other work in hand 
at the same time, equtilly pressing and more 
laborious. Let it suffice to say, that 1 have 
not wilfully neglected you for a moment, and 
thiit you have never been out of my thoughts 
a d.ay together. But I l^egin to perceive that, 
if a man will be an author, he must live nei- 
ther to himself nor to his friends so much as 
to others, whom he never saw, nor shall sec. 

My promise to follow my last letter with 
another speedily, which promise I kept so 
ill, is not the only one which I am conscious 
of having made to you, and but very indif- 
ferently performed. I promised you all the 
smaller pieces that I shtiuld produce, as fast 
as occasion called them forth, and leisure 
occurred to write titem. Now the fact is, 
that I htive produced several since I made 
that fair profession, of which I h.ave sent you 
hardly any. The reason is that, transcribed 
into the body of a letter, they would leave 
me no room for prose ; and that other con- 
veyance than by the post I cannot iind, even 
after inquiry m.ade among all my neighbors 
for a traveller to Kimbolton. Well, we 
shall see you, I hope, in the summer: and 
then I will show you all. I will transcribe 
one for yon every morning before breakfast, 
as long as they last : and when you come 
down, you shall find it laid on your napkin. 
I sent one last week to London, which, by 
some kind body or another, I know not 
whom, is to be presented to the Queen. 
The subject, as you may guess, is the King's 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



327 



recovery ; a tliome that might make a bad 
poet a good one, and a good one excel him- 
sell'. This, too, you shall see when we meet, 
unless it should bounce upon you before, 
tVoni some periodical register of all such 
matters. 

I shall commission my cousin, wlio lately 
left us, to procure for me the book you men- 
tion. Being, and having long been, so deep 
in the business of translation, it was natural 
that I should have many thoughts on that 
subject. I have accordingly had as many as 
would of themselves, perhaps, make a vol- 
ume, and shall be glad to compare them with 
those of any other writer recommended by 
Mr. Martyn. When you write ne.vt to that 
gentlem.in, I beg you, madam, to present my 
compliments to him, with thanks both for 
the mention of Mr. Twining's* book, and 
for the honor of his name among my sub- 
scribers. 

I remain always, my dear madam. 

Your aflectionate VV. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

Tho Lodge, April 22, 1789. 
My dear Madam, — Having waited hitherto 
in expectation of the messenger whom, in 
your last, you mentioned a design to send, I 
have at lengtli sagaciously surmised that you 
delay to send him, in expectation of hearing 
first from me. I would that his errand hither 
were better worthy the journey. I shall 
have no very voluminous packet to charge 
him with when he comes. Such, however, 
as it is, it is ready ; and has received an ad- 
dition in the interim of one copy, which 
would not have made a part of it, had your 
Mercury arrived here sooner. It is on the 
subject of the Queen's visit to London on 
the night of the illuminations. Mrs. Unwin, 
knowing the burden that lies on my back 
too heavy for any but Atlantean shoulders, 
has kindly performed the copyist's part, and 
transcribed all that I had to send you. Ob- 
serve, madam, 1 do not write this to hasten 
your messenger hither, but merely to account 
for my own silence. It is probable that the 
later he arrives, the more he will receive 
when he comes; for I never fail to write 
when 1 think I have found a favorable sub- 
ject.t 

* The author of the tranalation of Aristollc. 
t IViviUu corn^^poiiricncG. 

i We insert these verses, aa expressive of the loyal 
fuellDga of Cowper. 

ON TUE IlL'EEN^S VISIT TO LONDON. 

Thr ^''ight of the Tenth of March^ 17S9. 

When, lonif scqiieslor'd from hia throno, 

(lenrire look his seat again. 
By rii;ht of worth, not blood alone, 

Entitled here to reign! 

Then Loyalty, with all her lamps 
New trimard, a gollaut show, 



We mourn that wu must give up the hope 
of seeintr you and Mr. King at Weston. 
Had our eorrespondence commenced sooner, 
we luid eertainiy found the means of moot- 
in.!,'; but it seems that we were doomed to 

Chasing tho darkness and tho damps, 

Set London in a glow. 
'Twos hard to tell, of streets, of squares, 

Which form'd the chief display, 
These most resemhline; clusterM stars, 

Tliose the long milky way. 

Britjht shone the roofs, the domes, the sjjires. 

Ami rockets (lew, self-driven, 
To haiiL,' their momentary fires 

Amid the vault of heaven. 

So, fire with water to compare, 

The ocean serves on hi^'h, 
L'p-spouted by a whale in air, 

To express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

In one procession join'd, 
And all the banners been unfurPd 

That heralds e'er design'd, 

For no such sictht had England's Queen 

Forsaken her retreat. 
Where George recover'd made a scene 

Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Yet glad she came that night to prove, 

A witness imdescricd, 
How mucli the object of her love 

Was lov'd by all beside. 
Darkness the skies had raanUed oVr 

In aid of her design — 
Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of thine ! 

On borrow'd wheels away she flics, 

Resulved to bo unknown. 
And gratify no curious eyes 

That night except her own. 
ArrivM, a night like noon she sees, 

And hears the million hum ; 
As all by instinct like tho bees. 

Had known their sov'reign come. 

Pleaa'd she beheld aloft portray'd, 

On many a splendid wall, 
Emblems c»f health and hL-av'nly aid, 

And George the theme of all. 

Unlike the enigmatic line, 

So difiicult to spell, 
Which Hhook Bclshazzar at his wine. 

The night his city fell. 
Soon watery grew her eyes, and dim, 

Hill with a joyful tearl 
None else, except in prayer for him, 

(;eorg(; ever drew from her. 

It was a scene in every part 

Like that in fable feigti'd, 
And seem'd by some magician's art 

Created and sustain'd. 
But other magic there she knew 

Hail been exerted none. 
To raise such wonders to her view. 

Save love to George alone. 

That cordial thought her spirit checrM, 
And, through the cumbVous througi 
Not else unwortliy to be fear'd, 
Convey'd her calm along. 

So, ancient poets say, serene 

The sea-maid rides the waves. 
And, fearU'><s of the billowy scene. 

Her peaceful bosom laves. 

With more than astnmomic eyes 

She vi<;wed the sparkling show; 
One Georgian star ivlorns tho skies, 

She iiiyrimls found below. 

Yet let the glories of a night 
Like that, ono.' Sv'en, sufllce ! 

Heaven gi-ant us no such futvire sight- 
Such precioua woe the price ! 



328 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



know each other too late for a meeting in 
this world. Jlay a better world make us 
amends, as it certainly will, if I ever re.ach a 
better ! Our interviews here are but iinper- 
I'ect pleasures at the best ; and generally 
IVom such as promise us most gratification 
we receive the most disappointment. But 
disappointment is, I suppose, confined to the 
planet on which we dwell, the only one in 
tlie universe, probably, that is inhabited by 
sinners. 

I did not know, or even suspect, that when 
I received your last messenger, I received so 
eminent a disciple of Hippocrates ; a physi- 
cian of such absolute control over disease 
and the human constitution, .as to be able to 
put a pestilence into his pocket, confine it 
there, and let it loose at his pleasure. We 
are much indebted to him that he did not 
give us here a stroke of his aVjility. 

I must not forget to mention that I have 
received (probably not without your privity) 
Jfr. Twining's valuable volume.* For a 
long time I supposed it to have come from 
my bookseller , who now and then sends 
me a new publication ; but I find, on inquiry, 
that it came not from liim. I beg, madam, 
if you are aw.are th.at Mr. Twining himself 
sent it, or your friend Sir. Martyn, that you 
will negotiate for me on the occasion, and 
contrive to convey to the obliging donor my 
very warmest thanks. I am impatient till 
he receives them. I have not yet had time 
to do justice to a writer so sensible, elegant, 
.and entertaining, by a complete perusal of 
his work ; but I have with pleasure sought 
out all tliose passages to wliich Mr. Martyn 
was so good as to refer me, and am delighted 
to observe the exact agreement in opinion on 
the .subject of tr.anslation in general, and on 
that of Mr. Pope's in particular, th.at subsists 
between Mr. Twining and myself 

With Mrs. Unwin's best compliments, I 
remain, my dear madam. 

Your obliged and affectionate, W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

April 30, 1789. 

My dear Madam, — I thouglit to have sent 
you, by the return of your messenger, a let- 
ter ; at least, something like one : but in- 
stead of sleeping here, as I supposed he 
would, he purposes to pass the night .at La- 
vendon, a village three miles off. Tliis de- 
sign of his is but just made known to me, 
and it is now near seven in the evening. 
Therefore, lest he should be obliged to feel 
out his way, in an unknown country, in the 
dark, I am forced to scribble a hasty word 
or two, instead of devoting, as I intended, 
the whole evening to your service. 

* The translation of Aristotle. 
t Private correspondence. 



A thousand thanks for your basket, and 
all the good things that it contained ; par- 
ticularly for my brothers Poems,* whose 
hand-writing struck me the moment I saw 
it. They gave me some feelings of a mel- 
ancholy kind, but not painful. I will return 
them to you by the next opportunity. I wi.sh 
th.at mine, which I send you, nmy prove half 
as pleasant to you as your e.xcellent cakes 
and apples have proved to us. You will then 
think yourselves sufficiently recompensed for 
your obliging present. If a crab-stock can 
transform a pippin into a nonpareil, what 
may not I effect in a translation of Homer? 
Alas ! I fear nothing Iialf so valuable. 

I have learned, at length, that I am indebt- 
ed for Twining's Aristotle to a relation of 
mine. General Cowper. 

Pardon me that I quit you so soon. It is 
not willingly ; but I have compassion on your 
poor messenger. 

Adieu, my dear madam, and believe me, 
Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, May 20, 1769. 

My dear Sir, — Finding myself, between 
twelve and one, at the end of the seventeenth 
book of the Odyssey, I give the interval be- 
tween the present moment and the time of 
walking, to you. If I write letters before I 
sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits too Hat 
for poetry, and too fl.at for letter-writing if I 
address myself to Homer first : but the last I 
choose as the le.ast evil, because my friends 
will pardon my dullness, but the public will 
not. 

I had been some days uneasy on your ac- 
count when yours an-ived. We should have 
rejoiced to have seen you, would your engage- 
ments have permitted ; but in the autumn, I 
hope, if not before, we shall have the pleasure 
to receive you. At what time we may expect 
Lady Hesketh, at present, I know not; but 
imagine that at any time after the month of 
June you will be sure to find her with us, 
which I mention, knowing that to meet you 
would add a relish to all the pleasures she can 
find at Weston. 

When I wrote these lines on the Queen's 
visit, I thought I had performed well ; but it 
belongs to me, as I have told you before, to 
dislike whatever I write when it has been 
written a month. The performance was there- 
fore sinking in my esteem, when your appro- 
bation of it, arriving in good time, buoyed it 
up again. It will now keep possession of the 
place it holds in my good opinion, because it 
has been favored with yours ; and a copy will 
certainly be at your service whenever you 
choose to have one. 

* We regret that we have not succeeded in procuring 
any traces of these poems of Cowper*s brother. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



329 



N'otliing is more certain timn that wlicn I 
wi-ote tlie line, 

GoJ made the country, and man made the town, 

I Inul not the least recollection of that very 
similar one, which you quote from Hawkins 
Brown. It convinces me that critics (and 
none more than Warton, in his notes on 
Milton's minor poems) have often charged 
authors with borrowing what they drew from 
their own fund. Brown was an entertaining 
companion wlien he had drunk his bottle, but 
not before : this proved a snare to liini, and he 
would sometimes drink too much ; but I know- 
not that he was cliargeable with any other 
irregularities, lie had those among his inti- 
mates, who would not have been such had he 
been otherwise viciously inclined ; the Dun- 
cond)s, in partieidar, father and son, who were 
of unblemished morals. W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

The Lodge, Mny 30, 1789. 

Dearest Madam, — Jlany thanks for your 
kind and valuable despatches, none of which, 
o.vccpt your letter, I have yet had time to read ; 
for true it is, and a sad truth too, that I was 
in bed when your messenger arrived. He 
waits (nily for my answer, for which reason I 
answer as speedily as I can. 

I am glad if my poetical packet pleased 
you. Those stanzas on the Queen's visit 
were presented some time since, by Miss 
Goldsworlhy,t to the princess Augusta, who 
has prob.ibly given them to the Queen ; but 
of their reception I have heard nothing. I 
gratified myself by complimenting two sover- 
eigns whom I love and honor : and that grati- 
fication will be my rev.-ard. It would, indeed, 
be unreasonable to expect that persons who 
keep a Laureat in constant pay, should have 
either praise or emolument to spare for every 
volunteer who miiy choose to make them his 
subject. 

I will take the greatest care of the papers 
with which you have entrusted me, and will 
return them by the next opportunity. It is 
very unfortunate that the people (d' Bedford 
should choose to have the small-pox, just at 
the season when it would be sure to prevent 
our meeting, (iod only knows, madam, when 
we shall meet, or whclher at all in this world ; 
but certain it is, that whether wc meet or not, 
I am most tndy yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The I^mIrc, June .>, 1789. 
Jly dear Friend, — I am going to give you a 
deal of trouble, but London folks must be 

• Private correspoinlence. 

t Ttie du\ii;liU.'r ut (juncral Goldsworthy. 



content to be troubled by country folks; for 
in London only can our strange necessities be 
supplied. Vou must buy for me, if you please, 
a cuckoo clock ; ,and now I will tell you where 
they are sold, which, Londoner as you are, it 
is possible you may not know. They are 
sold, I am informed, at more houses than 
one in that narrow part <>{ Ilolborn which 
leads into Broad St. (ides'. It seems they are 
well-going clocks and cheap, which are the 
two best recommendations of any clock. 
They are made in Germany, and such num- 
bers of them are animally imported, that they 
are become even a considerable article of 
commerce. 

I return you many thanks for BoswcU's 
Tour.* I read it to i\[rs. Unwin after suj)per, 
and we find it lunusing. There is much trash 
in it, as there must always be in every nar- 
rative that relates indiscriminately all that 
passed. But now and then the Doctor speaks 
like an oracle, and tliat makes amends for all. 
Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not 
less a coxcomb, though of another kind. I 
fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his 
friends, and they in return made him a cox- 
comb; for, with reverence be it spoken, such 
he certaiidy was, and flattered as he was he 
w<te sure to be so. 

Thanks for your invitation to London, but 
unless London can come to me, I fear we shall 
never meet. I was sure that you would love 
my friend wlien you shuuld once be well ac- 
quainted with hiin.t and equally sure that he 
would take kindly to you. 

Now for Homer. W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Wcslon, June 16, 1789. 
My dear Friend, — You will naturally sup- 
pose that the letter in which you announced 
your marriage occasioned me some concern, 
though in my answer I had the wisdom to 
conceal it. The account you gave me of the 
object of yoiH' choice was such as left me at 
liberty to form conjectures not very comfort- 
able to myself, if my friendship for you were 
indeed sincere. I have since, however, been 
sutticiently consoled. Your brother Chester 
has informed me that you have married not 
only one of the most agreeable, but one of 
the most accomplished, women in the king- 
dom. It is an old maxim, that it is better to 
exceed expectation than to disappoint it ; and 
with this maxim in your view it was, no doubt, 
that you dwelt only on circumstances of dis- 
iidv.antage, and would not treat me with a re- 
cital of others which abundantly overweigh 
them. I now congratulate not you only but 
niy.self, and truly rejoice that my friend has 
chosen for his fellow-traveller, through the re- 

• Tour lo lliu llebridea. 
t Key. John Newtun. 



330 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



maining stages of his journey, a companion 
who will do honor to his discernment, and 
make his way, so far as it can depend on a 
wife to do so, pleasant to the last. 

My verses on the Queen's visit to London 
either have been printed, or soon will be, in 
the " World." The finishing to which you 
objected I have altered, and have substituted 
two new stanzas instead of it. Two others 
also I have struck out, another critic having 
objected to them. I think I am a very tracts 
able sort of a poet. Most of my fraternity 
would as soon shorten the noses of their 
children because they were said to be too long, 
as thus dock their compositions in compliance 
with the opinions of others. I beg that when 
ray life shall be written hereafter, my author- 
ship's ductibility of temper may not be for- 
gotten. 

I am, my dear friend. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Tho Lodge, June 20, 1789. 

Amico Mio, — I am truly sorry that it must 
be so long before we can have an opportunity 
to meet. My cousin inher last letter but one 
inspired me with other expectations, express- 
ing a purpose, if the matter could be so con- 
trived, of bringing you witli her : I was willing 
to believe that you had consulted together on 
the subject, and found it feasible. A month 
was formerly a trifle in my account, but at my 
present age I give it all its importance, and 
grudge that so many months should yet pass 
in which I have not even a glimpse of those I 
love, and of whom, the course of nature con- 
sidered, I must ere long take leave forever — 
but I shall live till August. 

Many tlianks for the cuckoo which arrived 
perfectly safe and goes well, to the amusement 
and amazement of all who hear it. Hannah 
lies awake to hear it, and I am not sure that 
we have not others in the house that admire 
liis music as much as she. 

Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I 
now think myself as much a master of John- 
son's character as if 1 had known him per- 
sonally, and cannot but regret that our bards 
of other times found no such biographers as 
tlie>,e. They have both been ridiculed, and 
the wits have had their laugh ; but such a his- 
tory of Milton or Shakspeare as they have 
given of Johnson — O how desirable !* 

W. C. 

* The distinguished merit of Boswell's Life of Dr. 
Johnson is precisely what Cowper here states. In pe- 
iitsing it we become intimately acquainted with his 
iii:jnner, habits of life, and sentiments on every subject. 
We are introduced to the great wits of the age, and see 
a livfiy portraiture of the literary characters of those 
tiini-L'. However minute and even frivolous some of the 
remarks may be, yet BoswcU's Life will never fail to 
awaken interest, and no library can be considered to be 
complete without it. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

July 18, 1789. 

JIany thanks, ray dear raadam, for your 
extract from George's letter. I retain but 
little Italian, yet that little was so forcibly 
mustered by the consciousness that I was 
myself the subject, that I presently became 
master of it. I have always said that George 
is a poet, and I am never in his company but 
I discover proofs of it, and the delicate address 
by which he has managed his complimentary 
mention of me convinces me of it still more 
than ever. Here are a thousand poets of us 
who have impudence enough to write for the 
public ; but amongst the modest men who 
are by diffidence restrained from such an en- 
terprise are those who would eclipse us all. 
I wish that George would make the experi- 
ment, I would bind on his laurels with my 
own hand.* 

Your gardener has gone after his wife, but, 
having neglected to take his lyre, alias fiddle, 
with him, has not brought home his Eury- 
dice. Your clock in the hall has stopped, and 
(strange to tell !) it stopped at sight of the 
watchmaker : for he only looked at it, and it 
has been motionless ever since. Mr. Greg- 
son is gone, and the Hall is a desolation. 
Pray don't think any place pleasant that you 
may find in your rambles, th.at we may see 
you the sooner. Your aviary is all in good 
health ; I pass it every day, and often inquire 
at the lattice; the inhabitants of it send their 
duty, and wisii for your return. I took no- 
tice of the inscription on your seal, and had 
we an artist here capable of furnishing me 
with another, you should read on mine, '■'■ En- 
core une leltre." 

Adieu ! W. C. 



The importance of improving the early 
hours of life, which, once lost, are never re- 
covered, is profitably enforced in the succeed- 
ing letter. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, July 23, 1789. 

You do well, my dear sir, to improve your 
opportunity ; to speak in the rural phrase, 
this is your sowing time, and the sheaves 
you look for can never be yours unless you 
make that use of it. The color of our whole 

" Homer,'' says a popular critic, " is not more de- 
cidedly the first of heroic poets— Shakspepie is not more 
decidedly the flrst of dramatists— Ueraoathenes is not 
more decidedly the lirst of orators, th.".n Boswell is the 
first of bios^raphers." 

" A book," observes Mr. Crokcr, " to which the world 
refers as a manual of amusemuni, a repository of wit, 
wisdom, and morals, and a lively and faithful history ol 
the manners and literature of Kngland, during a period 
hardly second in brilliancy, and superior in importance 
even to the Augustan age of Anne. 

* This truly amiable and accomplished person alter 
wards became Sir George Tlu'ockmurton, Bart. 



life is generally such as the three or four 
first years in which we arc our own masters 
make it. Then it is that we may be said to 
shape our own des'.iny, and to treasure up 
for ourselves a series of future successes or 
disappointments. Had I employed my time 
as wisely as you, in a situation very similar 
to yours. I had never been a poet perhaps : 
but I miijht by this time have acquired a 
cliaracter of more importixnce in society, and 
a situation in wliich my friends would li.ave 
been better pleased to see me. But three 
years misspent in an attorney's oflice, were 
almost of course followed by several more 
equally misspent in the Temple, and the con- 
sequence has been, as the Italian epitaph 
says, '• Slo qui." The only use I can make 
of myself now, at least the best, is to serve 
in terrorem to others, when occasion may 
happen to offer, that they may escape (so far 
as mv admonitions can have any weight with 
them) my folly and my fate. When you 
feel yourself tempted to rcla.\ a little of the 
strictness of your present disci])line, and to 
indulge in amusement incompatible with 
your future interests, think on your friend at 
Weston. 

Having said this, I shall next, with my 
whole heart, invite you hither, and assure 
you tliat I look forward to ajjproaching Au- 
gust with great pleasure, because it prom- 
ises me your company. After a little time 
(which we shall wish longer) spent with us, 
you will return invigorated to your studies, 
and pursue them with more advantage. In 
the meantime, you have lost little, in point 
of season, by being confined to London. In- 
cessant rains and meadows under water have 
given to the summer the air of winter, and 
the country has been deprived of half its 
beauties. 

It is time to tell you that we are all well, 
and often make you our subject. This is 
the third meeting that my cousin and we have 
h.ad in this country, and a great instance of 
good fortune I account it in such a world as 
this to have expected such a pleasure thrice, 
without being once disappointed. Add to 
this wonder as soon as you can by making 
yourself of the party. 

W.C. 



TO MRS. KIKG.* 

August 1, 178a. 

My dear Madam, — The post brings me no 
letters that do not grumble at my silence. 
Had not you, therefore, taken me to task as 
roundly as others, I should have concluded 
you perhaps more inditTerent to my epistles 
than the rest of my correspondents; of whom 
one says, — " I shall be glad when you liave 
finished Homer ; then possibly you will find 
* Private correspoDdence. 



a little leisure for an old friend." Another 
says — " I don't choose to be neglected, unless 
you equally neglect every one else." Thus 
i hear of it with both ears, and shall, till I 
appear in the shape of two great quarto vol- 
umes, the composition of which, I confess, 
engrosses me to a degree th.at gives my 
friends, to whom I feel myself much obliged 
for their anxiety to hear from me, but too 
much reason to complain. Johnson told .Mr. 
.Martyn the truth, but your inference from 
that truth is not altogether so just as mo.st 
of your conclusions are. Instead of finding 
myself the more at leisure because my long 
labor draws to a close, I find myself the more 
occupied. As when a horse approaches the 
goal, he does not, unless he be jaded, slacken 
his pace, but quickens it ; even so it fares 
with me. The end is in view ; I seem almost 
to have reached the mark, and the nearness 
of it inspires me with fresh alacrity. But, 
be it known to you, that I have still two 
books of the Odyssey before me, and when 
they are finished, shall have almost the whole 
eiglit-and-forty to revise. Judge then, my 
dear madam, if it is yet time for me to play, 
or to gratify myself with scribbling to those 
I love. No : it is still necessary that waking 
I should be all absorbed in Homer, and that 
sleeping I should dream of nothing else. 

I am a great lover of good paintings, but 
no connoisseur, having never had an oppor- 
tunity to become one. In the last forty 
years of my life, I have h.ardly seen six pic- 
tures that were worth looking at ; for I was 
never a frequenter of auctions, having never 
had any spare money in my pocket, and the 
public exliibitions of them in Lcuidon li.id 
hardly taken place when I left it. Jly cousin, 
who is with us, saw the gentleman whose 
pieces you mention, on the top of a .scaffold, 
copying a famous picture in tlie Vatican. 
She has seen some of his performances, and 
much admires them. 

You have had a great loss, and a loss that 
admits of no consolation, except such as will 
naturally suggest itself to ynu, such, I mean, 
as the Scrii)ture furnishes. We must all 
leave, or be left; and it is the circumstance 
of all others that makes a long life the lea.st 
desirable, that others go while wi' stay, till 
at last we find ourselves alone, like a tree on 
a hill-top. 

Accept, my dear madam, mine and Mrs. 
Unwin's be.st compliments to yourself and 
Mr. King, and believe me, however unfre- 
quent in telling you that I am so, 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, August 8, 178a 
My dear Friend, — Come when you will, or 
when you can, you cannot come at a wrong 



332 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



time ; but we shall expect you on the day 
mentioned. 

If you have any book that you think will 
make pleasant evening reading, bring it with 
vou. I now read Mrs. Piozzi's* Travels to 
the ladies after supper, and shall probably 
Iiavo finished them before we shall h.ave the 
jileasure of seeing you. It is the fashion, I 
understand, to condemn them. But we, who 
make books ourselves, are more merciful to 
book-makers. I would that every fastidious 
judge of authors were himself obliged to 
write : there goes more to the composition 
of a volume than many critics imagine.f I 
have often wondered that the same poet who 
wrote the " Dunciad," should have written 
these lines, 

The mercy I to others show, 
That mercy show to me. 

Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy he showed to 
others, was the measure of mercy he re- 
ceived ! He was the less pardonable, too, 
because experienced in all the difficulties of 
composition. 

I scratch this between dinner and tea : a 
time when I cannot write much without dis- 
ordering my noddle and bringing a flush into 
my face. You will excuse me therefore, if, 
through respect for the two important con- 
siderations of health and beauty, I conclude 
myself. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.I 

August 12, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and 
Mrs. Hill are so agree.ibly occupied in your 
retreat.} August, I hope, will make us 
amends for the gloom of its many wintry 
predecessors. We are now gathering from 
our meadows, not h.ay, but muck ; such stuff 
as deserves not the carriage, which yet it 
must have, that the after-crop may have 
leave to grow. The Ouse has hardly deigned 
to run in his channel since the summer 
began. 

* Formerly Mrs. Thralo, tlie woll-known friend of Dr. 
.Tolmson, atiil resident iit Slrealliam. Her second mar- 
riage was cnnsi'li-reii In he iinpnideut. She wrote Anec- 
dotes of Dr. Johnson, and was also the authoress of the 
beautiful tale entitled, "The Three Warnings," begin- 
ning, 

" The tree of deepest root is found 
Unwilling most to leave the ground," &c. &.c. 

t It cost Lord Lyitleton twenty years to write the Life 
and History of Ileln-y II. The historian Gibbon was 
twelve years in completing his " Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire," and Adam Smith occupied ten years in 
])roducing liis "Wealth of Nations." 

A stronger instance can scarcely be quoted of the men- 
tal labor employed in the composition of a work, than 
what is recorded* of Boileau, who occupied eleven months 
in writing his '■ Equivoijue," consisting only of 340 lines, 
and afterwards spent three years in revising it. 

Cowper sometimes wrote only Ave or six lines in a day. 

i Private correspondence. 

5 At Wargravc, near Henley-on-Thames. 



My Muse were a vixen if she were not al- 
ways ready to fly in obedience to your com- 
mands. 15ut what can be done ? I can 
write nothing in the few hours that remain 
to me of this day that will be lit for your 
purpose, and unless I could dispatch what I 
write by to-morrow's post, it would not reach 
you in time. I must add, too, that my 
friend, the vicar of the next parish,* engaged 
me, the day before yesterday, to furnish him 
by next Sunday with a hymn, to be sung on 
the occa.sion of his preaching to the children 
of the Sunday-school if of which hymn I 
have not yet produce I a syllable. I am 
somewhat in the case of lawyer Dowling, in 
" Tom Jones ;" and could I split myself into 
as many poets as there are muses, could find 
employment for them all. 
Adieu, my dear friend. 

I am ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.I 

August 16, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — Mrs. Newton and you 
are both kind and just in believing that I do 
not love you less when I am long silent. 
Perhaps a friend of mine, who wishes me to 
have him always in my thoughts, is never so 
effectually possessed of the accomplishment 
of that wish as when I have been long his 
debtor ; for then I think of him not only 
every day, but day and night, and all day long. 
But I confess at the same time that my 
thoughts of you will be more pleasant to 
myself when I shall have exonerated my 
conscience by giving you the letter so long 
your due. Therefore, here it comes : little 
worth your having, but payment, such as it is, 
that you have a right to expect, and that is 
essential to my own tranquillity. 

That the Iliad and the Odyssey should 
have proved the occasion of my suspending 
ray correspondence with you, is a proof how 
little we foresee the consequences of what 
we publish. Homer, I dare siiy, hardly at till 
suspected that at the fag-end of time two 
personages would appear, the one ycleped 
Sir Newton and the other Sir Cowper, whp, 
loving e.ach other heartily, would nevertheless 
suffer the pains of an interrupted intercourse, 

* OInoy. 

t We subjoin an extract from this Sunday-school 
hymn, for the benefit of our younger readers. 

" Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, 
In heaven, thy dwelling-place. 
From infants, made the public care. 
And taught to seek thy face ! 

" Thanks for thy word, and for thy day ; 
And grant us, we implore. 
Never to waste in sinful play 
Thy holy Sabbaths more. 

"Thanks that we hear— but, oh ! impart 
To each desires sincere. 
That we may listen with our heart. 
And learn, as well as hoar." 
t Private corre-spondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



333 



his poems the eause. So, however, it has 
happened ; and tlioiijrh it would not, I sup- 
pose, extort from the old bard a single sigh, 
if he knew it, yet to nie it suggests the seri- 
ous reflection above-mentioned. An author 
by jirnfmxinn had need narrtiuiy to watch his 
pen, lest a line should escape it which by possi- 
bility may do mischief, when he has been long 
dead and buried. What we have done, when 
we have written a book, will never be known 
till the day of judgment : then the aeeount 
will be liquidated, and all the good that it 
has oeeasioned, and all the evil, will witness 
either for or against us. 

I am now in the last book of the Odyssey, 
yet have still, I suppose, half a year's work 
before me. The aee urate revisal of two such 
voluminous poems can hardly eost me less. 
T rejoice, however, that llie goal is in pros- 
jiect : for, though it has eost me years to 
run this race, it is only now that I begin to 
liave a glimpse of it. That I shall never re- 
ceive any proportionable pecuniary recom- 
pense for my long labors is pretty certain ; 
and AS to any fame that I may possibly gain 
by it, that is a commodity that daily sinks in 
value, in measure as the consummation of all 
things approaches. In the day when the lion 
shall dandle the kid, and a little child shall 
lead them, the world will liave lost all relish 
for the fabulous legends of antiquity, and 
Homer and his translator may budge off the 
stage together. 

Ever yours, W. C. 

Cowper's remarks on the subject of au- 
thors, in the above letter, are truly impressive 
and dcnuind attention. If it indeed be true, 
that authors are responsible for their writ- 
ings, as well as for their personal conduct, (of 
which we presume there can be no reason- 
able doubt,) how would the tone of literature 
be raised, and the pen often be arrested in 
its course, if this conviction were fullv re- 
alized to the conscience I Their writings 
are, in fiict, the record of the operations of 
their minds, and are destined to survive, so 
far as metallic types and literary talent can 
ensure durability and success. Nor is it less 
true that the character of a nation will gen- 
erally be moulded by the spirit of its authors. 
Allowing, therefore, the extent of this power- 
ful iiilluence, we can conceive the possibility 
of authors, at the la.st great day. undergoing 
the ordeal of a solemn judicial in(iuiry, when 
the subject for investigation will be, how far 
their writings have enlarged the bounds of 
useful knowledge, or .subserved the cause of 
piety and truth. If, instead of those great 
ends being answered, it shall appear that the 
foundations of religion have been under- 
mined, the cause of virtue weakened, and the 
heart made more accessible to error ; if, too, 
a drc.id arrav of witnes.ses shall stand forth. 



tracing the guilt of their lives and the ruin 
of their'hopes to the fatal intiuence of the 
books which they had read, what image of 
horror can equal the sensation of such a mo- 
ment, save the despair of hearing the irrevo- 
cable sentence, " Depart from me, ye workers 
of iniquity ; I never knew you !" 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weslon, Si'pl. 21, 1783. 

My dear Friend, — You left us exactly at 
the wrong time ; had you stayed till now, you 
would have had the pleasure of hearing even 
my cousin say — " I am cold," — and the still 
greater pleasure of being warm yourself; for 
I have had a fire in the study ever since you 
went. It is the fault of our summers that 
they are hardly ever warm or cold enough. 
Were they warmer we sh(nild not want a fire, 
and were they colder we should have one. 

I have twice seen and conversed with Mr. 

J ; he is witty, intelligent, and agreeable 

beyond the common me.asure of men who 
are so. But it is the constant effect of a 
spirit of party to make those hateful to each 
other who are truly amiable in themselves. 

Beau sends his love : be was melancholy 
the u hole d;iy after your departure. 

W. C. 



The power of poetry to embellish the most 
simple incident is pleasingly evinced in the 
following letter, by the Homeric muse of 
Cowper. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, 

Weslim, Oct. 4. 1780. 
My dear Friend, — The hamper is come, and 
come safe : and the contents I can affirm, 
on my own knowledge, are excellent. It 
chanced that another hamper and box came 
by the same conveyance, all which I un- 
p.acked and expounded in the hall, my cousin 
sitting meantime on the stairs, spectatress of 
the business. We diverted ourselves with 
imagining the manner in which Homer would 
have described the scene. Detailed in his 
circumstantial w-ay, it would have furnished 
materials for a paragraph of con.siderable 
length in an Ody.ssey. 

The straw-stuff'd hamper with his ruthless steel 
He oppnVI, cultin2 sheer th' inserted cords, 
Which bound the liil and lip secure. Forth cauio 
The rustling package first bright straw of wheat, 
Or oats or l>arlcy ; next a bottle green 
Throat-full, clear s])irits the contents, distill'd 
Drop nrtcr drop odorous, by the art 
Of the fair mother of his friend — the Rose. 

And so on. 

I should rejoice to be the hero of such a tale 
in the hands of Homer. 



334 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



You will remember, I trust, that, when the 
stiite of your health or lipirits calls't'or rural 
walks and fresh air, you have always a re- 
treat at Weston. 

We are all well ; all love you, down to 
the very dog: and shall be glad to hear that 
you have exchanged languor for alacrity, and 
the debility that you mention for indefatiga- 
ble vigor. 

Mr. Throckmorton has made me a hand- 
some present ; Villoi.son's edition of the Iliad, 
elegantly bound by Edwards.* If I live long 
enough, by the contributions of my friends I 
shall once more be possessed of a library. 
Adieu ! W. C. 



yo THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

My dear Walter, — I know that you arc 
too reasonable a man to e.xpect anything like 
punctuality of correspondence from a trans- 
later of Homer, especially from one who is 
a doer also of m.any other things at the same 
time ; for I l.;bor hard not only to acquire a 
little fome for myself, but to win it also for 
others, men of whom I know nothing, not 
even their names, wlio send me their poetry, 
that by translating it out of prose into verse, 
I may make it more like poetry than it was. 
Having heard all this, you will feel yourself 
not only inclined to pardon my long silence, 
but to pity me also for the cause of it. You 
may if you please believe likewise, for it is 
true, that I have a faculty of remembering my 
friends even when I do not write to them, and 
of loving them iu>t one jot the less, though I 
leave them to starve for want of a letter from 
me. And now I think you have an apology 
b(ith as to style, matter, and manner, alto- 
gether unexceptionable. 

Why is the winter like a Kackbiter ? Be- 
cause Solomon says that a backbiter separ- 
ates between chief friends, and so does the 
winter; to this dirty season it is owing that 
I see nothing of the valii.ible Chesters, whom 
indeed I see less at all times than serves at 
all to content me. I hear of them indeed 
occasionally from my neighbors at the Hall, 
but even of that comfort I have lately en- 
joyed less than usual, Mr. Throckmorton 
having been hindered by his first fit of the 
gout from his usual visits to Chicheley. The 
gout however has not prevented his making 
me a handsome present of a folio edition of 
the Iliad, published about a year since at 
Venice, by a literato, who calls himself Vil- 
loison. It is possible that you havf seen it, 
and that if you have it not your,self, it has at 
least found its way to Lord Bagot's library. 
If neither should be the case, when I write 
next (for sooner or later I shall certainly 

* The character of this work is Riven by Cewper him- 
eelf in a subsequent letter to his friend Walter BagoU 



write to you again if I live) I will send you 
some pretty stories out of his Prolegomena, 
which will make your hair stand on end, as 
mine has stood on end already, they so hor- 
ribly affect, in point of authenticity, the credit 
of the works of the immortal Homer. 

Wishing you and Mrs. Bagttt all the hap- 
piness that a new year can possibly bring 
with it, I remain, with Mrs. Unwin's best re- 
spects, yours, my dear friend, with all sin- 
cerity, W. C. 

My paper mourns for the death of Lord 
Cowper, my valuable cousin, and much my 
benefactor. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

My dear Friend, — I am a terrible creature 
for not writing sooner, but the old excuse 
must serve ; at le.ast I will not occupy paper 
with the addition of others unless you should 
insist on it, in which case I can assure you 
that I have them ready. Now to business. 

From Villoison I learn that it was the 
avowed opinion and persuasion of C.allima- 
chus (whose hymns we both studied at West- 
minster) that Homer was very imperfectly 
understood even in his day : that his admir- 
ers, deceived by the perspicuity of his style, 
fancied themselves masters of his meaning, 
when in truth they knew little about it. 

Now we know that Callimachus, as I have 
hinted, was himself a poet, and a good one ; 
he was also esteemed a good critic ; he 
almost, if not .actually, adored Homer, and 
imitated him as nearly as he could. 

What shall we say to this? I will tell you 
what I say to it. Callimachus meant, and he 
could mean nothing more by this assertion, 
than that the poems of Homer were in fact 
an allegory ; that under the obvious import 
of his stories lay concealed a mystic sense, 
sometimes philosophical, sonjetimes religious, 
sometimes moral ; and that the generality 
cither wanted penetration or industry, or had 
not been properly qualified by their studies 
to discover it. This I can re,".dily believe, 
for I am myself an ignoramus in these points, 
and, except here and there, discern nothing 
more than the letter. But if Callimachus 
will tell me that even of Ihat I am ignorant, 
I hope soon by two great volumes to con- 
vince him of the contrary. 

I learn also from the same Villoison, that 
Pisistratus, who was a sort of Msrccn.as in 
Athens, where he gave great encouragement 
to literature, and built and furnished a public 
library, regretting that there was no complete 
copy of Homer's works in the world, resohed 
to make one. For this purpose, he advertised 
rewards in all the newspapers to those, who, 
being possessed memoriler of any part or par- 
cel of the poems of that bard, would resort 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



335 



to his house, and repeat them to his secre- I 
tarie!!, ihat they might write them. Now, it I 
hajHK lied that more were desirous of tlie re- ' 
ward than qualified to deserve it. The eoii- 
sequenee was, that the non-qualilied persons, 
haviiiij many ot" them a pretty icnack at versi- 
tieation, imposed on the generous Athenian 
most egregiously, giving liim, instead of 
Homer's verses, whieh they liad not to give, 
verses of their own invention. lie, good 
erea'.ure, suspecting no such fraud, took 
tliem all for gospel, and entered them into 
his volume accordingly. 

Now, let him believe the story who can. 
That Homer's works were in this manner 
corrected, I can believe : but, that a learned 
Athenian could be so imposed upon, with 
sullicient means of detection at hand, I can- 
nol. Would he not be on his guard ? Would 
not a difference of style and manner have oc- 
curred .' Would not th.it difference have ex- 
cited a suspicion ? Would not that suspicion 
have led to inquiry, and would not that in- 
quiry have issued in detection ? For how 
easy was it in the multitude of Homer-con- 
ners to tind two, ten, twenty, possessed of 
the questionable pass.age, and, by confronting 
him with the impudent impostor, to convict 
him. libeas ergo in malam rem cum istis 
tuis liallucinalionibus, Villoisnne !* 

Yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston, Dec. 1, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — On this fine first of De- 
cember, under an unclouded sky, and in a 
room full of sunshine, I address myself to the 
p:iyment of a debt long in arrear, but never 
forgotten by me, however I may have seemed 
to forget it. I will not w.aste time in apolo- 
gies. I have but one, and that one will sug- 
gest itself unmentioned. I will only add. 
that you .are the first to whom I write, of 
several to whom I have not written many 
months, who all have claims upon me; and 
who, I Hatter myself, are all gruiublinj^ at 
my silence. In your case, perhaps, I have 
been less anxious than in the case of some 
others; becau.se, if you have not heard from 
myself, you have heard from Mrs. Unwin. 
From her you have learned that I live, th.at 
I am as well as usual, and that I translate 
Homer: — three short items, but in which is 

* The reveries of leameU men are amusio^, but tnju- 
rioii!* to Iriie LL*te and soiinti lilcraturc Ui^hop War- 
burl^tn's Inboroil uttempl lo prove thai the descent of 
yf-!ii<>a.s into liell in the Gtli book of Uie .^^neid, is in- 
t4-nd(!d to convey a representation of tliu I'Jetisinian inys- 
liTii-s, is of this description ; when it is obviously an 
imil^ttjon of ft similar event, recorded of Ulysses. Cenins 
iihonM uuard it-^ainsl a fondness for speculative discnr- 
sion. which often leais from the simplicity of truth to Ihe 
est;il)lishinent of dan-^eroiis errors. We consider specu- 
htlive inquiries to form one of the features of the present 
limes, m,'ainst which we have ne(Nl to bo vitrilantly on 
our guard. t Vrivaijc correspondence. 



comprised the whole detail of my present 
history. Thus I fared when you were here ; 
thus 1 have fared ever since you were here; 
and thus, if it please God, 1 shall continue to 
fare for some time longer: for, though the 
work is done, it is not finished: a riddle 
which you, who are a brother of the press, 
will solve easily.* I have also been the less 
anxious, because I have had freijuent oppor- 
tunities to hear of you ; and have always 
heard th.at you are in good health and happy. 
Of Mrs. Newton, too, I have heard more fa- 
vorable accounts of late, which have given us 
both the sineerest pleasure. Mrs. Unwin's 
case is, at present, my only subject of uneasi- 
ness, that is not immediately personal, and 
properly my own. She has almost constant 
headaches ; almost a constant pain in her 
side, which nobody understands; and her 
lameness, within the last half year, is very 
little amended. But her spirits are good, 
because supported by comforts wliich depend 
not on the stiite of the body; and I do not 
know that, with all these pains, her looks are 
at all altered since we had the happiness to 
see you here, unless, perh.aps, they are al- 
tered a little for the better. I have thus 
given you as circumstantial an account of 
our.selves as I could: the most interesting 
matter, I verily believe, with which I could 
h.ave filled my paper, unless I could have 
made spiritual mercies to myself the subject. 
In my next, perhaps, I shall find leisure to 
bestow a few lines on what is dping in 
France, and in the Austrian Netherlands;! 
though, to say the truth, 1 am much hotter 
qualified to write an essay on the siege of 
Troy than to descant on any of these modern 
revolutions. I question if, in either of the 
countries just mentioned, full of bustle and 
tumult as they arc, there be a single charac- 
ter whom Homer, were he living, would 
deign to make his hero. The popul.ace arc 
the heroes now, and the stuff of w hicli gen- 
tlemen heroes are made seems to be all ex- 
pended. 

I will endeavor that my next letter shall 
not follow this so tardily as this has followed 
the last ; and, with our joint affectionate re- 
membrances to yourself and Mrs. Newton, 
remain as ever, 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec 18, 1789. 

My dear Friend, — The present appears to 

* Revision is no small pari of the literary labors of im 
author. 

t The French revolution, Uwt (jrcat event which excl^ 
cised so powerful an influence not only on i:uroi»epn 
eovenimuiits but on the world at l:ir;:e, and the effects cf 
which are experience<l at the nresent moment, had just 
cominenci'd. The Austrian Netherlands had also re- 
volted, and Brussels and most of the principal towns 
and cities wore iu the hulids of tho insurgeuta. 



336 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me a wonderful period in tlie history of man- 
kind. Tliat nations so long contentedly 
slaves should on a sudden become enamored 
of liberty, and understand as suddenly their 
own natural right to it, feeling themselves at 
the same time inspired with resolution to as- 
sert it, seems difficult to account for from 
natural causes. With respect to the final is- 
sue of all this, I can only say that if, having 
discovered the value of liberty, Ihey should 
next discover the value of peace, and lastly 
the value of the word of God, they will be 
happier than they ever were since the rebel- 
lion of the first pair, and as happy as it is 
possible they should be in the present life. 
Most sincerely yours, W. C. 

The French revolution, to which we have 
now been led by the correspondence of Cow- 
per, w-hether we consider its immediate or 
ultimate consequences, was one of the most 
e.xtraordinary events recorded in the history 
of modern Europe. It fixed the contempla- 
tion of the politician, the philosopher, and 
the moralist. By the first, it w-as viewed ac- 
cording to the political bias which marks the 
two great divisions of party established in 
this country. Mr. Fox designated it as one 
of the noblest fabrics ever erected by human 
liberty for the happiness of mankind. Mr. 
Burke asserted that it was a system of de- 
molition, and not of reparation. The French 
revolution might possibly have merited the 
eulogium of Mr. Fox, if its promoters had 
known when to pause, or how to regulate its 
progress. But unliappily tlie spirit of dem- 
ocracy was let loose, and those who first en- 
gaged in the work (influenced no doubt by 
the purest motives) were obliged to give 
way to men of more turbulent passions ; 
demagogues, who were willing to go all 
lengths; who had nothing to lose, and every- 
thing to gain ; and in whose eyes modera- 
tion was a crime, and the fear of spoliation 
and carniige an act of ignoble timidity. Con- 
tending factions succeeded each other like the 
waves of the sea, and were borne along with 
the same irresistible power, till their fury 
was spent and exhausted. 

The sequel is well known. Property was 
confi.scated. Wliatever was venerable in vir- 
tue, splendid in rank, or sacred in religion, 
became the object of popular violence. The 
throne and the altar were overturned; and 
an amiable and inoffensive monarch, whose 
only crime was the title that he sustained, 
was led in triumph to the scaffold, amidst the 
acclamations of his people : and, as if to 
make death more terrible, the place selected 
for his execution was in view of the very 
palace which had been the scene of his for- 
mer gi'eatness.* 

* lliBC finis Pi'iami fiitonim ; hie cxitiis ilium 
Sorte tulit, Tr*)j;im inc'jii8iiin et prulapij^ videntera 



The features which distinguished the revo- 
lution in Franco from that of England in 1688 
are thus finely drawn by Mr. Burke. 

" In truth, the circumstances of our revolu- 
tion (as it is called) and that of France arc 
just the reverse of each other in almost every 
particular, and in the whole spirit of the trans- 
action. With us it was the case of a legal 
monarch attempting arbitrary power. In 
France it is the case of an arbitrary mon- 
arch, beginning, from whatever cause, to le- 
galize his authority. The one was to be re- 
sisted, the other was to be managed and 
directed; but in neither case was the order 
of the state to be changed, lest government 
might be ruined, which ought only to be 
corrected and legalized. 

"What we did was, in truth ami substance, 
and in a constitutional light, a revnlution, not 
made, but prevented. We took solid securi- 
ties; we settled doubtful questions; we cor- 
rected anomalies in our law. In the stable, 
fundamental parts of our constitution we 
made no revolution; no, nor any alteration 
at all. We did not impair the monarchy. 

"The nation kept the same ranks, the same 
orders, the same privileges, the same franchi- 
ses, the same rules for property, the same 
subordinations, the same order in the law, 
in the revenue, and in the magistracy : the 
same lords, the same commons, the same cor- 
porations, the same electors."* 

That we should have been so graciously 
preserved in such a period of political con- 
vulsions, will ever demand our gratitude and 
praise. We owe it not to our arms, or to our 
councils, but to the goodness and mercy of 
God. We heard the loud echo of the thun- 
der, and the bowlings of the storm. We 
even felt some portion of the Iieavings of the 
earthquake ; but we were spared from fall- 
ing into the abyss; we survived the ruin 
and desolations. We trust we .shall still be 
preserved, by the same superintending Prov- 
idence, and that we may say, in tlie language 
of Burke, — 

" We are not the converts of Rousseau ; we 
are not the disciples of Voltaire ; Helvctius 
has made no progress amongst us. Atheists 
are not our preachers ; madmen are not our 
lawgivers." 

But, if history be philosophy teaching by 
example, what, we may ask, were the politi- 
cal and moral causes of th.at extraordinary 
convulsion in France, of which we are speak- 
ing ? They are to be traced to that spirit of 
ambition and conquest, which, however splen- 
did in military prowess, ultimately exhausted 
the resources of tlie state, and oppressed the 
people with imposts and taxation. They are 

Pergama ; tot quondam populis, terrisque, superbum 
Rpffnatorem Asiae. Jacet ingens littore Iruncua, 
Avulsumquc humpria caput, et sine nomine corpus. 
* Burke's Reflections on the Itevu!uliv>n in France. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



337 



to be found in the system of peculation and 
extravagance that pervaded every department 
of the government: in tlie prolligaey of the 
court; in tlie hixurious pomp and prido of 
the noblesse: and in the universal corruption 
that infected tlie whole mass of society. To 
the above may be added, the zeal with which 
iiilidel iwincijiles were propagated, and the 
systematic attempts to undermine the whole 
fabric of civil society through the agency of 
the press. The press became impious to- 
wards God, and disloyal to\wirds kings ; and 
unfortunately the church and the state, being 
enfeebled by corruption, opposed an ineffect- 
>ial resistance. Religion had lost its hold on 
the public mind. Men were required to be- 
lieve too much, and believed nothing. The 
consequences were inevitable. When men 
have once cast otf the fear of God, it is an 
easy transition to forget reverence to the au- 
thority of kings, and obedience to the majes- 
ty of law. It is curious to observe how the 
effects of this antisocial conspiracy were dis- 
tinctly foreseen and predicted. " I hold it 
impossible," said Rousseau, " that the great 
monarchies of Europe can subsist much lon- 
ger." " The high may be reduced low, and 
the rich become poor, and even the monarch 
dwindle into a subject."* The train was laid, 
the match alone was wanting to produce the 
explosion. 

The occasion was at length presented. 
The immediate cause of the French revolu- 
tionf must be sought in the plains of Ameri- 
ca. When. Great Britain was involved with 
her American colonies, France ungraciously 
interposed in the quarrel. She paid the price 
of her interference in a manner that she little 
anticipated. The Marquis de la Fayette (here 
tirst acquired his ardor for the cause of liber- 

* In his " Emilie." Tlie memorable remarlc of Mndamo 
<Iu Pompadour will not sooii t*e foR^otteu ; '^ Apriis iioiia 
le Deluge." •• Afler u«, llle Dcluse." 

t Rousseau's prophecy of thi>* tjrcril c.itnstrophe has 
Iteeu already iuserted ; l»ul the mtwt remarkable predic- 
tion, specifyiiic.' even the i)reci!*e jjeriod of its tumlment, 
i^ to be found in Fleininii'a " Apocalyptic Key," pub- 
liwhe<l so far back a-s the year 17(U. In thi.s work is the 
f"llowinn pa.*wage. "Perhaps Ihr French uumarchij may 
bi'.'in to be considerably liiimbkd about lliut time : that 
whereai* the present French KinK {Lewis XIV.) takes 
the Sun for his emblem^ and this for his motto, * nee plu- 
ribus iinpar,' ht; may at lenL^th, or rather his successors, 
and the moiuirchy itself, at Ira^t brfare the year 1794, be 
forced to acknowledge that in respect to neigbboring 
potentates, he is even ."insults imprir."* 

Wo add one more very curiotis prediction. 

"Yes; that Versailles, which thou hast made for the 
ifloiy of thy natnea. I will throw to the [?roimd. and all 
your insolent inscriptii>ns, liijiires, abominable pictures. 
!\nd Paris ; Paris, that imperial city, I will nillict it 
dre.-ulfully. Yes, 1 will afllict the Royal Family. Yes, I 
will aveni<e the iniquity of the Kiiu; upon his grand- 
children." — Laey'i Prophetic IVartiinffH^ Loudon, 1707, 
!'• «■ I 

* By referring to Revelation xvi. 8, it will be seen that 
the fourth vial is poured out on the .S'loi, which is inter- 
preted as denotinif the humiliation of some emineut po- 
tentates of the Romish communion, and therefore prin- 
eipally to be uiidi'rsto'nl of the House of Bourbon, wnich 
takes precedence of Ihein all. ! 



ty; and, crossing the Atlantic, carried back 

with him the sjiirit into France, and in a 
short time lighted up aflame which has since 
spread so great it conflagration. 

But whence sprung the revolution in Amer- 
ica .' 

To solve this momentous question, we 
must overlook the more immediate causes, 
and extend our inquiry to the political and re- 
ligious discussions of the times of James I. 
and Charles I. and II. It is in that unfortu- 
nate period of polemical controver.sy and ex- 
citement, that the foundation of events was 
laid which have not even yet siient their 
strength; and th:it the phih^j^ophical inquirer, 
whose sole object is the attainment of truth, 
will find it. 

The Puritans proposed to carry forth the 
principle of the Reformation to a still further 
extent. The proposition was rejected, their 
views were inipugiied, and the freedom of re- 
ligious inquiry was imptded by vexatious ob- 
structions. They found no asylum at home; 
they sought it abroad, and on the American 
continent planted the standard of civil and 
religious liberty. The times of Charles I. 
follow-ed. There was the same spirit, and 
the same results. The Star Chamber and 
the High Commission Court supplied new- 
victims to swell the tide of angry feeling be- 
yond the Atlantic. It was persecution that 
first peopled America. Time .alone was want- 
ing to mature the fruits. The reign of Charles 
II. completed the eventful crisis. The Act 
of Uniformity excluded, in one day, two thou- 
sand ministers (many of w'hom were distin- 
guished for profound piety and learning) from 
the bosom of the Church of England; and 
thus, by the acts of three successive reigns, 
the spirit of independence was established 
in America, and dissent in England, from 
which snch mighty results have since fol- 
lowed. 

We have indulged in these remarks, be- 
cause we wish to show the tendency of that 
high feeling, w-hich, originating, as we sin- 
cerely believe, in a coi-ditil attachment to our 
Church, endangers, by mistaking the means, 
the stability of the edifice which it seeks to 
support. We think this feeling, though 
abated in its intenseness, still exists; and, 
cast as we now are into perilous times, when 
Churches and St;ites are undergoing a most 
scrutinizing inquiry, we are deeply solicitous 
that the past should operate as a beacon for 
the future. If the Church of England is to 
be preserved as a component part of our in- 
stitutions, and in its ascendancy over the pub- 
lic mind, the members of that Church must 
not too incautiously resist the spirit of the 
age, but seek to guide what they cannot ar- 
rest. Let the value and necessity of an Es- 
tablished Church be rix^ognized by the evi- 
dence of its usefulness ; let the pure doctrines 
22 



338 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of the Gospel be proclaimed in our pulpits; 
and a noble ardor and co-operation be mani- 
fested in tlie prosperity of our great Institu- 
tions, — our Bible, Missionary, and Jewish so- 
cieties. She will then attract the favor, the 
love and the veneration of the poor, and dif- 
fuse a holy and purifying influence among all 
classes in the community. Her priests will 
thus be clothed with righteousness, and her 
saints shout for joy. To her worshippers we 
may then e.xclaim with humble confidence 
and joy, " Walk about Zion, and go round 
about her ; tell the towers thereof Mark 
ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces, 
that ye may t(Jl it to the generation fol- 
lowing. For tliis God is our God forever 
and ever ; he will be our guide even unto 
death."* 



We now resume the correspondence of 
Cowper. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Jan. 3, 1790. 

My dear Sir, — I have been long silent, but 
you have had the charity, I hope and believe, 
not to ascribe my silence to a wrong cause. 
The truth is, I luive been too busy to write to 
anybody, having been obliged to give my 
early mornings to the revisal and correction 
of a little volume of Hymns for Children, 
written by I know not whom. This task I 
finished but yesterday, and wliile it was in 
hand wrote only to my cousin, and to lier 
rarely. From her, however, I knew that you 
would hear of my well-being, which made me 
less an.xious about my debts to you than I 
could have been otherwise. 

I am almost the only person at Weston 
known to you who have enjoyed tolerable 
health this winter. In your next letter give 
us some account of your own state of healtli, 
for I liave had many anxieties about you. 
The winter has been mild; but our winters 
are in general such, tliat, wlien a friend 
loaves us in the beginning of that season, I 
always feel in my lieart a perhaps, importing 
that we have possibly met for the last time, 
and that the robins may whistle on the 
grave of one of us before the return of 
summer. 

I am still tlirumming Homer's lyre ; that 
is to say, I am still employed in my last re- 
visal ; and, to give you some idea of the in- 
tenseness of my toils, I will inform you that 
it cost me all tlie morning yesterday, and all 
tlie evening, to translate a single simile to 
my mind. The transitions from one member 
of the subject to another, though easy and 
natiual in the Greek, turn out often so intol- 
erably awkward in an English version, that 
almost endless labor and no little address are 

* PBalm xlviii. 12—14. 



requisite to give them grace and elegance. I 

forget if I told you that your German Clavis 
has been of considerable use to me. I am 
indebted to it for a right understanding of 
the manner in which Achilles prepared pork, 
mutton, and goat's flesh, for the entertain- 
ment of his friends, in the night when they 
came deputed by Agamemnon to negotiate 
a reconciliation. A passage of which no- 
body in tlie world is perfectly master, my- 
self only, and Slaukenbergius excepted, nor 
ever was, except when Greek was a live lan- 
guage. 

I do not know whether my cousin has told 
you or not how I brag in my letters to her 
concerning my Translation ; perhaps her 
modesty feels more for me than mine for 
myself, and she would blush to let even you 
know the degree of my self-conceit on that 
subject. I will tell you, however, expressing 
myself as decently as my vanity will permit, 
that it has undergone such a change for the 
better in this last revisal, that I have much 
warmer hopes of success than formerly. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO MRS KING.* 

The Lodge, Jan. 4, 1790. 

Jly dear Madam, — Your long silence has 
occasioned me to have a thousand' anxious 
thoughts about you. So long it has been, 
that, whether I now write to a Jlrs. King at 
present on earth, or already in heaven, I 
know not. I have friends wliose silence 
troubles me less, though I have known them 
longer ; because, if I hear not from them- 
selves; I yet hear from others that they are 
still living, and likely to live. But if your 
letters cease to bring me news of your wel- 
fare, from whom can I gain the desired in- 
telligence? The birds of the air will not 
bring it, and third person there is none be- 
tween us by whom it might be conveyed. 
Nothing is plain to me on this subject, but 
tliat eitlier you are dead, or very much indis- 
posed ; or, «'hich would affect me with per- 
haps as deep a concern, though of adifl'crent 
kind, very much oft'ended. The latter of 
these suppositions I think the least probable, 
conscious as I am of an habitual desire to 
ofl'end nobody, especially a lady, and es- 
pecially a lady to whom I have many obliga- 
tions. But all the three solutions above 
mentioned are very uncomfortable ; and if 
you live, and can send me one that will 
cause me less pain than either of them, I 
conjure you by the charity and benevolence 
which I know influence you upon all occa- 
sions, to communicate it without delay. 

It is possible, notwithstanding appear- 
ances to the contrary, that you are not bc- 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



339 



come perfectly indifferent to me and to what 
concerns me. I will tlicrcfore add a. word or 
two on a subject which once interested you, 
and wliich is, for tliat reason worthy to be 
mentioned, though truly for no other — mean- 
ing myself I am well, and have been so, 
(uneasiness on your account excepted,) both 
in mind and body, ever since 1 wrote to you 
bist. I have still the same employmentv 
Homer in the morning, and Homer in the 
evening, as constant as the day goes round. 
In the spring I hope to send the Iliad and 
Odyssey to the press. So nnich for me and 
my occupations. Poor Mrs. Unwin has 
hitherto had but an unpleasant winter ; un- 
pleasant as constant pain, either in the head 
or side, could make it. She joins me in af- 
fectionate compliments to yourself and Mr. 
King, and in earnest wishes that you will 
soon favor me with a line that shall relieve 
me from all my perplexitios. 
1 am, dear madam. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MBS. KING.* 

The Lodge, Jan 18, 1790. 

My dear Madam, — The sincerest thanks 
attend you, both from -Mrs. Unwin and my- 
self, for many good things, on some of wliicli 
I have already regaled with an atfectionate 
remembrance of tlie giver. 

Tlie report tliat informed you of inquiries 
m:ide by Mrs. Unwin alter a house at Hunt- 
ingdon was unfounded. We have no thought 
of quitting Weston, unless tlie same Provi- 
dence that led us hither should lead us away. 
It is a situation perfectly agreeable to us 
both; and to me in particular who write 
much, and walk much, and consequently 
love silence and retirement, one of the most 
eligible. If it has a fault, it is that it seems 
to threaten ns with a certainty of never see-, 
ing you. But may we not hope that, when 
a milder season shall have improved your 
l;eal;li, we may yet, notwitlist;inding the dis- 
tance, be favored with Mr. King's and your 
company.' A better season will likewise 
improve the roads, and, exactly in proportion 
as it does so, will, in effect, lessen the inter- 
val between us. I know not if Mr. Martyn 
be a mathematician, but most probably he is 
a good one, and he can tell you that this is 
a proposition mathematically true, though 
r.ather |)aradoxical in appearance. 

I am obliged to that gentleman, and much 
obliged to him for his favorable opinion of 
inv translation. What parts of Homer are 
particularly intended by the critics as those 
in which 1 shall probal)ly fall sluirt, I know 
not ; but let me f lil where I may, I shall fail 
nowhere through want of endeavors to avoid 

* Private correspondence. 



it. The under parts of the poems (those I 
j mean which are merely narrative) I find the 
I most difficult. These can only be supported 
by the diction, and on these, for that reason, 
I have bestowed the most abundant labor. 
Fine similes and fine speeches take care of 
] themselves: but the exact process of slaying 
a sheep, and dressing it, it is not so easy to 
dignify in our language, and in our measure. 
; But 1 shall have the comfort, as I said, to re- 
! tiect, that, whatever may be hereafter laid to 
my charge, the sin of idleness will not. 
Justly, at least, it never will. In the mean- 
time, my dear madam, I whisper to you a 
secret ; — not to fall short of the original in 
everything is impossible. 

I send you, I believe, all my pieces that 
you have never seen. Did I not send you 
" Catharina .'" If not, you shall have it here- 
after. I am, dear madam, ever, ever in haste, 
Sincerely yours, W. C. 

We are here first introduced to the notice 
of the Rev. John Johnson, the cousin of 
Cowper, by the maternal line of the Donnes. 
The poet often used familiarly to call him 
"Johnny of Norfolk." Ilis name will fre- 
quently appear in the course of the ensuing 
correspondence. It is to his watchful and 
affectionate c.ire that the poet was indebted 
for all the solace that the most disinterested 
regard, and highly conscientious sense of 
duty, could adtninister, under circumstances 
the most afflicting. Nor did be ever leave 
his beloved bard, till he bad closed his eyes 
in death, and paid the last sad olHces, due to 
departed worth and genius. His acquaint- 
ance with Cowper commenced about this time, 
by a voluntary introduction, on his own part. 
He has recorded the ])articulars of this first 
interview and visit in a poem, entitled " Rec- 
ollections of Cowper."' We trust that his 
estimable widow may see fit to communicate 
it to the public, who we have no doubt will 
feel a lively interest in a subject, issuing from 
the kinsman of Cowper. 

TO LADY HESIiETII. 

Tlie Lodge, Jan. 20, nSW. 

My dear Coz., — I had a letter yesterday 
from the wild boy Johnson, for whom I have 
conceived a great affection. It was just such 
a letter as 1 like, of the true helter-skelter 
kind ; and, though he writes a remarkably 
good hand, .scribbled with such rapidity, that 
it was barely legible. He gave me a droll 
account of the adventures of Lord Howard's 
note, and of his own pursuit of it. The 
poem he brought me came as from Lord 
Howard, with his Lordship's request that I 
would revise it. It is in the form of a pas- 
toral, and is entitled, "The Tale (if the Lute, 
or the Beauties of Audley End," I read it 
attentively, was much pleased with part of it, 



340 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and part of it I equally disliked. I told him 
so, and in such terms as one naturally uses 
when there seems to be no occasion to qual- 
ify or to alleviate censure. I observed him 
afterwards somewhat more thoughtful and 
silent, but occasionally as pleasant as usual ; 
and in Kilwick-wood, where we walked the 
next day, the truth came out — that he was i 
himself the author, and that Lord Howard, 
not approving it altogether, and several 
friends of his own age, to whom he had 
.shown it, differing from his Lordship in 
opinion, and being highly pleased with it, he 
had come at last to a resolution to abide by 
my judgment; a measure to whicli Lord 
Howard by all means advised him. He ac- 
cordingly brought it, and will bring it again 
in the summer, when we shall lay our heads 
together and try to mend it. 

I have lately had a letter also from Mrs. 
King, to whom I had written to inquire 
whetiicr she were living or dead : she tells 
me the critics e.xpect from my Homer every- 
tliing in some parts, and that in others I 
shall fall short. These are the Cambridge 
critics ; and she has her intelligence from the 
botanical professor, Martyn. That gentle- 
man in reply answers them, that I shall fall 
short in nothing, but shall disappoint them 
all. It shall be my endeavor to do so, and I 
am not without hope of succeeding. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Feb. 2, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — Should Heyne's* Homer 
appear before mine, which I hope is not 
probable, and should he adopt in it the opin- 
ion of Bentley, that the whole of the last 
Odyssey is spurious, I will dare to contradict 
both him and the Doctor. I am only in part 
of Bentley's mind (if indeed his mind were 
such) in tills njatter, and, giant as he was in 
learning, and eagle-eyed in criticism, am per- 
suaded, convinced, am sure (can I be more 
positive?) that, except from the moment 
when the Ithacans began to meditate an at- 
tack on the cottage of Laertes, and thence 
to the end, that book is the work of Homer. 
From the moment aforesaid, I yield the point, 
or rather, liave never, since I had any skill in 
Homer, felt myself at all inclined to dispute 
it.f But I believe perfectly at the same 

* A German critic, distinguished by his cl.issical erudi- 
lion iind pnirmiiid lejiininG;. 

t In lliis lalxtrioiis undertaking, Cowper wa3 assisted 
by tiie tblluwinti editions of that great poet. 

1st. That of Clark, 17-39—1754. 4 vols. 8r. et Lat. 

This is the most popular edition of Homer, and the 
bjLsis of many subsequent editions. The text is formed 
on thatofSchreveliusand of Barnes. The notes are gram- 
matical and philological, wiUi numerous quotations from 
Virgil of parallel passages. The want of the ancient 
Greek Hchelia is the princil>al defect. 

'.'ndly. That ofVdloison. Venice. 1783. Gr. 

This'edition is distinguished by a fac-similc of Uie text 1 



time, that Homer himself alone excepted, the 
Greek poet never existed, who could have 
written the speeches made by the shade of 
Agamemnon, in which there is more insight 
into the human heart discovered, than I ever 
saw in any other work, unless in Shak- 
speare's. 1 am equtdly disposed to fight for 
the whole passage that describes Laertes, 
and the interview between him and Ulysses. 
Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and I will 
shake h.ands with him as to all the rest. The 
battle with w-hich the book concludes is, I 
think, a paltry battle, and there is a huddle 
in the management of it altogether unworthy 
of my favorite, and the favorite of all ages. 

If you should happen to fall into company 
with Dr. Warton* again, you will not, I dare 
say, forget to make him my respectful com- 
pliments, and to assure him that I felt my- 
self not a little ilattered by the favorable 
mention he w.as pleased to make of me and 
my labors. The poet who pleases a man 
like him has nothing left to wish for. I am 
glad that you were pleased with my young 
cousin Johnson; he is a boy, and b.ashful, 
but has great merit in respect both of char- 
acter and intellect. So far at least as in a 
week's knowledge of him I could possibly 
learn, he is very amiable and very sensible, 
and inspired me with a warm wish to know 
him better. VV. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — Your kind letter de- 
served a speedier answer, but you know my 
excuse, which, were I to repeat always, my 
letters would resemble the fag-end of a news- 
p.iper, where we always find the price of 
stocks, detailed with little or no variation. 

and Bcbolia of a MS. of Homer, in the tenth century, 
found in the library of St. .Mark, Venice. The Preface 
abounds in learned and interesting matter, and is in higli 
estimation among scholars. Wolf, Heyne, and the 0.\- 
ford, or Grenville edition, have protited largely by Vil- 
luison's labors. His undustrious search after valuable 
MSS. and care in collating Ihein with received editions; 
his critical acumen, snuntl se!inlar>liip, .and profound 
erudition, entitle hiiu to tlie gratitude and praise of the 
cliissical student, lie died in J805. 

:irdly. That of Heyne. Leipsick. 1802, 8 vols. Gr. el 
Lat. 

The te.xt is formed on that of Wolf. Tlie editor was 
assisted in this undertaking by a copy of llentlcy's 
Homer, in which that celebratwl critic restores the long- 
lost digamma; and by an ancient and valuable MS. be- 
longing to Mr. Towneley. 

of this edition it has been observed that " the work 
of Professor Heyne will in a great measure preclude 
the necessity of farther collations, from which nothing of 
consequence can be e.vpected. WTien the Greek lan- 
guage is better understood than it is at present, it will be 
resorted to as a rich repository of philological infonna- 
nanr—F.dihburff/i Rcunw, July, 1803. 

* Dr. Warton (Joseph) head master of Winchester 
School, upwiu-ds of thirty years, where he presided witli 
hi'.'Ii reputation; autlior'oi' -Essay on the Writings and 
(ienius of Pope," and of an edition of the Works of Pojte. 
in 9 vols. 8vo. He »as brother to Thomas Warton, will 
known for his History of English Poetry. Died in IMItl. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



341 



Wlien J:uui:iry returns, you have your feel- 
ings concerning' mc, and such as prove the 
t'aithfuhiess of your friendship.* I liave mine 
also coiiccrnini,' myself, but they are of a cast 
different from yours. Yours have a mixture 
of sympathy and tender solicitude, which 
malics them, perhaps, not altojjether un- 
pleasant. Mine, on the contrary, are of an 
unmixed nature, and consist, simply and 
merely, of the most alarminjf apprehensions. 
Twice has that month returned upon me, ac- 
companied by such horrors as I have no rea- 
son to suppose ever made part of the expe- 
rience of any other man. 1 accordingly look 
forward to it, and meet it, with a dread not 
to be imagined. 1 number tlie niglits as 
they pas.s, and in the morning bless myself 
tliat another night is gone, and no harm has 
happened. Tliis may argue, perhaps, some 
imbecility of mind, and no small degree of 
it; but it is natural, I believe, and so natural 
as to be necessary and unavoidable. I know 
that God is not governed by secondary causes, 
in any of his operations, and that, on the con- 
trary, they are all so many agents in his 
hand, which strike only «hcn he bids them. 
I know consequently that one month is as 
dangerous to me as another, and that, in the 
middle of summer, at noonday, and in the 
clear .sunshine, I am in reality, unless guard- 
ed by him, as much exposed as when fast 
asleep at midnight, and in midwinter. But 
we are not always the wiser for our knowl- 
edge, and I can no more avail myself of 
mine, than if it were in the head of another 
man, and not in my own. I have heard of 
bodily aches and ails, that have been particu- 
larly troublesome when the season returned 
in which the hurt that occasioned tliem was 
received. The mind, I believe (with my own, 
however, I am sure it is so), is liable to simi- 
lar periodical ail'ection. But February is 
come, my terror is passed, and some shades 
of the gloom thai attended his presence have 
passed with him. I look forward with a lit- 
tle cheerfulness to the buds and the leaves 
that will soon appear, and say to myself, till 
they turn yellow I will make myself easy. 
The year will go round, and January will 
approach. I shall tremble again, and I know 
it ; but in the meantime I will be as comfort- 
able iis I can. Thus, in respect to peace of 
mind, such as it is th.at I enjoy, I subsist, as 
the poor are vulgarly said to do, from hand 
to mouth ; aiul of a Christian, such as you 
once knew me, am, by a strange transforma- 
tion, become au Epicure^in philoso])her, bear- 
ing this motto on my mind, — Quid sU ftUiu- 
rum cras,fuge quicrere. 

I liavc run on in a strain that the begin- 
ning of your letter suggested to me, with 

• January was a st-naon of the yoar when the nervous 
depression uiuler which Cowper labored was generally 
the musi severe. 



such impetuosity, that I have not left myself 
opportunity to write more by the present 
post; and, being unwilling that you should 
wait longer for what will be worth nothing 
when you get it, will only express the great 
pleasure we feel on hearing, as we did lately 
from Mr. Bull, that Mrs. Newton is so much 
better. 

Truly yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Feb. 9, 1790. 

I have sent you lately scraps instead of 
letters, having had occasion to answer imme- 
diately on the receipt, which always h.appens 
while I am deep i/i Homer. 

I knesv when I recommended Johnson to 
you, tliat you would find some way to serve 
him, and so it has happened ; for, notwith- 
standing your own apprehensions to the con- 
trary, you have already procured him a chap- 
lainship:* this is pretty well, considering 
that it is an early d.ay, JTud that you have but 
just begun to know that there is such a m.in 
under heaven. I had rather myself be p.t- 
tronized by a person of small interest, with 
a heart like yours, than by the Chancellor 
himself, if he did not care a farthing for me. 

If I did not desire you to make ray .ac- 
knowledgments to Anonymous, as I be- 
lieve I did not, it was because I am not 
aware that I am warranted to do so. But 
the omission is of less consequence, because, 
whoever he is, though he has no objection to 
doing the kindest thing.s, he seems to have 
an .aversion to the thanks Ihey merit. 

You must know that two odes composed 
by Horace have lately been discovered .at 
Rome.f I wanted them transcribed into the 
blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and 
Mr.s. Throckmorton performed that service 

* The poet's kinsman was made chaplain to Dr. Spen- 
cer Miidnn, the Itisshop of Peterboronsth. 

t These Odes proved to be forgeries. They were re- 
ported to have been found in the Fiilatlne Library, and 
communicated lo the public by GiLspar Pallavicini, tlie 
sub-libriiriun. We have room only for the following : — 

AD SALIOM FLORCM. 

Discolor i,'rnndem gravat uva ramum ; 
liislat AulutuMUs; gljtcialis ainio 
.Mox tiycmy vulvenle adirel, capillis 
Ilorrida canis. 

•Tarn licet Nympha.s trepide fngaces 
Insequi, lento pede detincndas, 
Et labris capla;, simulantis iram, 
Oscula Hgi. 

.Turn licit vino madidos vetusto 
I)e die lietum recinare carmen ; 
I-'lore, si to des hilarutn, liccbit 

Sumere noctem 

Jam vide curas Aquilone sparsas 
Mens viri fortis sitji constat, uU'um 
Scrius Icthi citiufevo tristis 

Advoint hora. 

There is a false quantity in the first at.inza, which 
affords presumptive e\a"dence of forgery. 
The title of the second Ode is, '■ Ad Liljrum Suum." 



342 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



for me ; in a bhiiik leaf, therefore, of the same 
book, I wrote the following : — 

TO MRS. THEOCKMORTON, 

On her beautiful Transcript of Horace^s Ode, 

AD LIBRUM SUUM. 

Maria, couM Horace have guess'd 

What honors awaited his ode. 
To his own little volume address'd, 

The honor which you have bestow'd, 
Who have traced it in characters here, 

So elegant, even, and neat; 
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer, 

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 

And sneer if you please, he had said. 

Hereafter a nymph shall arise, 
Who shall give me. when you are all dead, 

The glory your malice denies, 
Shall dignity give to my lay, 

Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
And even a poet shall say. 

Nothing ever was written so well. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Tlie Lodge, Feb. 26, 17S0. 

You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, 
so far as you are yourself the object of its 
anxieties. What other troubles it feels can 
be cured by God alone. But you are never 
silent a week longer than usual, without giv- 
ing an opportunity to my imagination (ever 
fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to tease 
me with them day and night. London is in- 
deed a pestilent place, as you call it ; and I 
would, with all my heart, that thou hadst less 
to do with it ; were you under the same roof 
with me, I should know you to be safe, and 
should never distress you with melancholy 
letters. 

I feel myself well enough inclined to the 
measure you propose, and will show to your 
new acquaintance, with all ray heart, a sam- 
ple of my translation, but it shall not be, if 
you please, taken from the Odyssey. It is a 
poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, 
and, as I propose to carry her by a coup de 
main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamemnon, 
and the two armies of Greece and Troy in 
my service. I will accordingly send you in 
the bo.\ that I received from you last night 
the two first books of the Iliad for that lady's 
perusal ; to those I have given a third revisal ; 
for them therefore I will be answerable, and 
am not afraid to stake the credit of my work 
upon ihfnn with her, or with any living wight, 
especially one who understands the original. 
I do not mean that even they are finished, 
for I shall examine and cross-examine them 
yet again, and so you may tell her ; but I 
know that they will not disgrace me : where- 
as it is so long since I have looked at the 
Odyssey, that I know nothing at all about it. 



They shall set sail from Olney on Monday 
morning in the diligence, and will reach yoii, 
I hope, in the evening. As soon as she has 
done with them, I shall be glad to have them 
again, for the time draws near when I shall 
want to give them the last touch. 

I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's* kind- 
ness in giving me the only picture of my mo- 
ther that is to be found, 1 suppose, in all the 
world. I had rather possess it than the rich- 
est jewel in the British crown, for I loved 
her with an ail'ection that her.de.ath, fifty-two 
years since, has not in the least abated. I 
remember her too, young as I was wlien she 
died, well enough to know that it is a very 
exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to 
me invaluable. Everybody loved her, and, 
with an amiable character so impressed upon 
all her features, everybody was sure to do so. 

I have a very affectionate and a very clever 
letter from Johnson, who promises me the 
transcript of the books entrusted to him in a 
few days. I have a great love for that young 
man; he has some drops of the same stream 
in his veins that once animated the original 
of that dear picture.f W. C. 



TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weslon, Feb. 27, 1790. 
My dearest Rose,f — Whom I thought 
withered and fiiUen from the stalk, but whom 
I find still alive : nothing could give me greater 
pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from 
yourself. I loved you dearly when you were 
a child, and love you not a jot the less for 
having ceased to jje so. Every creature that 
bears any aflinity to my mother is dear to me, 
and you, the daughter of her brother, are but 
one remove distant from her: I love yo\i there- 
fore, and love you much, both for her sake 
and for your own. The world could not have 
furnished you with a present so acceptable to 
me as the picture which you have so kindly 
sent me. I received it the night before last, 
and viewed it with a trepidation of nerves 
and spirits somewhat akin to what I should 
have felt, had the dear original presented hei^ 
self to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung 
it wliere it is the last object that I see at night, 
and, of course, the first on whicli I open my 
eyes in the morning. She died when I had 
completed my sixth year, yet I remember her 
well, and am an ocular witness of the great 
fidelity of the copy. I remember too a mul- 
titude of the maternal tendernesses which I 
received from her, and which have endeared 

"* Mrs. Bodtiiim was a cousin of Cowper's, connected 
with liim by liis materniil family, the Donnes. 

t The manner in which Cowper spealis of his kinsman 
ia uniformly the same — kind, affectionate, and endearing. 

t Mrs. Bodliam was always addressed by Cowper in 
tliis playful and compUmentary style, though her Chris- 
tian name was Ann. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



343 



her memory to ine beyond expression.* There 
is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than 
ihc Cowper, and ihouifh I love all of both 
names, and have a thousand reasons to love 
those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of 
nature draw me vehemently to your side. I 
was thou<,'ht, in the days of my ehildhood, 
mueh to resemble my mother, and in my natu- 
ral temper, of whieh at the age of tifty-eight 
I must be supposed a eompetent judge, can 
tr.ice both her and my late unele, your father. 
Somewhat of his irritability, and a little I 

would hope both of his and of her , 

I know not what to eall it without seeming 
to praise myself, whieh is not my intention, 
but speaking to you, I will even speak out, 
and say good nalun'. Add to all this, I deal 
mueh in poetrv, as did our venerable aneestor, 
the Dean of St. Paul's,! and I think I shall 
have proved myself a Donne at all points. 
The truth is, that whatever I am, 1 love you 
all. 

I account it a happy event that brought the 
dear boy, your nephew, to my knowledge, and 
that, breaking through all the restraints whieh 
his natural bashfulness imposed on liirn, lie 
determined to find me out. He is amiable to 
a degree that I have seldom seen, and I ofteti 
long with impatience to see him again. 

Jly dearest cousin, «iiat shall I say in an- 
swer to your affectionate invitation? I nixsl 
s.ay this, I cannot come now, nor soon, and I 
wish with all my heart I could. But I will 
tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it 
will answer to us just as well: you and Mr. 
Hodham can come to Weston, can you not f 
The summer is at hand, there are roads and 
wheels to bring you, and you are neither of 
you translating Homer. I am crazed that I 

• No present could pos.'tibly have been more acceptable 
to Cowper than the receipt of his mother's picture. He 
c*nnpitsed tlie beautiful verses, on this occasion, so ten- 
derly descriptive of the impression made on his youthful 
iiniu;ination by the remembrance of her virtues. We 
extract the ftillowin;,' p.as.-iage : — 

My mother ! when I learnM that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowinf? son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 
Perhaps thou cave?t me, though uufell.a kiss; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile I it answers — Ves. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
^ saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
^nd, turnini; from ray nursery-window, drew 
" lout;, lonu' sis;h, and wept a' last adieu ! 
But was it such ? — It was. Where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May 1 but meet thee on that peacefid shore. 
The parlini,' word shall pass uiy lips no morel 
Thy maidens, trriev'd themselves at my concern, 
itfi [.'nve me promise uf thy quick return. 
W'liat ardi-ally I wish'd. 1 ioie.: believcti. 
And. dis:ipi)'>inted still, was still deceived ; 
By expectation evi^ry day bi-i;uile<l. 
Dupe of /o-morroif, even from n child. 
Tims many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learn'd at last submission to my lot. 
Hut, though 1 less deplored thee, ne'er forgot 
t Dr. John Donne, an eminent and learned divine, 

whose life is written by Izaak Walton. Born 1573, died 

ll>31. 



cannot ask you all together for want of house- 
room, but tor Mr. Bodham and yourself wo 
have good room, and equally good fur any 
third in the shape of a Donne, whether named 
Hewitt,* Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or by 
whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt 
has particular claims upon me ; she was my 
playfellow at Bcrkhamstead, and has a share 
in my wannest affections. Pray tell her so I 
Neither do 1 at all forget my cousin Harriet. 
She and I liave been many a time merry at 
Catlield, and have made the parsonage ring 
witli laughter : — Give my love to her. Assure 
yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall re- 
ceive you, as if you were my sister, and Mrs. 
Unwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the 
same. When she has seen you she will love 
you for your own. 

I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his 
kindness to my Homer, and with my love to 
you all, ;md with Jlrs. Untvin's kind respects, 
am, 

My dear, dear Rose, ever yours, 
W. C. 

P. S. — I mourn the death of your poor 
brother Castress, whom I should have seen 
had ho lived, and should have seen with the 
greatest pleasure. He was an amaible boy, 
and I was very fond of him. 

S/ill anxHhKr P. S. — I find on consulting 
Jlrs. Unwin th.at I have underrated our capa- 
bilities, and tliat we have not only room for 
you and Mr. Bodham, but for two of your se.\. 
and even for your nephew into the bargain. 
We shall be happy to have it all so ocojipied. 

Your nephew tells me that his sister, in the 
qualities of the mind, resembles you; tliatis 
enough to make her dear to me, and I beg you 
will assure her that she is so. Let it not be 
long before I hear from you. 



TO JOIIH JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 28, 1700. 

Jly dear Cousin John, — I have inuch wished 
to hear from you, and, though you are wel- 
come to write to Mrs. Unwin as often ;is you 
please, I wish myself to be numbered among 
your correspondents. 

1 shall find time to answer you, doubt it 
not I Be as busy as we may, we can always 
find time to do what is agree.ible to us. By 
the w.iy, had you a letter from Mrs. Unwin f 
I am witness that she addressed one to you 
before yott went into Norfolk,but yourmathe- 
niatico-])oetical head forgot to acknowledgo 
the receipt of it. 

I was never more pleased in my life than 
to learn from herself, that my dearest Rosef 
is still alive. Had she not engaged me to 
love her by the sweetness of her character 

* The Rev. J. .Johnson's sister, 
t Mni. Ann Uudham. 



344 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



when a cliilil, slie would have done it efteetu- 
ally now by making me the most acceptable 
present in the world, my own dear mother's 
picture. I am perhaps tlie only person living 
who remembers lier, but I remember her well, 
and can attest on my own knowledge the 
truth of the resemblance. Amiable and ele- 
gant as the countenance is, such exactly was 
her own; she was one of the tenderest pa- 
rents, and so just a copy of her is therefore 
to me invaluable. 

I wrote yesterday to my Rose, to tell her 
all this, and to thank her for her kindness 
in sending it. Neither do I forget your kind- 
ness, who intimated to her that I should be 
happy to possess it. 

She invites me into Norfolk, but alas ! she 
might as well invite the house in which I 
dwell ; for, all other considerations and im- 
pediments apart, how is it possible that a 
translator of Homer should lumber to such a 
distance ! But, though I cannot comply with 
her kind invitation, I have made myself tlie 
best amends in my power, by inviting her and 
all the family of Donnes to Weston. Perhaps 
we could not accommodate them all at once, 
but in succession we could, and can at any 
time find room for five, three of them being 
females, and one a married one. You are a 
mathematician ; tell me then how five persons 
can be lodged in three beds (two males and 
three females) and I shall have good hope that 
you will proceed a senior optime. It would 
yiake me happy to see our liouse so furnished. 
As to yourself, whom I know to be a subsca- 
lariark or a man that sleeps under the stairs,* 
I should have no objection at all, neither could 
you possibly liave any yourself to the garret, 
as a place in which you might be disposed of 
with great felicity of accommodation. 

I thanli you much for your services in the 
transcribing way, and would by no means have 
you despair of an opportunity to serve me in 
the same way yet again ; — write to me soon, 
and tell me when I shall see you. 

I have not said the half that I have to say, 
but breakfast is at hand, which always termi- 
nates my epistles. 

What have you done with your poem ? 
The trimming that it procured you here has 
not, ] hope, put you out of conceit with it 
entirely ; you are more than equal to the al- 
teration that it needs. Only remember that 
in writing, perspicuity is always more than 
half the battle ; the want of it is the ruin of 
more than half the poetry that is published. 
A meaning that does not stare you in the face 
is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will 
take the pains to poke for it. So now adieu 
for the present. Beware of killing yourself 
with problems, for, if you do, you will never 
live to be another Sir Isaac. 

* Tliis expression alludes to ttie situation of the rooms 
occupied by iiiin at Cains College, Cambridge. 



Mrs. Unwiri's affectionate remembrances 
attend you ; Lady Hesketh is much disposed 
to love you ; perliaps most who know you 
liave some little tendency the same way. 



TO LADT HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 8, 1790. 

My dearest Cousin, — I tliank thee much 
and oft, for negociating so well this poetical 

concern with Mrs. , and for sending me 

her opinion in her own hand. I should be 
unreasonable indeed not to be highly gratified 
by it, and I like it the better for being mod- 
estly e.xpressed. It is, as you know, and it 
shall be some months longer, my daily business 
to polish and improve what is done, that when 
tlie whole shall appear she may find her ex- 
pectations answered. I am glad also that 
thou didst send her the sixteenth Odyssey, 
though, as I said before, I know not at all at 
present whereof it is made ; but I am sure 
that thou wouldst not have sent it, hadst thou 
not conceived a good opinion of it thyself, 
and thought that it would do me credit. It 
was very kind in thee to sacrifice to this Mi- 
nerva on my account. 

For my sentiments on the subject of the 
Test Act, I cannot do better than refer thee 
to my poem, entitled and called "Expostula- 
tion." I have there expressed myself not 
much in its favor, considering it in a religious 
view ; and in a political one, I like it not a 
jot the better.* I am neither Tory nor high 
Churchman, but an old Whig, as ray father 
was before me : and an enemy, consequently, 
to all tyrannical impositions. 

Mrs. Unwin bids me return thee many 
thanks for thy inquiries so kindly made con- 
cerning her health. She is a little better than 
of late, but has been ill continually ever since 
last November. Everything that could try 
patience and submission she has had, and her 
submission and patience have answered in 
the trial, though mine, on her account, have 
often failed sadly. 

I have a letter from Johnson, wlio tells me 
that he has sent his transcript to you, begging 
at the same time more copy. Let him have 
it by all means; he is an industrious youjh, 
and I love him dearly. I told him that j^u 

* The following is the passage alluded to. 
Hast thou by statute shoved frotn its design 
The Saviour^s fejist, liis own blest bread and wine. 
And made the symbols of atoning grace 
An otlice-key, a picklock to a place V 
That inliilels may prove Jheir title good. 
By an oath dipp'd in sacranientiU blood ? 
A blot that will be still a blot, iu spite 
Of all that grave apologists may write : 
And, though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain, 
He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 
And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
Till perjuries are common as bad pence. 
While thousimds, careless of the damning sin. 
Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within ? 
Erpostuiation. 
The Test Act is now repealed. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



34£ 



aro disposed to love him a little. A new 
poem is born on the receipt of my mother's 
picture: — thou shalt liave it. 

W. C. 



TO SA.MUEL KOSE, ESQ. 

'llie Lodice, March U, 1790. 
3Iy dear Friend, — I was glad to hear from 
you, for a line from you gives me always 
much pleasure, hut was not much gladdened 
liy tile contents of your letter. The state of 
your health, which I have learned more accu- 
rately perhaps from uiy cousin, except in this 
last instance, tlian from yourself, has alarmed 
me, and even she has collected her informa- 
tion upon that subject more from your looks 
than from your own acknowledgments. To 
complain much and often of our indisposi- 
tions does not always insure the pity of the 
hi'arer, perhaps sometimes forfeits it; but to 
dissemble them altogether, or at least to sup- 
press the vvprst, is attended ultimately with 
an inconvenience greater .still ; the .secret will 
out at last, and our friends, unprepared to re- 
ceive it, are douMy distressed about us. In 
Siiying this, I squint a little at .Mr.s. Unwin, 
who will read it; it is with her, as witli you, 
the only subject on which she practicesany 
<lissimulation at all ; tiie conseiiuence is, that, 
when she is much indisposed, I never believe 
myself in possession of the whole truth, live 
in constant expectation of hearing something 
worse, and at the long run am seldom disap- 
pointed. It seems, therefore, as on all other 
occasions, so even in this, the better course 
on the whole to appi'ar what we are ; not to 
lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful 
look.s, which do not probably belong to us, or 
by letters written as if we were well, when 
in i'M'.t we are very much otherwise. On 
condition, however, lliat you act ditlerently 
towards me for the future, I will pardon the 
past, and she may gather from my clemency 
sliown to you some hopes, on the .same con- 
ditions, of similar clemency to herself. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston, March 12, 1790. 

Ify dear JIadam, — I live in such a nook, 
have so few opportunities of hearing news, 
and so little time to read it, that to me to 
begin a letter .seems always a sort of forlorn 
hope. Can it be possible, I say to my.self, 
that I should have anything to communicate? 
These misgivings have an ill ett'ect, so far as 
my punctuality is concerned, and are apt to 
deter nie from the business of letter-writ- 
ing, as from an enterprise altogether imprac- 
ticable. 

I will not say that you arc more pleased 
* Privale correspondence. 



with my trifles than they deserve, lest I should 
seem to call your judgment in question; bul 
I suspect that a little partiality to the brother 
of my brother enters into tiie opinimi you 
form of them. No matter, however, by vvhat 
you are inlluenced, it is for my interest that 
you should like them at any' rate, because, 
such as they are, they are the only return I 
can make you for all your kindness. This 
consideration will have two elfects; it will 
have a tendency to make me nuire industri- 
ous in the i)roduction of sucli jiicces, and 
more attentive to the manner in which I write 
them. This reminds me of a piece in vour 
possession, which I will entreat you to com- 
mit to the flames, because I am somewhat 
ashamed of it. To make you amends, I 
hereby promise to send you a new edition id' 
it when time shall serve, delivered from the 
passages that I dislike in the first, and in other 
respects amended. The piece that I mean, is 
one entitled — " To Lady Hesketh on her 
fui-nishing for me our house at Weston" — 
or, as the lawyers say, words to that amount. 
I have, likewise, since I sent you the last 
packet, been delivered of two (u- three other 
brats, and, as the year proceeds, shall ju'ob- 
ably add to the number. All that come 
shall be basketed in time, and conveyed to 
your door. 

I have lately received from a female cousin 
of mine in Norfolk, whom I have not seen 
these five-aud-thirty years, a picture of my 
own mother. She died when I wanted two 
days of being six years old; yet 1 remember 
her perfectly, find the picture a strong like- 
ness of her, and, because her memory has 
been ever precious to me, have written a poem 
on the receipt of it: a poem which, one ex- 
cepted, I hiid more pleasure in writing tluiu 
any tliat I ever wrote. That oiu; was ad- 
dressed to a lady whom I expect in a few 
minules to come down to breakfast, and who 
has supi)lied to me the place of my own 
mother — my own invaluable mother, these 
six-and-twenty years. Some sons mav bo 
said to have had many fathers, but a plurali- 
ty of mothers is not common. 

Adieu, my dear madam ; be assured that I 
always think of you with much esteem and 
allection, and am, with mine and Mrs. Unwiu's 
best comiiliments to you and yours, most un- 
feignedly your frieiul and liumble servant, 

W. C. 



TO lURS. THROCKMORTON. 

The Lotlgo, March 21, 1790. 

My dearest iMadam, — I shall only observe 
on the subject of your absence, that you have 
stretclfed it since you went, and have made it 
a week longer. Weston is sadly mtkeit* 

* A common provincialistn in Buckinghamshire, prob- 
ably a currupliou of uitcuutlu 



346 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



without you ; and here are two of us, who 
will be heartily glad to see you again. I be- 
lieve you are happier at home than anywhere, 
which is a comfortable belief to your neigh- 
bors, because it affords assurance that, since 
you .are neither likely to ramble for pleasure, 
nor to meet with any avocations of business, 
while Weston shall continue to be your home, 
it, will not often want you. 

The two first books of my Iliad have been 
submitted to the inspection and scrutiny of a 
great critic of your se.x, at the instance of my 
cousin, as you may suppose. The lady is 
mistress of more tongues than a few (it is to 
be hoped she is single) ; and particularly she 
is mistress of the Greek.* She returned 
them with expressions, that, if anything could 
make a poet prouder than all poets naturally 
are, would have made me so. I tell you this, 
because I know that you all interest your- 
selves in the success of the said Iliad. 

Jly periwig is arrived, and is the very per- 
fection of all periwigs, having only one fault; 
which is, that my head will ouly go into the 
first half of it, the other half, or the upper 
part of it, continuing still unoccupied. 3Iy 
artist in this way at Olney has, however, un- 
dertaken to make the whole of it tenantable, 
and then I shall be twenty years younger 
than you have ever seen me. 

I heard of your birth-day very early in the 
morning; the news came from the steeple. 

W. C. 



The following letter is interesting as re- 
cording his opinion of the style best adapted 
to a translation of Homer. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodtfe, March 22, 1790. 
I rejoice, my dearest cousin, that my MSS. 
have roamed the earth so successfully, and 
have met with no disaster. The single book 
excepted, that went to the bottom of the 
Thames, and rose again, they have been for- 
tunate without exception. I am not super- 
stitious, but have, nevertheless, as good a 
right to believe that adventure an omen, and 
a favorable one, as Swift had to interpret as 
he did the loss of a fine fish, which he had no 
sooner laid on the bnuk than it llounced into 
the water .again. This, he tells us himself, 
he always considered as a type of his future 
disjippointments ; and why may not I as well 
consider the marvellous recovery of my lost 
book from the bottom of the Thames as typi- 
cal of its future prosperity ? To say the 
truth, 1 have no fears now about the success 
of my translation, though in time past I have 
had many. I knew there was a style "feome- 
where, could I but find it, in which Homer 
ought to be rendered, and which alone would 
* Mrs. Carter. 



suit him. Long time I blundered about it, 
ere I could attain to any decided judgment 
on the matter ; at first, I was betrayed by a 
desire of accommodating my language to the 
simplicity of his into much of the quaintiiess 
that belonged to our writers of the fifteenth 
century. In the course of many revisals I 
h.ive delivered myself from this evil, I believe, 
entirely ; but I have done it slowly, and as a 
man separates himself from his mistress when 
he is going to marry. I had so strong a pre- 
dilection in favor of this style at first, that I 
was crazed to find that others were not as 
much enamored with it as myself At every 
passage of that sort which I obliterated, I 
groaned bitterly, and said to myself, I am 
spoiling my work to please those who have 
no taste for the simple graces of antic|uity. 
But, in measure as I adopted a more modern 
phraseology, I became a convert to their 
opinion, and, in the last revisal, .which I am 
now making, am not sensible of having 
spared a single expression of tjie obsolete 
kind. I see my work so much improved by 
this alteration, that I am filled with wonder 
at my own backwardness to assent to the 
necessity of it, and the more when I consider 
that Milton, with whose manner I account 
myself intimately acquainted, is never quaint, 
never twangs through the nose, but is every- 
where grand and elegant, without resorting 
to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the 
contrary, he took a long stride forward, left 
the language of his own day far behind him, 
and anticipated the expressions of a century 
yet to come. 

I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt 
of the event, but I will give thee a shilling 
if thou wilt tell me what I shall say in my 
Preface. It is an afi'air of much delicacy, and 
I have as many opinions about it as there are 
whims in a weathercock. 

Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. 
In a day or two I shall enter on the last Iliad ; 
when I have finished it I shall give the 
Odyssey one more reading, and shall there- 
fore shortly have occasion for the copy in thy 
possession, but you see that there is no need 
to hurry. 

I leave the little space for Mrs. Unwin's 
use, who means, I believe, to occupy it, 
And am evermore thine most truly, 

W. C. 

Postscript, in the hand of Mrs. Vnwin. 

You cannot im.agine how much your lady- 
ship would oblige your unworthy servant, if 
you would be so good to let me know in 
what point I differ from you. All that at 
present I can say is, that I v\all readily sacri- 
fice my own opinion, unless I can give you a 
substantial reason for adhering to it. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



34T 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Miirch 33, 1790. 

Your IISS. arrivi'd sufc in New Norfolk- 
street, and I am imicli obliged to you for 
your labors. Were you now at Weston, I 
could furnisli you with employment for some 
weeks, and shall perhaps be equally able to 
do it in summer, for I have lost my best 
amanuensis in this place, Mr. G. Throckmor- 
ton, wlio is gone to Bath. 

Vou are a man to be envied who have 
never read the Odyssey, which is one of the 
most amusing story-books in tlie world. 
There is also much of the finest poetry in 
the world to be found in it, notwithstanding 
all th.at Longinns has insinuated to the con- 
trary.* His comparison of the Iliad and j 
Odyssey to the meridian and to the declining 
sun is pretty, but, I am persuaded, not just. 
The ^rettiness of it seduced him ; he was I 
otherwise too judicious a reader of Homer to • 
have made it. I can find in the latter no 
symptoms of impaired ability, none of the 
etlects of age ; on the contrary, it seems to 
me a certainty, that Ilonu'r, had lie written 
the Odyssey in liis youth, could not have 
written it better: and if the Iliad in his old 
age, that he would have written it just as 
well. A critic would tell me that, instead 
of u-ritten, I should have said composed. Very 
likely — but I am not writing to one of that 
snarling generation. 

My boy, I long to see thee again. It has 
happened some way or other, that Mrs. Un- 1 
win and I have conceived a great affection ', 
for thee. That I should is the less to be i 
wondered at, (because thou art a shred of I 
my own mother ;) neither is the wonder 
great, that she should fall into the same pre- I 
dicament : for she loves everything that I 
love. You will observe that your own per- 1 
sonal right to be beloved makes no part of 
the consideration. There is nothing timt I 
touch with so much tenderness as the vanity 
of a young man : because, I know how ex- 
tremely susceptible he is of impressions that 
might hurt him in that particular part of 
his composition. If you should ever prove a 
coxcomb,t from which character you stand 
just now at a greater distance than any 
young man I know, it shall never be said 
that I have made you one ; no, you will gain ' 
nothing by me but the honor of being much | 
valued by a poor poet, who can do you no 
good while he lives, and has nothing to leave 
you when he dies. If you can be contented 
to be dear to rue on these conditions, so you 
shall ; but other terms more rfdvantageous 
than these, or more inviting, none have I to 
propose. 

• Lnii^inus compares the Odyasry to the setting 8un, 
jind the l\xw\, as more clmrncteristic of tlie lufliness of 
Homer's genius to the !»[)ten«lor of the t\i\a% aim. 

t No inun ever po^'^essed a happier exemption, Ihrough- 
oitt life, from such a title. 



Farewell. Puzzle not yourself about a 
subject when you write to either of us : every- 
thing is subject enough from those we love. 

W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, April 17, 1790. 

Your letter, that now lies before me, is al- 
most three weeks old, and therefore of full 
age to receive an answer, which it shall have 
without delay, if the interval between the 
present moment and that of breakfast should 
prove sulficieiit for the purpose. 

Yours to Jlrs. Unwin was received yester- 
day, for which she will thank you in due titne. 
1 have also seen, and have now in my desk, 
your letter to Lady Hesketh ; she sent it 
thinking that it would divert me; in which 
she was not mistaken. I shall tell her when 
I write to her ne.xt, that you long to receive 
a line from her. Give yourself no trouble 
on the subject of the politic device you saw 
good to recur to, when you presented me 
with your m:UMiscript ;* it was an innocent 
deception, at iRst it could harm nobody .save 
yourself; an effect which it did not fail to 
produce ; and, since the punisliinent followcil 
it so closely, by me at least it may very well 
be forgiven. Vou ask, how I can tell that 
you are not addicted to practices of the de- 
ceptive kind ! And certainly, if the little 
time that I have had to study you were alone 
to be considered, the question would not be 
unreasonable ; but in general a man who 
reaches my years finds 

" That long experience Joes attain 
To something like prophetic strain." 

I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and 
persuaded tliat faces are as legible as books, 
only with these circumstances to recommend 
them to our perusal, that they are read in 
much less time, and are mucli less likely to 
deceive us. Yours gave me a favorable im- 
pression of you tlie moment I beheld it, and, 
though I shall not tell you in particular what 
I saw in it, for reasons mentioned in my last, 
I will add, that I have observed in you no- 
thing since that has not confirmed the opin- 
ion 1 then formed in your favor. In fact I 
cannot recollect that my skill in physiognomy 
has ever deceived me, and I should add more 
on this subject had I room. 

Wlicn you have shut up your mathematical 
books, you must give yourself to the study 
of Greek ; not merely that you may be able 
to read Homer and the other Greek classics 
with ease, but the Greek Testament and the 
Greek fathers also. Thus qualified, and by 
the aid of you, fiddle into the bargain, to- 
gether with some portion of the grace of God 

• The poem on Audlcy End, alluded to in a former 
letter to Lady llesl^cUi. 



348 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



(without wliicli nothing can be done) to en- 
able you to looli well to your flock, when you 
shall get one, you will be set up for a parson. 
In which cli.aracler, if I live to see you in it, I 
shall expect and hope that yo>i will make a 
very different figure frgm most of your fr.ater- 
nity.* Ever yours, VV. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, April 19, HOO. 

My dearest Coz., — I thank thee for my 
cousin Johnson's letter, which diverted me. 
I h.ad one from him lately, in which he e.\- 
pressed an ardent desire of a line from you, 
.and the delight he would feel in receiving it. 
I know not whether you will have the charity 
to satisfy his longings, but mention the mat- 
ter, thinking it possible that you may. A 
letter from a lady to a youth immersed in 
mathematics must be singularly pleasant. 

I am finishing Homer backward, having 
begun at the last book, and designing to per- 
severe in that crab-like fashion till I arrive at 
the first. This may remind yaa perhaps of a 
certain poet's prisoner in theTBastille (thank 
Heaven ! in the Bastille now no more) count- 
ing the nails in the door, for variety's sake, 
in all directions.! 1 find so little to do in the 
hist revisal, that I shall soon reacli the Odys- 
sey, and soon want those books of it which 
are in thy possession ; but the two first of the 
Iliad, which are also in thy possession, much 
sooner ; thou mayst therefore send llieni l>y 
the first fair opportunity. I am in high spirits 
on this subject, and think that I have .at last 
licked the clumsy cub into a shape that will 
secure to it the favorable. notice of the public. 

Let not retard me, and I shall liope to 

get it out next winter. 

I am glad that thou hast sent the General 
those verses on my mother's picture. They 
will amuse him — only I hope that he will not 
miss my mother-in-law, and think th.at she 
ought to have made a third. On such an oc- 
casion it was not possible to mention her 
with any propriety. I rejoice at the General's 
recovery ; may it prove a perfect one. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, April 30, niW. 
To ray old friend, Dr. Madan,t thou couldst 

* Cowper 13 often very sarcastic upon the clergy. We 
trust that these censures ai-e not so merited in tliese times 
of reviviuE piety. 
t We sui)join the lines to which Cowper refers ; — 
" To we:ir out time in immb'rine: to and fi'o 
The stinl^. Ihiit thick emboss his iron door; 
Then d(iwii\Y;ird and then upward, then aslant. 
And then alternate ; with a sickly hope 
By diiil of t'haii'-'e to give his l.astoless task 
Some relish ; till the sum, exactly fuimd 
In all directions, he begins again." 

Book V. — IVintcr J\Ifirniug''s Walk. 
X The Bishop of Peterborough. 



not have spoken better than thou didst. Tell 
him, I beseech you, that I liave not forgotten 
him ; tell him also, that to my heart and 
home he will be always welcome ; nor he 
only, but all that are his. His judgment of 
my translation gave me the higliest satisfac- 
tion, because I know him to be a rare old 
Grecian. 

The General's approli.ation of my picture 
verses gave me also much pleasure. I wrote 
them not without tears, therefore I presume 
it maybe that they are felt by others. Should 
he offer me my father's picture I shall gladly 
accept it. A melancholy pleasure is better 
than none, nay, verily, better than most. He 
had a sad task imposed on him, but no man 
could at;quit himself of such a one with more 
discretion or with more tenderness. The 
death of the unfortunate young man remind- 
ed me of those lines in Lycidas, ' 

" It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 
That sunk so low tliat sacred head of thine !" 



How beautiful ! 



w.c. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 



The Lodge, May 2, 1700. 

My dear Friend, — I am still at the old 
sport — Homer all the morning, and Homer 
all the evening. Thus have I been held in 
constant employment, I know not exactly 
how many, but I believe these six years, an 
interval of eighth months excepted. It is 
now become so familiar to me to take Homer 
from my shelf at a certain hour, that I shall 
no doubt continue to take him from my shelf 
at the s.ame time, even after I have ceased to 
want him. That period is not far distant. 
I am now giving the last touches to a work, 
which, h.ad I foreseen the difficulty of it, I 
should never have meddled with ; but which, 
having at length nearly finished it to ray 
mind, I shall discontinue with regret. 

Bly very best compliments attend Mrs, 
Hill, w-hom I love, " unsight unseen," as they 
say, but yet truly. 

Yours ever, W. C. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. 

The Lodge, May 10, 1790. 
aiy de.ar Mrs. Frog.f — You have by this 
time (I presume) heard from the Doctor, 
whom I desired to present to you our best 
affections, and to tell you that we are well. 
He sent an urchin, (Ido not mean a hedge- 
hog, commonly called an urchin in old times, 
but a boy, commonly so called at present,) 
expecting that he would find you at Buck- 

* Private correspondence. 

t The sportive title generally bestowed by Cowper on 
his amiable friends the Throckmortons. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



349 



huuFs, whithei' he supposed j-ou gone on 
Thursday. He sent liini eluiri,'ed with divers 
articles, and among others with letters, or at 
least with a letter ; wliieli I mention, that, if 
the boy should be lost, together with his 
despatches, past all ])ossibility of recovery, 
you may yet know that the Doctor stands 
acquitted of not writing. That he is utterly 
lost (that is to say, the Iioy — for, the Doctor 
being the last antecedent, as the grammarians 
say, you might otherwise suppose that he 
was intended) is the more probable, because 
he was never four miles from his home be- 
fore, having only travelled at tlie side of a 
plough-team : and when the Doctor gave 
him his direction to iJuckland's,* he asked, 
very naturally, if that place was in England. 
So, what has become of him Heaven knows! 

I do not know that any adventures have 
presented themselves since your departure 
worth mentioning, except that the rabbit that 
infested your wihleniess has been shot for de- 
vouring your carnations ; and that [ myself 
have been in some danger of being devoured 
in like manner by a great dog, viz., Pearson's. 
But 1 wrote him a letter on i"riday,.(I mean 
a letter to Pearson, not to his dog, which I 
mention to prevent mistakes — for the said 
Last antecedent might occasion them in this 
place also,) informing him, that, unless he 
tied up his great mastiff in the day-time, I 
would send him a worse thing, commonly 
called and known by the name of an attorney. 
When I go forth to rand)le in the fields, I clo 
not sally (like Don Quixote) with a purpose 
of encountering monsters, if any such can be 
found : but am a peaceable, poor gentleman, 
and a poet, who mean nobody any liarm, the 
fo.x-hunters and the two universities of this 
land excepted. 

I cannot learn from any creature whether 
the Turnpike Bill is alive or dead — so igno- 
rant am I, and by such ignoramuses sur- 
rounded. But, if I know little else, this at 
least I know, that I love you, and Jlr. Frog; 
that I long for your return, and that I am, 
with Mrs. Unwin's best alfcctions. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



am sure that thou, of all my friends, wouldst 
least wish me to wear it.* 
Adieu, 
Ever thine — in Homer-hurry, 

w. c. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Wcslon, JuiK- 3, 1790. 
You will wonder, when I tell you, that 1, 
even I, am considered by people, who live at 
a great distance, as having interest and influ- 
ence sufficient to procure a place at court, 
for those who may happen to want one. I 
have accordingly been applied to within these 
few days by a Wclchraan, with a wife and 
many children, to get him made Poet Laureat 
as fast as possible. If thou wouldst wish to 
make the world merry twice a year, thou 
canst not do better than procure the office 
for him. I will promise thee that he shall 
afford thee a hearty laugh in return every 
birth-day and every now year. He is an 
honest man. Adieu ! W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETir. 

Thu Lodge, M.1)- 28, 1700. 

My dearest Coz., — 1 th.ank thee for the 
offer of thy best services on this occasion. 
But Heaven guard my brows from the wreath 
you mention, whatever wreath beside may 
hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden 
extinguisher clapped on all the fire of my 
genius, and I should never more produce a 
line worth reading. To speak seriously, it 
would make me miserable, and therefore I 

• The TMidence of the Throckmorton family in Berk- 
ehiri;. 



The poet's kinsman, having consulted him 
on the subject of his future plans and studies, 
receives the following reply. The letter is 
striking, but admits of doubt as to the just- 
ness of some of its sentiments. 

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, June 7, 1790. 

My dear John, — You know my engage- 
ments, and are consequently able to account 
for my silence. I will not therefore ^\•aste 
time and paper in mentioning them, but will 
only say, that, added to those with which you 
are acquainted, I have had other hindrances, 
such as business and a disorder of my spirits, 
to which I have been all my life subject. At 
present I am, thank God! perfectly well both 
in mind and body. Of you I am always 
mindful, whether I write or not, and very de- 
sirous to see you. You will remember, I 
hope, that you are under engagements to us, 
and as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare 
you, will fulfil them. Give us all the time 
you can, and all that they can sj)are to us ! 

You never pleased me more than whe.-i 
you told me you had abandoned yonrmalhe- 
matica! pursuits. It grieved me to think, that 
you were wasting your time merely to gain 
a little Cambridge fame, not worth your hav- 
ing. I cannot be contented, that your re- 
nown should thrive nowhere but on the 
banks of the Cam. Conceive a nobler ambi- 
tion, and never let your honor be circuni- 

• Lady Ilo-sketb suKgesli-d Ihe nppoiiitineiit of Uic 
offlcu of Poet Luureiit to Cowner, which hnd become va- 
cant by the death of Wmton in 1700. The poil decllniil 
tlie oiler of her service-, and Henry James Tye, Lsq., wad 
r.uminati-d the sucee.-wor. 



350 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



scribed by the paltry dimensions of a univer- 
sity! It is well that you have already, as 
you observe, acquired sufficient information 
in that science to enable you to pass credita- 
bly such examinations as I suppose you must 
hereafter undergo. Keep wliat you have 
gotten, and be content. More is needless.* 
You could not apply to a worse than I am 
to advise you concerning your studies. I 
was never a regular student myself, but lost 
the most valuable years of my life in an at^ 
torney's office and in the Temple. I will not 
therefore give myself airs, and affect to know 
what I know not. Tlie affair is of great im- 
portance to you, and you should be directed 
in it by a wiser than I. To speak however 
in very general terms on the subject, it 
seems to me that your chief concern is with 
history, natural philosophy, logic, and divin- 
ity. As to metaphysics, I know little about 
them. But the very little that I do know 
has not taught me to admire them. Life is 
loo short to afford time even for serious trifles. 
Pursue ichat you know to be attainable, make 
truth your object, and your studies irill make 
you a wise man ! Let your divinity, if I may 
advise, be the divinity of the glorious Reforma- 
tion : I mean in contradiction to Armin'uinism, 
and all the isms tliat were ever broached in this 
world of error and ignorance. 

* To Cowper's strictures on the University of Cam- 
bridge, jind his remark tliat the fame there acquired is 
notwortli having, we by no means subscribe. We thinlc 
no youth ought to be insensible to the honorable ambi- 
tion of obtaining its distinctions, and that they are not 
uiifrcijuciiilv the jtrecursors of subsequent eminence in 
llic cliiMi-h, llie Siiiiile, and at the Bar. We have been 
infninifd lliat.oulof lilteen jttdges recently on the bench, 
eleven had obtained honors at oiu" two Universities. 
Whether the system of education is not susceptible of 
much improvement is a subject worthy of deep con- 
sideration. There seems to be a growing persuasion 
that, at the ITniversity of Camliridge, the mode of study 
is too exclusively mathematical ; and that a more com- 
preheUFive plan, embracing the various dcparlnients of 
t.^fiu-ra! know li-<l'.cf and literature, would be an accession 
lu Ihi- caller iif learning. We admit tliat (lie I'niversily 
fully alfordw the nutans of acquiring this general informa- 
tion, but there is a penalty attached to the acquisition 
which operates as a prohibition, because the prosjtect of 
obtaining honors must, in th.at case, be renounced. By 
-adopting a more comprehensive system, the stimulants 
to exertion would be multiplied, and the end of educa- 
tion apparently more fully attained. 

When we reflect on the singular character of the pres- 
ent times, the instal)ility of governments, and the disor- 
ganized state of society, arising tVoni coiulicting prin- 
ciples and opinions, the qiie^liou of education assinues a 
momentous interest. We are liriuly peisuadeil ih.ii, un- 
less the minds of yoiuli be eidarged Uy Lisetnl kimw ledge, 
and forlitied bv riVht [irinciples of leii'^iinn. Iln\ will not 
lie litu-d to sustain the duties and res|iniisiliil'itic-s that 
must soon devolve upon them : nor will they he qiialitied 
to meet the storms that now threaten the ixilitical and 
moral horizon of Europe. 

Dr. .lohnson, in enmuerating the advantages resulting 
from a university education, specifies the i'ollowing as 
calculated to operate powerfully on the mind of the stu- 
dent. 

'• There is at least one very powerful iticentive to learn- 
ing; I mean the (jenius of the place. It is a sort of in- 
spiring Deity, which every youth of quick sensibilily and 
ingeniousdisposition creates to himselt', by reHecting that 
he is placed under those venerable walls where a flooker 
and a Hammond, a Bacon and a Newton, once pursued 
the same course of science, and from whence they soared 
to the most elevated heiglits of literary fame." — Tlie 
Idler, No. 33. 



The divinity nf the Reformation is called 
Cahinisnt, but injuriously. It has been that 
of the church nf Christ in all ages. It is the 
divinity of fill. Paul, and of St. PauFs Mas- 
ter, who met him in his way to Damascus. 

I have written in great haste, that I might 
finish, if possible, before breakfast. Adieu ! 
Let us see you soon ; the sooner the better. 
Give my iove to the silent lady, the Rose, 
and all my friends around you ! W. C. 

There is an impressive grandeur and sub- 
limity in the concluding part of the above 
letter, which entitles it to be written in char- 
acters of gold. Blay it be engraven on the 
heart of every minister! The divinity of the 
glorious Reformation, as illustrated in the 
works of Cranmer, Jewel, Latimer, and Rid- 
ley, are in fact the essential doctrines of the 
gospel, as distinguished from a mere system 
of moral ethics. It is in proportion only as 
these great and fundamental truths are clearly 
understood, and fully, freely, and faithfully 
declared, that religion can acquire its holy 
ascendancy over the heart and practice. Moral 
preachii>g may produce an external reform.a- 
tion, but it is the gospel alone that can 
change the heart. The coi-ruption and lost 
state of man, the mercy of God in Christ, tlie 
necessity of a living faith in the Saviour, the 
office of'^ the Holy Spirit, in his enlightening, 
converting, and sanctifying influences : — 
these are the grand themes of the Christian 
ministry. Wlienever they are urged with 
the prominence that their incalculable im- 
portance demands, and accompanied by a 
divine influence, signal effects will never fail 
to follow. The careless will be roused, the 
lover of pleasure become the lover of God, 
and the oppressed heart find pardon and 
peace. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, June P, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — Among the many who 
love and esteem you, there is none who re- 
joices more in your felicity than myself. 
Far from blaming, I commend you ranch for 
connecting yourself, young as you arc, with 
a well-chosen companion for life. Entering 
on the state with uncontaminated morals, 
you have the best possible prospect of haji- 
pine.ss, and will be secure against a thousand 
and ton thousand temptations to wliicli,at an 
early period of life, in such a Babylon as yon 
must necessarily inhabit, you would otlier- 
wise have been exposed. I see it too in the 
light you do, as likely to be advantageous to 
you in your profession. Men of business 
have a better opinion of a candidate for em- 
ployment, who is married, because he has 
given bond to the world, its you observe, and 
to himself, for diligence, industry, and atten- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



351 



tion. It is altogether therefore a subject of ' 
niiu'h congratulation ; ami mine, to wInVli I I 
add Mrs. Unwin's, is very sincere. Samson, 
at his marriage, proposed a riddle to the 
l'liilistine<. I am no Samson, neither are 
you a Philistine. Yet expound to me the 
Ibllowing if you can ! 

What are thrtj which stand at a dislanee 
from each other, and meet without ever mov- 
ing ?* 

Should you be so fortunate as to guess it, 
you may propose it to tlie company, when 
you celebrate your nuptials ; and, if you can 
will thirty changes of raiment by it, as Sam- 
son did by his, let me tell you, they will be 
no contemptible acquisition to a young be- 1 
ginner. I 

You will not, I hope, forget your way to ; 
Weston, in consequence of your marriage, 
where you and yours will always be wel- 
come. W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

The Ix)dge, June 14, 1790. 
Jfy dear Madam, — I have hardly a scrap 
of paper belonging to me that is not scrib- 
bled over with blank verse : and, taking out 
your letter from a bundle of others, this mo- 
ment, I lind it thus inscribed on tlie seal- 
side : — 

Meantime his steeds I 

Snorted, by Myrmidons detain'd, and loosed I 
From their own master's chariot, tbam'd to fly. | 

You will easily guess to what they belong ; ' 
and I mention the circumstance merely in 
proof of my perpetual engagement to Homer, 
whether at home or abroad; for, when I 
eonunitted these lines to the back of your 
letter. I was rambling at a considerable dis- 
tance from home. I i^et one foot on a mole- 
hill, placed my hat, with the crown upward, 
on my kuec, laid your letter upon it, and 
with a pencil wrote the fragment that I have 
sent you. In the same posture I have writ- 
ten many and many a passage of a work 
which I hope soon to have done with. But 
all this is foreign to what I intended when I 
first took pen in hand. My purpose tlien 
was, to excuse my long silence as well as I 
could, by telling yon that I am, at present, 
not only a laborer in verse, but in prose also, 
having been requested by a friend, to whom 
I could not refuse it, to translate for him a 
series of Latin letters, received from a Dutch 
minister of the Cape of Good Ilopc.f With 
this additional occupation you will be scn.si. 

• This cuiKma is explained in a subsequent letter. 

t Privale correspondence. 

J The Duu;h mini^tL-r here mcnlioned, wai* Mr. Van 
I.ior, wlio recMrdfd tltt- rcmarknlilc account of Ihe ^rcat 
spiritual clianee prndvicfd in hia mind, by reading the 
works ol" Mr. Newton. The letters were written in Latin, 
luid translated by Cowper, at the request of his clerical 
friend. 1 



ble that my hands are full ; and it is a truth 
that, except to yourself, I would, just at this 
time, have written to nobody. 

I felt a true concern for what you told me 
in your last, respecting the ill state of health 
of your much-vaUied friend, Mr. Martyn. 
You say, if I knew half his W(]rtli, I should, 
with you, wish his longer continuance be- 
low. Now you must understand, that, igno- 
rant as I am of Mr. Martyn, except by your 
report of him, I do nevertheless sincerely 
wish it — and that, both for your sake and 
my own : nor less for the sake of the pub- 
lic* For your sake, because you love and 
esteem him highly ; for the sake of the pub- 
lic, because, should it please God to t.nke 
him before he has completed his great bo- 
tanical work, I suppose no other person will 
be able to finish it so well ; and for my own 
sake, because I know he has a kind and fa- 
vorable opinion beforehand of my transla- 
tion, and, consequently, should it justify his 
prejudice when it appears, he will stand my 
friend against an army of Cambridge critics. 
It would have been strange indeed if .•-■('//"had 
not peeped out on tliis subject. I beg you 
will present my best respects to him, and 
assure him that, were it possible he could 
visit Weston, I should be most happy to re- 
ceive him. 

Jlrs. Unwin would have been employed 
in transcribing m)' rhymes for you, w'ould 
her health have permitted ; but it is very 
seldom that she can w-rite without being 
much a sutVerer by it. She has almost a 
constant pain in her side, which forbids it. 
As soon as it leaves her, or much abates, 
she will be glad to work for you. 

I am. like you and Mr. King, an admirer 
of clouds, but only when there are blue in- 
tervals, and pretty \ride ones too, between 
them. One cloud is too much for me, but a 
hundred are not too many. So with this 
riddle and with my best respects to Mr. 
King, to which I add Mrs. Unwin's to you 
both, — I remain, mv dear madam, 

truly yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

•The Lodge, June 17, 1790. 
;\Iy de.ir Coz., — Here am I, at eight in the 
morning, in full di-ess, going a-visiting to 
Chichelcy. We are a strong party, and fill 
two chaises ; .Mrs. F. the elder, and .Mrs. G. 
in one; Jlrs. F. the younger, and myself in 
another. Were it not that I shall find (_;hes- 
ters at the end of my journey, I should be 
inconsolable. That expectation alone sup- 
ports my spirits : and, even with this pros- 

* Professor M:irlyn lived to an ndvmiced ohl m.'c, en- 
deared to his fiUMtly, respected and esteeuled by the pub- 
lic, and supported in his la-st moments by the consola- 
tions and hopes of the gospel. 



352 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



pect before me, when I saw this moment a 
poor old woman eoming up the hme, oppo- 
site my window, I could not help sighing, 
and saying to myself, " Poor, but happy old 
woman 1 Thou art exempted by thy situa- 
tion in life from riding in cliaises, and mak- 
ing thyself fine in a morning : liappier there- 
fore in my account than I, who am under the 
cruel necessity of doing both. Neither dost 
thou write verses, neither hast tliou ever 
heard of the name of Homer, whom I am 
nn'serablc to abandon for a whole morning I" 
This, and more of the same sort, passed in 
my mind on seeing the old woman above- 
said. 

The troublesome business with which I 
filled my last letter is, I hope, by this time 
concluded, and Mr. Archdeacon satisfied. I 
can, to be sure, but ill afford to pay fifty 
pounds for another man's negligence, but 
would be happy to pay a hundred rather 
than be treated as if I were insolvent ; threat- 
ened with attorneys and bums. One would 
tliink that, living where I live, I might be 
exempted from trouble. But alas ! as the 
pliilosophcrs often affirm, there is no nook 
under heaven in which trouble cannot enter ; 
and perhaps, liad there ne\er been one phi- 
losopher in the world, this is a truth that 
would not have been always altogether a 
secret. 

I have made two inscriptions lately, at the 
request of Thomas Gift'ord, Esq., who is 
sowing twenty acres with acorns on one side 
of his house, and twenty acres with ditto on 
the other.* He erects two memorials of 
stone on the occasion, tliat, when posterity 
shall be curious to know the age of the oaks, 
their curiosity may be gratified. 

1. 

INSCRIPTION. 

Other stones the era tell 
When some feeble mortal fell. 
I stand here to date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of earth. 

Anno 1790. 



INSCRIPTION. 

Reader ! Behold a monument 
That asks no sigh or tear, 

Though it perpetuate the event 
Of a great burial liere. 

Anno 1791. 

JMy works tlierefore will not all perish, or 
will not all perish soon, for he has ordered 
his lapidary to cut the characters very deep, 
and in .stone extremely hard. It is not in 
vain, then, that I have so long exercised the 
business of a poet. I shall at last reap the 
reward of my labors, and be immortal prob- 
ably for many years. 

Ever thine, W. C. 

* At CTiillingtou, Bucks. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, June SH, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — 

Villoison makes no mention of the ser- 
pent, whose skin or bow-els, or perhaps both, 
were honored with the Iliad and the Odyssey 
inscribed upon them. But I liave conversed 
with a li\'ing eye-witness of an African ser- 
pent long enough to have afforded skin and 
guts for the purpose. In Africa there are 
ants also which frecpiently destroy these 
monsters. They are not much larger than 
ours, but they travel in a column of immense 
length, and eat through everything that op- 
poses them. Their bite is like a spark of 
fire. When these serpents have killed their 
prey, lion or tiger, or any other large animal, 
before they swallow him, they take a consid- 
erable circuit round about the carcass, to see 
if the ants are coming, because, when they 
have gorged their prey, they are un^^|e to 
escape them. They are nevertheless some- 
times surprised by them in their unwieldy 
state, and the ants make a passage through 
them. Now if you thought your own story 
of Homer, bound in .snake-skin, wortliy of 
three notes of admiration, you cannot do less 
than add six to mine, confessing at the same 
time, that, if I put you to the expense of a 
letter, I do not make you pay your money 
for nothing. But this account l liad from a 
person of most unimpeachcd veracity. 

I rejoice with you in the good Bishop's re- 
moval to St. Asaph,* and especially because 
tlie Norfolk parsons much more resemble the 
ants above-mentioned than he the serpent. 
He is neither of vast size, nor unwieldy, nor 
voracious ; neither, I dare say, does he sleep 
after dinner, according to the practice of the 
said serpent. But, harmless as he is, 1 am 
mistaken if his mutinous clergy did not 
sometimes disturb his rest, and if ho did not 
find their bite, though they could not actually 
eat through him, in a degree resembling fire. 
Good men like him, and peaceable, should 
have good and peaceable folks to deal with ; 
and I heartily wish him such in his new 
diocese. But if he will keep the clergy to 
their business, he shall have trouble, let him 
go where he may; and this is boldly spoken, 
considering that I speak it to one of that 
reverend body. But ye are like Jeremiah's 
basket of figs : some of you cannot be bet- 
ter, and some of you are stark naught. Ask 
the bishop himself if this be not true. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. BODHAH. 

Weston, June 29, 1790. 
My dearest Cousin, — It is true that I did 
sometimes complain to Mrs. Unwin of your 
* Dr. Lewis Bagot, previously Bishop of Ninvi'-li. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



353 



lonof silence. But it is likewise true that I 
iiiade many excuses for you in my own mind, 
and did not feel myself at all inclined to be 
anjfry, not even mucli to wonder. There is 
an .awkwardness and a ditlicidty in writing 
to those whom distance and length of time 
have made in a manner new to us, that nat- 
urally gives us a check, when you would 
otiierwise be glad to address them. But a 
time, Uiope, is near at hand when you and I 
shall be effectually delivered from all such 
constraint.s, and correspond as fluently as if 
our intercourse had suffered much less inter- 
ruption. 

Vou must not suppose, my dear, that 
though I may be said to have lived many 
years with a pen m my hand, I am myself 
altogether at my ease on this tremendous oc- 
casion. Imagine rather, and you will come 
nearer the truth, that when I placed tliis 
sheet before me, I asked myself more tha]i 
once, " How sluall I till it ? One subject in- 
deed presents itself, the ple.asant prospect 
that opens upon me of our coming once 
more together ; but, that once exhausted, 
with what shall I proceed ?"' Thus I ques- 
tioned my.self; but linding neither end nor 
profit of such questions, I bravely resolved 
to dismiss them all at once, and to engage in 
the great enterprise of a letter to my quon- 
dam Rose .at a venture. There is great 
truth in a rant of Nat Lee's, or of Drydcn's, 
I know not «hich, who makes an enamoured 
youth say to his mistress, 

Anil nonsense shall be eloquence m love. 

For certain it is, that they who truly love 
one another are not very nice examiners of 
each other's style or matter; if an epistle 
comes, it is always welcome, though it be 
perhaps neither so wise, nor so witty, as one 
might have wished to make it. And now, 
my cousin, let me tell thee how much I feel 
myself obliged to Mr. Bodham for the readi- 
ness he expresses to accept my invitation. 
Assure him that, stranger as he is to me at 
present, and natural as the dread of strangers 
has ever been to me, I shall yet receive him 
with open arms, because he is your husband, 
and loves you dearly. That consideration 
alone will endear him to me, and I dare say 
that I shall not find it his only recommenda- 
tion to my best atTections. .Slay the health 
of his relation (his mother, I suppo.sc) be 
soon restored, and long continued, and may 
nothing melancholy, of what kind soever, in- 
terfere to prevent our joyful meeting. Be- 
tween the present moment and September 
our house is clear for your reception, and 
yon have nothing to do but to give us a day 
or two's notice of your coming. In Septem- 
ber we expect Lady Ilesketli, and I only 
regret that our house is not large enough 



to hold all together, for, were it possible 
that you could meet, you would love each 
other. 

Jlrs. Unwin bids me offer you her best 
love. She is never well, but always patient 
and always cheerful, and feels beforehand 
that she shall be loath to part with you. 

My love to all the dear Donnes of every 
name ! — write soon, no matter about what. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, July 7, 1790. 

Instead of, beginning with the saffron- 
vested morning, to which Homer invites me, 
on a morning that has no saffron vest to 
boast, I shall begin with you. 

It is irksome to us both to wait so long as 
we must for you, but we are willing to hope 
that by a longer st.ay you ^vill make us 
amends for all this tedious procrastination. 

Mrs. Unwin has made known her wliole 
case to Mr. Gregson, whose opinion of it has 
been very consolatory to me. He s.ays in- 
deed it is a case perfectly out of the reach of 
all physical aid, but at the same time not at 
.all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad griev- 
ance, whatever part is affected, and she is 
hardly ever free from an aching head, as well 
as an uneasy side, but patience is an anodyne 
of God's own preparation, and of that he 
gives her largely. 

The French, who like all lively folks are 
extreme in everything, are such in their zeal 
for freedom, and if it were possible to make 
so noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of 
promoting it could not fail to do so. Princes 
and peers reduced to plain gentlemanship, 
and gentles reduced to a level with their own 
lacqueys, are excesses of which they will re- 
pent hereafter.* Difference of rank and sub- 
ordination are, I believe of God's appoint- 
ment, and consequently essential to the well- 
being of society: but what we mean by 
fanaticism in religion is exactly that which 
animates their politics, and unless time 
should sober tlietu, they will, after all, be an 
unhappy peojile. Perhaps it deserves not 
much to be wondered at, that, at their first 
escape from tyrannical shackles, they should 
act extrav.agantly, and treat their kings as 
they have sometimes treated their idols. To 
these however they are reconciled in due 
time again, but their respect for mon.archy is 
at an end. They want nothing now but a 
liltlo English sobriety, and that they want 
extremely. I heartily wish them some wit 
iji their anger, for it w^ere great pity th.at so 
nianv millions should be miserable for want 
of if. 

* Tlie (liHtinctitiiis of ranic were nbolisfhptl during the 
Froiicli Ki-voluliun, iin'f the lille of cilizrii considered lo 
be Uie oiUv li;(;ul und honorable appelliuion. 

23 



354 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weslon, July 8, 1790. 

My dear Johnny, — Yon do well to perfect 
yourself on the violin. Only beware that an 
amu.sement so very bewitching as music, es- 
pecially when we produce it ourselves, do 
not steal from you all those hours that 
should be given to study. I can be well 
content that it should serve you as a refresh- 
ment after severer exercises, but not that it 
should engross you wholly. Your own good 
sense will nio.st probably dictate to you this 
l)recaution, and I might have spared you the 
trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for 
your proficiency in more important pursuits, 
that would not suffer mo to suppress it. 

Having delivered my conscience by giving 
you this sage admonition, I will convince you 
that I am a censor not over and above severe, 
by acknowledging in the next place that I 
have known very good performers on the 
violin, very learned also ; and my cousin. Dr. 
Spencer Madan, is an instance. 

I am delighted that you have engaged your 
si.»ter to visit us; for I say to myself, if John 
be amiable what must Catharine be? For 
we males, be we angelic as we may, are al- 
ways surpassed by the ladies. But know 
this, that I shall not be in love with either 
of you, if you stay with us only a few days, 
for you talk of a week or so. Correct this 
erratum, I beseech you, and convince us, by 
a much longer continuance here, that it was 
one. W. C. 

Mrs. Unwin has never been well since you 
saw her. You are not passionately fond of 
letter-writing, I perceive, who have dropped 
a lady ; but you will be a loser by the bar- 
gain; for one letter of hers, in point of real 
utility and sterling value, is worth twenty of 
mine, and you will ne\'er have another from 
her till you have earned it. 



TO MKS. KING.* 

The Lodge, July 16, 1700. 

My dear Madam, — Taking it for granted 
that this will find you at Perten-hall, I follow 
you with an early line and a hasty one, to 
tell you how much we rejoice to have seen 
yourself and Mr. King; and how much re- 
gret you have left behind you. The wish 
that we expressed when we were together, 
Mrs. Unwin and I have more than once ex- 
pressed since your departure, and have al- 
ways felt it, — that it had pleased Providence 
to appoint our habitations nearer to each 
other. This is a life of wishes, and they only 
are happy who have arrived where wishes 
cannot enter. We shall live now in hope of 
a second meeting and a longer interview; 

* Private correspondence. 



which, if it please God to continue to you 
and to Mr. King your present measure of 
hcalth,_you will be able, I trust, to contrive 
hereafter. You did not leave us without en- 
couragement to expect it ; and I know that 
you do not raise expectations but uith a 
sincere design to fulfil them. 

Nothing shall be wanting, on our part, to 
accomplish in due time a journey to Perten- 
hall. But I am a strange creature, who am 
less able than any man living to project any- 
thing out of the common course, with a rea- 
sonable prospect of performance. I have 
singularities, of which, I believe, at present 
you know nothing; and which would fill you 
with wonder, if you knew them. I w-ill add, 
however, in justice to myself, that they would 
not lower me in your good opinion ; though, 
perhaps, they might tempt you to question 
the soundness of my upper story. Almost 
twenty years have 1 been thus unhappily cir- 
cumstanced ; and the remedy is in the hand 
of God only. That I make you this partial 
communication on the subject, conscious, at 
the same time, that you are well worthy to 
be entrusted with the whole, is merely be- 
cause the recital would be too long for a let- 
ter, and painful both to me and to you. But 
all this may vanish in a moment; and, if it 
ple.ase God, it shall. In the meantime, my 
dear madam, remember me in your prayers, 
and mention me at those times, as one whom 
it has pleased God to afflict with singular 
visitations. 

How I regret, for poor Mrs. Unwin's sake, 
your distance ! She has no friend suitable 
as you to her disposition and character, in 
all the neighborhood. Mr. King, too, is just 
the friend and companion with whom I could 
be happy; but such grow not in this coun- 
try. Pray tell him that I remember him 
with much esteem and regai'd ; and believe 
me, my dear madam, with the sincerest af- 
fection. 

Yours entirely, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, July 31, 1700. 

You have by this time, I presume, an- 
swered Lady Hesketh's letter '! If not, an- 
swer it without delay, and this injunction I 
give you, judging that it may not be entirely 
unnecessary, for, though I have seen you but 
once, and only for two or three days, I lia\ e 
found out that you are a scatter-brain.* 1 
made the discovery perhaps the sooner, be- 
cause in this you very much resemble myself, 
who. in the course of my life, through mere 
carelessness and inattention, lost many .ad- 
vantages; an insuperable shyness has also 
deprived me of many. And here again there 
* This title was not long merited. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



355 



is a rescrablance between us. You will do 
well to guard against both, for of both, 1 be- 
lieve, you have a considerable share as well 
as myself. 

We long to se« you again, and are only 
concerned at the short stay you propose to 
make with us. If time should seem to you 
as short at Weston, as it seems to us, your 
visit here will be gone "as a dream when one 
awaketh, or as a watch in the night." 

It Is a life of dreams, but the pleasantest 
one naturally wishes longest. 

I shall tind employment for you, having 
made already some part of the fair copy of 
the Odyssey a foul one. I am revising it for 
the last time, and spare nothing that I can 
mend. The Iliad is liuished- 

If you have Donne's poems, bring them 
with you, for I have not seen them many 
years, and should like to look them over.* 

You may treat us too, if you plea.se, with 
a little of your music, for I seldom hear any, 
and delight, much in it. You need not fear 
a rival, for we have but two tiddles in the 
neighborhood — one a gardener's, the other a 
tailor's; terrible performers both! 

W. C. 



Mrs. Newton was at this time in very de- 
clining health. It is to this subject that 
Cowper alludes in the following letter. 



* Dr. DoDne, Dean of St. Paul's, :ind Chaplain to Kin? 

James the First, Ijuliniiied to that cla.s3 of writers, whom 
Johnson, in his Life of (Jowtey, descriljes n-s metaphysical 
poc'Us. Tbeirgri'at olyect seemed to be to display their 
wit and learnini;. and to astonish by wind was brilliant, 
rather than to ple.Tse Ity what was natural and simple. 
Xotvitlislandini^ this defect, the poetryof Dontie, thou-^h 
hai>li aud nnnuisical. abounds in powerful thou<.;hts, and 
discovers a considerable shal'e of learning. His divinity 
was drawn from the pure fountain of Revelation, of 
wliich he drank copiously and freely. Of his fervent 
zeal and piety, many instjuices arc recorded in that inim- 
itable piece "of tiioyrapliy, Izaak Walton's Lives. We 
fluljjoin a specimen of his poetry, comi>oscd during a 
severe lit of sickness, and which, on his recovery, was 
set to music^ and used to be often sunn to the organ by 
Uic cboristors of St. l^aul's, in his own hearing. 

HYMN TO OOn THE FATHi;a. 

I. 

Wilt thou forjrive that sin where I begun. 
Which was my sin, though it were done before? 
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, 
And do run still, tliough still 1 do deplore y 
When thou hast done, thou hast not done. 
For 1 have more. 



Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won 
Others to sin, and made my sin their door ¥ 
Wilt thou forgive that sin which f did shun 
A year or two, t>ul wallow'd in a score V 
VVtu-n thou hast done, thou hast not done, 
I'or I have raor^'. 



I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun 
My Ia.st thread. ! shall perish on the shore ; 
Biit swear by thyself that, at my death, thy Son 
Shall shine, (ls he shines now, and heretofore. 
And having done that thou bust done, 
I fear no more. 

Dicitu Poemt. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Tl\e Lodge, Aug. U, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — That I may not seem 
unreasonably tardy in answering your last 
kind letter, I steal a few minutes from my 
; customary morning business, (at present the 
translation of Mr. Yan Lier's Narrative,) to 
inform you th.at I received it safe from the 
hands of Judith Hughes, whom we met in 
I the middle of Hill-lield. Desirous of gain- 
I ing the earliest intelligence possible concern- 
! ing Mrs. Newton, we were going to call on 
I her, and she was on her w.ay to us. It 
grieved us much that her news on that sub- 
ject corresponded so little with our earnest 
wishes of Mrs. Newton's amendment. But 
if Dr. Benatuerf still gives hope of her re- 
covery, it is not, 1 trust, without substantial 
j reason for doing so ; much less can I sup- 
j pose that he would do it contrary to his own 
persuasions, because a thon.sand reasons, that 
must induence, in such a case, the conduct 
. of a humane and sensible physician, concur 
I to forbid it. If it shall please God to restore 
I her, no tidings will give greater joy to us. 
In the meantime, it is our comfort to know, 
that in any event you will be sure of sup- 
ports invaluable, and that cannot fail you; 
though, at the same time, I know well that, 
with your feelings, and especially on so af- 
fecting a subject, you will have need of the 
full e.xercise of all your faith and resignation. 
To !i greater trial no man can be called, than 
thiit of being a helpless eye-witness of the 
sufTerings of one he loves and loves tenderly. 
This I know by experience; but it is long 
since I had any experience of those comnm- 
nications from above, which alone can enable 
us to .ictiuit ourselves, on such an occasion, 
as we ought. But it is otherwise with you, 
and I rejoice that it is so. 

With respect to my own initiation into the 
secret of animal magnetism, I have a thou- 
sand doubts. Twice, as you know, I have 
been overwhelmed with the blackest despair; 
and at those times everything in which I have 
been at tiny period of my life concerned has 
afforded to the enemy a handle against me. 
I tremble, therefore, almost at every step I 
take, lest on some future similar occasion it 
should yield hiiu opimrtunity, and furnish 
hitn with means to torment ine. Decide lor 
me, if you can ; and in the meantime, present, 
if you please, my respectful compliments and 
very best thanks to Mr. Holloway, for his 
most obliging olfer.| I am, jjerhaps, the 
only man living who would hesitate a mo- 
ment, whether, on such easy terms, he should 

* Private correspondence. 

t Dr. Henainer was a pious and excellent man, whose 
hous<> was the resort of religious persons at that time, 
who went there for the purpose of edillcation. Mr. New- 
ton w:i3 a rirgular attendant on these occasions. 

X Newton had suggested the propriety of Cowper trying 
the effect of animal magnetism, in tb(^ hopes of miUgoting 
his disorder, but he declined the olTer. 



356 



COVVPER'S WORKS. 



or should not accept it. But if he finds an- 
othei' like nic, he will make a greater discov- 
ery tluin even that which he has already made 
of the principles of this wonderful art. For 
I take it for granted, that he is tiie gentleman 
w honi you once mentioned to me as indebted 
only to his own penetration for the knowl- 
edge of it. 

1 shall proceed, you may depend on it, 
with all possible despatch in your business. 
Had it fallen into my hands a few months 
later, I should have made a quicker riddance ; 
for, before the autumn shall be ended, I hope 
to have done with Homer. But my first 
morning hour or two (now and then a let- 
ter which must be written excepted) shall 
always be at your service till the whole is 
finished. 

Commending you and Mrs. Newton, with 
all the little power I have of that sort, to 
His fatherly and tender care in whom you 
have both belie\ed, in whicli friendly office I 
am fervently joined by Mrs. Unwin, I re- 
main, with our sincere love to you both, and 
to Miss Catlett, my dear friend, most attec- 
tionately yours, W. C. 



The termination of a laborious literary un- 
tertaking is an eventful period in an author's 
life. The following letter announces the 
termination of Cowper's Homeric version, 
and its conveyance to the press. 

TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weston, Sept. 9, 1791). 

My dearest Cousin, — I am truly sorry to 
be forced after all to resign the hope of see- 
ing you and Mr. Bodhara at Weston this 
year ; the ne.xt may possibly be more propi- 
tious, and I heartily wish it may. Poor 
Catharine's* unseasonable indisposition has 
also cost us a disappointment which we much 
regret. And, were it not that Johnny has 
made shift to reach us, we should tliink our- 
selves completely unfortun.ate. But him we 
have, and him we will hold as long as we 
can, so e.\pect not very soon to see him in 
Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gen- 
tle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely 
at my ease with him, tliat I cannot surrender 
him without a 7)feils must, even to those who 
have a superior claim upon liim. He left us 
yesterday morning, and whitlier do you think 
he is gone, and on wliat errand? Gone, as 
sure as you are alive, to London, and to con- 
vey my Homer to the bookseller's. But he 
will return the day after to-morrow, and I 
mean to part W'itli him no more till necessity 
sliall force us asunder. Suspect me not, my 
cousin, of being such a monster as to have im- 
posed this task myself on your kind nephew, 
* The Rev. J. Johnson's sister. 



or even to have thought of doing it. It hap- 
pened that one day, as we chatted by the fire- 
side, I expressed a wish that I could hear of 
some trusty body going to London, to whose 
care I might consign my voluminous labors, 
tlie work of five years. For I purpose never 
to visit that city again myself, and sliould 
have been uneasy to have left a charge, of 
so much importance to me, altogether to the 
care of a stage-coachman. Jolinny had no 
sooner heard my wish tli.an, ofiering himself 
to the service, he fulfilled it ; and his offer 
was made in such terms, and accompanied 
with a countenance and manner expressive 
of so much alacrity, that, unreasonable as I 
thought it at first to give him so much trou- 
ble, I soon found that I should mortify him 
by a refusal. He is gone therefore with a 
box full of poetry, of which 1 think nobody 
will plunder him. He has only to say what 
it is, and there is no commodity I think a 
freebooter would covet less. 

W. C. 



The marriage of his friend, Mr. Rose, was 
too interesting an event not to claim Cowper's 
warm congratulations. 

TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Sept. 13, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — Your letter was particu- 
larly welcome to rae, not only because it came 
after a long silence, but because it brought 
me good news — news of your marriage, and 
consequently, I trust, of your happiness. 
May that happiness be durable as your lives, 
and may you be the Felices ler el amjilius of 
whom Horace sings so sweetly ! This is my 
sincere wish, and, thougii expressed in prose, 
shall serve as your epithalamium. You com- 
fort me when you say that your marriage will 
not deprive us of the sight of you hereafter. 
If you do not wish that I should regret your 
union, you must make that assurance good as 
often as you have opportiuiity. 

After perpetual versification during five 
years, I find myself at last a vacant man, and 
reduced to read for my amusement. My 
Homer is gone to the press, ;ind you will im- 
agine that I feel a void in consequence. The 
proofs however will be coming soon, and I 
shall avail myself with all my force, of this 
last opportunity to make my work as perfect 
as I wish it. I shall not therefore be long 
time destitute of employment, but shall have 
sufficient to keep me occupied all the winter 
and part of the ensuing spring, for Johnson 
purposes to publish either in March, April, or 
May — my very preface is finished. It did not 
cost me much trouble, being neither long nor 
learned. I have spoken my mind as freely as 
decejicy would permit on the subject of Pope's 
version, allowing him at the same time all the 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



357 



merit to which I thinlf him entitled. I have 
given my reiisons for translating in blank 
verse, and hold sonu- discourse on the mech- 
anism of it, c-hietly with a view to obviate 
the prejudices of some people against it. I 
e.\p:itiatea little on the manner in which I think 
Homer ought to be rendered, and in wliicli I 
have endeavored to ru-nder him myself, and 
anticipated two or three cavils to w-hicli I 
foresee that I shall be liable from the ignorant 
or uncandid, in order, if possible, to prevent 
them. These are the chief heads of my 
preface, and the whole consists of about 
twelve pages. 

It is possible, when I come to treat with 
Johnson about the copy, I may want some 
person to negotiate for me, and knowing no 
one so intelligent as yourself in books, or so 
well qualified to estimate their just value, I 
shall beg leave to resort to and rely on you 
as my negotiator. But I will not trouble you 
unless I should see occasion. My cousin was 
the bearer of my MSS. to London. He went 
on purpose, and returns to-morrow. Mrs. Un- 
win's affectionate felicitations added to my 
own, conclude me, 

Dear friend. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

The trees of a colonnade will solve my 
riddle.* 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ES(;.t 

The Lodge, Sept 17, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — I received last night a 
copy of my subscribers' names from Johnson, 
in which I see how much I have been indebted 
to yours and to Mrs. Hill's solicit.itions. Ac- 
cept my best thanks, so justly due to you both. 
It is an illustrious catalogue, in respect of 
rank and title, but methinks I should have 
liked it as well had it been more numerous. 
The sum s,ibscribed, however, will defray the 
expense of printing, which is as much as, in 
these unsubscribing days, I had any reason to 
promise myself I devoutly secotid your droll 
wish, that the booksellers may contetid about 
me. The more the better : seven times seven, 
if they please ; and let them light with the 
fury of .\chilles. 
Till evr)' rubric-post be critnson'J o'er 
With blooil of booksellers, in battle slain 
For me, and not a periwig untom. 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. KrNG.f 

Weston, Oct. 5. 1790. 

My dear Madam, — I am truly concerned 
that you have so good an excuse for your 
silence. Were it proposed to my choice, 
whether you should omit to write through ill- 

• What are they wliich stMiul at H (liMtance from each 
other, and meet without ever moving Y 
t Private correspondence. 



ncss or indifference to me, I should be selfi.sh 
enough, perhaps, to find decision difficult for 
a few moments ; but have such an opinion at 
the same time of my affection for yoti, as to 
be verily persuaded that 1 should at last make 
a right option, and wish you rather to forget 
me than to be afflicted. But there is One 
wi.ser and more your friend than I can possi- 
bly be, who appoints all your sufferings, and 
wiio, by a power altogether his own, is able 
to make them good for you. 

I wish heartily that my verses had been 
more worthy of the counterpane, their sub- 
ject.* The gratitude I felt when you brought 
it, and gave it to me, might have inspired 
better ; but a head full of Homer, I find by 
sad experience, is good for little else. Lady 
Hesketh, who is here, has seen your gift, and 
pronounced it the most beautiful and best 
executed of the kind she ever saw. 

I have lately received from my bookseller 
a copy of my subscribers' names, and do not 
find among them the name of Mr. Professor 
Martyn. I mentioti it because you informed 
me, some time since, of his kind intention to 
number himself among my encouragers on 
this occasion, and because I am unwilling to 
lose, for want of speaking in time, the honor 
th.tt his name will do me. It is possible, too, 
that he may have subscribed, and that his non- 
appearance may be owing merely to Johnson's 
having forgot to enter his name. Perhaps 
you will have an opportunity to ascertain the 
matter. Tlie catalogue will be printed soon, 
and published in the " Analytical Review,'' as 
the last and most effectual way of .advertising 
my translation, and the name of the gentleman 
in question will be particularly serviceable to 
me in the first edition of it. 

J[y whole work is in the bookseller's hands, 
and ought by this time to be in the press. The 
next spring is the time appointed for the pub- 
lication. . It is a geni.al season, when people 
who are ever good-tempered at all are sure to 
1 be so; a circumstance well worthy of an 
'author's attention, especially of mine, who am 
just going to give a thump on the outside of the 
crities'hive, that will probably alarm them all. 

Mrs. Unwin, I think, is on the whole rather 
improved in her health since we had the plea- 
sure of your short visit : I should say the 
pleasure of your visit, and the pain of its 
shortness. I am, my dearest madam, 
Most truly yours, W. C. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

The Lodge, Oct. 15, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — We were surprised and 

• Mr.^ King presented tlie poet with a counterpaDO, in 

Catch-work, of her own inakinu'. In acliliowleugment, 
u addressed to her Uie verses tjeginuing, 
" The bard, if e'er he feel at all. 
Must sure be quicl(en'd by a call," ice. &c 
t Privale correspondence. 



358 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



grieved at Mrs. Scott's* sudden departure; 
ji^rieved. you may suppose, not for /it?-, but for 
)ii77?, wliose loss, ext-ept that in God he has an 
all-siilHcient good, is irreparable. The day of 
sojianilion between those who have loved long 
and well is an awful day, inasmuch as it calls 
the Christian's faith and submission to the 
severest trial. Yet I account those happy, 
who, if they are severely tried, shall yet be 
supjiorted, and carried safely through. What 
would become of me on a similar occa.sion ! 
I have one comfort, and only one ; bereft of 
that, I should have nothing left to lean on ; 
for my spiritual props have been long struck 
from under me. 

I have no objection at all to being known 
as the translator of Van Lier's Letters when 
they shall be published. Rather, I am ambi- 
tious of it as an honor. It will serve to prove, 
that, if I have spent much time to little pur- 
pose in the translation of Homer, some small 
portion of ray time has, how-evcr, been well 
disposed of 

The honor of your preface prefi.xed to my 
poems will be on my side ; for surely to be 
known as the friend of a much-favored min- 
ister of God's word is a more illustrious dis- 
tinction, in reality, than to have the friendship 
of any poet in the world to boast of 

We sympathize truly with you under all 
your tender concern for Mrs. Newton, and 
with her in all her sufferings from such vari- 
ous and discordant maladies. Alas ! what a 
difference have twenty-three years made in us 
and in our condition ! for just so long is it 
since Mrs. Unwin and I came into Bucking- 
hamshire. Yesterday was the anniversary of 
that memorable era. Farewell. W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f . 

The Lodge, Oct.- 26, 1*90. 

My dear Friend, — We should have been 
happy to have received from you a more fa- 
vorable account of Mrs. Newton's liealth. 
Y'ours is indeed a post of observation, and of 
observation the most interesting. It is well 
that you are enabled to bear the stress and 
inteuseness of it without prejudice to your 
own health, or impediment to your ministry. 

The last time I wrote to Johnson, I made 
known to him your wishes to have your 
preface printed, and affi.xed, as soon as an 
opportunity shall offer; expressing, at the 
same time, my own desires to have it done.f 

* Tlie wife of the Rev. Thomas Scolt, Ihe author of one 
of the Iiest Commentaries on the Bible ever published. 
Mr. Scott was preacher at tl\e Lock Hospital at this time. 

t Private correspondence. 

i We here subjoin tlie letter which Cowper addresse<l 
to Johnson, the bookseller, on this occasion. 

Weston, Oct. 3, ITM). 

Sir. Newton having again requested that the Preface 
which he wrote for my first volume may be prefixed to 



Whether I shall have any answer to my pro- 
posal is a matter of much uncertainty ; for 
he is always either too idle or too busy, I 
know not which, to write to me. Should 
you happen to pass his way, perhaps it would 
not be amiss to speak to him on the sub- 
ject: for it is easier to carry a point by si.x 
words spoken, than by writing as many 
sheets about it. I have asked him hither, 
when ray cousin Johnson shall leave us, 
which will be in about a fortnight ; and 
should he come will enforce the measure 
myself 

A yellow shower of leaves is falling con- 
tinually from all the trees in the country. A 
few moments only seem to have passed since 
they were buds ; and in a few moments more 
they w'ill have disappeared. It is one advan- 
tage of a rural situation, that it affords many 
hints of the rapidity witli which life ffie.s,that 
do not occur in towns and cities. It is im- 
possible for a man conversant with such 
scenes as surround me, not to advert daily 
to the shortness of his existence here, ad- 
monished of it, as he must be, by ten thou- 
sand objects. There was a time when I could 
contemplate my present state, and consider 
myself as a thing of a day with i)leasure ; 
when I numbered the seasons as they passed 
in swift rotation, as a schoolboy numbers the 
days that interpose between the next vaca- 
tion, when he shall see his parents, and en- 
joy his home again. But to make so just an 
estimate of a life like this is no longer in my 
power. Tile consideration of my short con- 
tinuance here, which was once gi'ateful to me, 
now fills me with regret. I would live and 
live always, and am become such another 
wretch as Sliecenas was, who wished for long 
life, he cared not at what expense of suffer- 
ings. The oidy consolation left me on this 
subject is, that the voice of the Aliuighty can 
in one moment cure me of this mental in- 
firmity. That he can, I know by experience ; 
and there are reasons for which I ought to 
believe that he will. But from hope to de- 
spair is a transition that I have made so often, 
that I can only consider the hope that may 
come, and that sometimes I believe will, as a 
short prelude of joy to a miserable conclu- 
sion of sorrow that shall never end. Thus 
are my brightest prospects clouded, and thus, 
to me, is hope itself become like a withered 
flower, that has lost both its hue and its fra- 
grance. 

I ought not to have written in this dismal 
strain to you, in your present trying situa- 
tion, nor did I intend it. Y'ou have more 
need to be cheered than to be saddened ; but 
a dearth of other themes constrained me to 

it, I am desirous to gratify him in a particular that so 
emphatically bespeaks his friendship for me; and, 
should my books see another edition, shall be obliged to 
you if you will add it accordingly. \V. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



359 



choose myself for a subject, and of myself I 
can write no otherwise. 

Adieu, my dear friend. We are well : and, 
notwith.standin<,' all that I have said, lam my- 
self as fheerfni as usual. Lady Hesketh is 
liiL're, and in her company even 1, except now 
and then for a moment, forget my sorrows. 
I remain sincerely yours, W. C. 

The purport of this letter is painful, but 
it is explained by the peculiarity of Cowper's 
case. The slate of mind uhicli the Christian 
ouglil lij realize, should be a willingness to 
remain or to depart, as may seem best to the 
supreme Disposer of events; though the pre- 
dominating feeling (where there is an assured 
and lively hope) will be that of the apostle, 
viz., that "to be with Christ is far better." 
The question i.s, how is this lively hope and 
assurance to be obtained ! How is the sense 
of guilt, and the fear of death and judgment, 
to be overcome ! The Gospel proclaims the 
appointed remedy. "Behold the Lamb of 
God, which taketh away the sins of the 
world."* " I, even I, am He, which blotteth 
out all thy tran.sgressiims for mine own sake, 
and will not remember thy si[is."f " If any 
man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, 
Jesus Christ the righleons, and he is the pro- 
pitiation for our sins."J The cordial recep- 
tion of this great gospel trutli into the heart, 
the humble reliance upon God's pardoning 
mercy, through the blood of the cross, will, 
by the grace of God, infallibly lead to inward 
joy and peace. " Therefore, being justified 
by faith, we have peace with God, through 
our Lord Jesus Christ. By whom also we 
have access by faith unto this grace wherein 
we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of 
God."{ The .same divine grace tliat assures 
peace to the conscience, will also change and 
renew the iiearl, and plant within it those 
holy principles and afl'eclions that will lead 
to newness of life. The promise of the 
blood to pardon, and the Spirit to teach and 
to sanctify, are the two great fundamental 
doctrines of the GospeI.|| 



please our friends, who, because they are 
such, are apt to be a little biassed in our fa- 
vor ; and another to write w-hat may please 
everybody ; because they who have no con- 
nexion or even knowledge of the author will 
be sure to find fault if they can. My advice, 
however, salutary and necessary as it seemed 
to me, was such as 1 dare not have given to 
a poet of less ditfidence than he. Poets are 
to a proverb irritable, and he is tlie only one 
I ever knew who seems to have no spark of 
that fire about him. He has left us about a 
fortnight, and sorry we were to lose him ; 
but had he been my son he must have gone, 
and 1 could not have regretted him luore. If 
his sister be still with you, present my love 
to her, and tell her how much I wish to see 
them at VVe.ston together. 

Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of 
my childhood than 1 can recollect either of 
hers or my own ; but this I recollect, that the 
days of tliat jjcriod were happy days com- 
pared with most I have seen since. There 
are few, perhaps, in the world, who have not 
cause to look b.ack with regret on the days 
of infancy ; yet, to say, the truth, I suspect 
some deception in this. For infancy itself 
has its cares, and though we cannot now con- 
ceive how trifles could aftect us much, it is 
certain that they did. Tritles they appear 
now, but such they were not then. 

w. c. 



TO MRS. BODHAM. 

Weston, Nov. 21, 1730. 

My dear Coz., — Our kindness to your 
nephew is no more than he must entitle him- 
self to whene'er he goes. His amiable dis- 
position and manners will never fail to secure 
him a warm place in the alTection of all who 
know him. The advice I gave respecting 
his poem on Audley End was dictated by my 
love of him, and a sincere desire of his suc- 
cess. It is one thing to write what may 

• John i. 29. t I^ainii xliii. 23. 

I 1 Jiihn ii. 1, 2. « Rom. v. 1, 2. 

II 1 .lolui i. 7. Isaiali Ixi. 1—3. Luke ii. 9—13. John 
itvi. 16, 17. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

(my BIRTH-DaY.) 

Wealon, Friday, Nov. 20, 1790, 

My dearest Johnny, — I am happy that you 
have escaped from the claws of Euclid into 
the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I sup- 
pose, to rrerij man to be well grounded in 
the ]irinciples of jurisprudence, and 1 take it 
to be a branch of science that bids much fairer 
to enlarge the mind, and give an accuracy of 
reasoning, than all the mathematics in the 
world. Mind yo\ir studies, and you will soon 
be wiser than I can hope to be. 

We had a visit on Monday from one of the 
first women in the world ; in point of char- 
acter, I mean, and accomplishments, the dow- 
ager Lady S|)encer !* I may receive, per- 
haps, some honors hereafter, should my trans- 
lation speed according to my wislies, and the 
pains I have taken with it; but shall never 
receive any that I shall esteem so highly. 
She is indeed worthy lo whom I should ded- 
icate, and, m;iy but my Odyssey prove as 
worthy of her, I shall have nothing to fear 
from the critics. 

Vours, my dear Johiniy, 

With much all'ection, W. C. 

* Tlie niotliiT of llie lale Karl Spcnorr. and of the 
Duchess of I)evon^hir4-', and ttie person lo whom he dedi- 
cated his version of ttao Odyssey. 



360 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Tlic Lodge, Nov. 29, 1790. 

My dear JIadam, — I value liighly,a.s I ought 
and liopc that I always shall, the favorable 
opinion of such men as Mr. Martyn : though, 
to say the truth, their commendations, instead 
of making me proud, have rather a tendency 
to humble me, conscious as I am that I am 
overrated. There is an old piece of advice, 
given by an ancient poet and satirist, which 
it behoves every man who stands well in the 
opinion of others to lay up in his bosom : — 
Talic care lo be irhal y,ni are reported to he. 
By due attention to this wise counsel, it is 
possible to turn the praises of our friends to 
good account, and to convert that which might 
pi'ove an incentive to vanity into a lesson of 
wisdom. I will keep your good and respect- 
able friend's letter x ery safely, and restore it 
to you the first opportunity. I beg, my dear 
madam, that you will present my best com- 
pliments to Mr. iMartyn, when you shall either 
see him next or write to him. 

To that gentleman's inquiries I am, doubt- 
less, obliged for the recovery of no small pro- 
portion of my subscription-list: for, in con- 
sequence of his application to Johnson, and 
very soon after it, I received from him no 
fewer than forty-five names, that had been 
omitted in the list he sent me, and that would 
probably never have been thought of more. 
No author, I believe, has a more inattentive 
or indolent bookseller: but he has everybody's 
good word for liberality and honesty ; there- 
fore I must be content. 

The press proceeds at present as well as I 
can reasonably wish. A month has passed 
since we began, and I revised this morning 
the first sheet of the si.xth Iliad. Mrs. Unwin 
begs to add a line from herself, so that I have 
only room to subjoin my best respects to Mr. 
King, and to say that I am truly. 

My dear madam, yours, 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Nov. 3D, 1790. 
My dear Friend, — I will confess that I 
thought your letter somewhat tardy, though, 
at the same time, I made every excuse for 
you, except, as it seems, the right. Thai in- 
deed was out of the reach of all possible con- 
jecture. I could not guess that your silence 
was occasioned by your being occupied with 
cither thieves or thief-takers. Since, how- 
ever, the cause was such, I rejoice that your 
labors were not in vain, and tliat the free- 
booters who had plundered your friend are 
safe in limbo. I admire, too, as much as I 
rejoice in your success, the indefatigable 
.spirit that prompted you to pursue, with such 
unremitting perseverance, an object not to 
* Private correspondence. 



be reached but at the expen.se of infinite 
trouble, and that mu.st have led you into an 
acquaintance with scenes and characters the 
most horrible to a mind like yours. I see in 
this conduct the zeal and firmness of your 
friendship, to whomsoever professed, and, 
tliough I wanted not a proof of it myself, 
contemplate so unequivocal an indication of 
what you really are, and of what I always be- 
lieved you to be, with much pleasure. ' May 
you rise from the condition of an humble 
prosecutor, or witness, to the bench of judg- 
ment ! 

When your letter arrived, it found me with 
the worst and most obstinate cold that I ever 
caught. This was one reason why it liad not 
a speedier answer. Another is, that, except 
Tuesday morning, there is none in the week 
in which I am not engaged in the last revisal 
of my translation ; the revisal I mean of my 
proof-sheets. To this business I give myself 
with an assiduity and attention truly admir- 
able, and set an example, which, if other poets 
could be apprised of they would do well to 
follow. Miscarriages in authorship (I am 
persuaded) are as often to be ascribed to 
want of p:iins-taking as to want of ability. 

Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Unwin, and myself, 
often mention you, and always in terms that, 
though you would blush to hear them, you 
need not be ashamed of; at the same time 
wishing much that you would change our 
trio into a quartetto. VV. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Wcslon. Dec. 1, 1790. 

My dear Friend, — It is plain that you un- 
understand trap, as we used to say at school : 
for you begin with accusing me of long 
silence, conscious yourself, at the same time, 
that you have been half a year in my debt, or 
thereabout. But I will answer your accusa- 
tions with a boast — with a boast of having 
intended many a day to write to you again, 
notwithstanding your long insolvency. Your 
brother and sister of Chicheley can both wit- 
ness for me, that, weeks since, I testified such 
an intention, aud, if I did not execute it, it 
was not for want of good-will, but for want 
of leisure. When will you be able to glory 
of such designs, so liberal and magnificent, 
you who have nothing to do, by your own 
confession, but to grow fat and saucy ? Add 
to all this, that I have had a violent cold, such 
as I never have but at the first approach of 
winter, and such as at that time I seldom 
escape. A fever accompanied it, and an in- 
cessant cough. 

You measure the speed of printers, of my 
printer at least, rather by your own wishes 
than by any just standard. Mine (I believe) 
is as nimble a one as falls to the share of 
poets in general, though not nimble enough 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



361 



to satisfy cillior the luitlior or his friends. I 
toll! you liiat my worlv would go to press in 
autiimn, aiid so it did. But it liad been si.\ 
weeks in London ere tlie press began to work 
upon it. About a inontli since we began to 
print, and, at tlie rate of nine sheets in a fort- 
niglit, have proceeded to about the middle of 
tlie sixth Iliad. "No further?" — you say. 
I answer — " No, nor even so far, without 
much scolding on my part, both at the book- 
seller and the printer." But courage, my 
friend ! Fair and softly, as we proceed, we 
shall find our way through at last; and, in 
coiilirmation of this hope, while 1 write this, 
another sheet arrives. I expect to publish 
in the .spring. 

I love and thank you for the ardent desire 
you e.vpress to hear me bruited abroad, el per 
ora viritm volUaulKm. For your encourage- 
ment, I will tell you that 1 read, myself at 
least, with wonderful com])lacenee what I 
have done; and if the world, when it shall 
appear, do not like it as well as I, we will 
both say and swear with Fluellin, that " it is 
an ass and a fool (like you !) and a prating 
coxcomb," 

I felt no ambition of the laurel.* Else, 
though vainly, perhaps, I had friends who 
would have made a stir on my behalf on that 
occasion, I confess that, when I learned the 
new condition of the office, that odes were 
no longer re(|uired, and that the salary was 
increased, 1 felt not the same dislike of it. 
But I could neither go to court, nor could I 
kiss hands, were it for a much more valuable 
consideration. Therefore never e.vpect to 
hear that royal favors find out me ! 

Adieu, my dear old friend ! I will send 
you a mortuary copy soon, and in the mean- 
time remain, Ever yours, W, C, 



TO TItF- REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

The Lodge, Dec. 5, 1790, 

Jly dear Friend, — Sometimes I am too sad, 
and sometimes too busy to write. Both these 
causes have concurreii lately to keep me silent. 
But more than by either of these 1 have been 
hindered, since 1 received your last, by a vio- 
lent cold, which oppressed me during almost 
the whole month of November. 

Your letter effects us with both joy and 
sorrow : with sorrow and sympathy respect- 
ing poor Mrs. Newton, whose feeble and 
dying state suggests a wish for her release 
rather than for her continuance ; and joy on 
your account, who are enabled to bear, with 
so much resignation and cheerful acquies- 
cence in the will of God, the prospect of a 
loss, which even they who know you best 
apprehended might prove too much for you. 

• The office of Poc-l Laurcat, mentioned In a former 
teller. 
f Private corre^ponduDce, 



As to Mrs. Newton's interest in the best 
tliing.s, none, intimately acquainted with her 
as wc have been, could doubt it. 8he doubt- 
ed it indeed herself; but though it is not 
our duty to doubt, any more than it is our 
privilege, I have alv\'ays considered the self- 
condemning spirit, to which such doubts are 
principally owing, as one of the most fa- 
vorable .symptoms of a nature spiritually re- 
newed, and have many a time heard you make 
the same observation, 

[rvrnqff:] 

We believe that the best Christian is occa- 
sionally subject to doubts and fears ; and that 
they form a part of the great warfare. That 
it is our privilege and duty to cultivate an 
habitual .sense of peace in the con.science, 
and that this peace will be enjoyed in pro- 
portion as faith is in exercise, and the soul is 
in communion with God, we fully agree. 
But who that is acquainted with the inward 
experiences of the Chri-stian, does not know 
that there arc alternations of joy and fear, of 
triumph and of depression ? The Psalms of 
David furnish many instances of this fact, as 
well as the history of the mo.st eminent 
saints recorded in Scripture. " Though I 
am sometimes afraid, yet put I my trust in 
thee." We conceive these words to be an 
e.veniplifieation of the truth of the case. 
When, therefore, we hear persons speak of 
the entire absence of sin and infirmity, and 
exemption from doubts and fears, we are 
strongly disposed to believe that they labor 
under great self-deception, and know little 
of their own hearts, in thus arguing against 
the general testimony of the Church of 
Christ in all ages. A plain and |)ioHS Chris- 
tian once told us of an appropriate remark 
tliat he addressed to an individual who pro- 
fessed to be wholly free from any fears on 
this subject. " If," observed this" excellent 
man, '• you have no fears for yourself, you 
must allow me to entertain some for you," 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ, 

Wfston, Dec. 18, 1790. 

I perceive myself so flattered by the in- 
stances of illustrious success mentioned in 
your letter, that I feel all the amiable modes- 
ty, for which I was once so famous, sensibly 
giving way to a s[)irit of vain-glory. 

The King's College subscription makes me 
proud — the ctVeet that my verses have had on 
your two young friends, the mathematicians, 
makes me proud, and I am, if possible proud- 
er still of the contents of the letter that you 
inclosed. 

You complained of being .stupid, and sent 
me one of the cleverest letters. I have not 
complained of being stupid, and sent you one 



362 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of the dullest. But it is no matter. I never 
aim at anything above the pitch of every 
day's scribble, wlien I write to those I love. 

Homer proceeds, my boy ! We shall get 
through it in time, and (I hope) by the time 
appointed. We are now in the tenth Iliad. 
I expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. 
\iia luive their best love. Mine attends the 
whole army of Donnes at IVIattishall Green* 
assembled. How happy should I find my- 
self, were I but one of the party ! My ca- 
pering days are over. But do you caper for 
me, that you may give them some idea of 
the happiness I should feel were I in the 
midst of them ! W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.f 

The Lodge, Dec. 31,1750. 

My dear Madam, — Returning from my 
walk at half-past three, I found your wel- 
come messenger in the kitchen; and, enter- 
ing the study, found also the beautiful pres- 
ent with which you had charged him.J We 
have all admired it (for Lady Hesketh was 
here to assist us in doing so ;) and for my 
own particular, I return your my sincerest 
thanks, a very inadequate compensation. 
Mrs. Unwin, not satisfied to send you thanks 
only, begs your acceptance likewise of a 
turkey, which, though the figure of it might 
not much embellish a counterpane, may pos- 
sibly serve hereafter to swell the dimensions 
of a feather-bed. 

I have lately been visited with an indispo- 
sition much more formidable than that which 
I mentioned to you in my last — a nervous 
fever : a disorder to which I am subject, and 
which I dread abcive all others, because it 
comes attended by a melancholy perfectly 
insupportable. This is the first day of my 
complete recovery, the first in which 1 have 
perceived no symptoms of my terrible mal- 
ady ; and the only drawback on this comfort 
th.at I feel is the intelligence contained in 
yours, that neither Mr. King nor yourself are 
well. I dread always, both for my own 
health and for that of my friends, the unhappy 
influences of a year worn out. But, my 
dear madam, this is the last day of it ; and I 
resolve to hope that the new year shall ob- 
literate all the disagreeables of the old one. 
I can wisli nothing more warmly than that it 
may prove a propitious year to you. 

Sly poetical operations, I mean of the oc- 
casional kind, have lately been pretty much 
at a stand. I told you, I believe, in my last, 
that Homer, in the present stage of the pro- 
cess, occupied me more intensely than ever. 

• In Norfolli. 

t Private correspondence. 

t Tills counterpane is mentioned in a previous letter, 
ilati'd Oct. 5tll, in lliis year: so tti-lt, unless it was taltcn 
ti;ictv and tlien returned in an improved stale, there seems 
to be some error, that we do not profess to explain. 



He still continues to do so, and threatens, 
till he shall be completely finished, to make 
all other composition impracticable. I have, 
however, written the mortuary verses as 
usual ; but the wicked clerk for whom I 
write them has not yet sent me the impres- 
.sion. I transmit to you the long promised 
Catharina; and, were it possible that I could 
transcribe the others, would send them also. 
There is a way, however, by which 1 can 
procure a frank, and you shall not want them 
long. 

I remain, dearest madam, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



We have now the pleasure of introducing 
to the reader a lady, of whom we should say 
much, if a sense of propriety did not impose 
silence upon our pen. The Catharina, re- 
corded by the muse of Cowper, was Miss 
Stapleton at that time, subsequently married 
to Mr. George Throckmorton Courtney, and 
finally Lady Throckmorton, by the decease 
of the elder brother Sir John. As we can- 
not impose on the poet the restraint which 
we are compelled to practise in our own 
case, we shall beg leave to insert the follow- 
ing verses, written on the occasion of her 
visit to Weston. 

She came — she is gone — we have met — 
And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 
And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina' has fled like a dream — 
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
But has letl a regret and esteem. 
That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last ev'ning ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, t and I. 

Our progress was ol>en delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 

We paus'd under many a tree, 

And much she was charm'd with a tone, 

Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

My niinibers tiiat day she had sung, 
And gave them a grace so divine, 
As only her musical tongue 
Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard, I esteem'd 
The work ot' my tancy the more, 
And e'en to myself never seem'd 
So tuneful a poet belbre. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 
In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede, 
Would feel herself happier here; 
For the close woven arches of limes 
On the banks of our river, I know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 
Than ought that the city can show. 

* Mis.s Stapleton, afterwards Lady Throckmorton, and 
the person to whom the present undertatung is dedicated. 
t The wife of Sir John Throckmorton. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



363 



So it is, wncn the minJ is imbued 
With a wfll-judgin!; taste from above, 
Then, whether embcllish'd or rude 
"Tis iiiiturc alone that wc love. 
Tile achievements of art may amuse, 
May even our wonder excite, 
But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse 
A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice. 

May it still he her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 

To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 

And by Philomels annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 

With her book, and her voice, and her lyre. 

To wing all her moments at home. 

And with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

As oft as it suits her to roam. 

She will have just the life she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear. 

And ours would be pleasant as hers, 

Might we view her enjoying it here. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAfiOT. 

Weston, .Ian. 4, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — You would long since 
have received an answer to your la.st, had 
not the wicked clerk of Northampton delayed 
to send me the printed copy of my annual 
dirge, whicli I waited to enelo.se. Here it 
is at last, and much good may it do the 
readers !* 

I have regretted that I could not write 
sooner, especially because it well became me 
to reply as soon as possible to your kind in- 
quiries after my health, which has been both 
better and worse since I wrote last. The 
cough was cured, or nearly so, when I re- 
ceived your letter, but I have lately b«'en 
afflicted with a nervous fever, a malady for- 
midable to nie above all others, on account 
of the terror and dejection of spirits that in 
ray case always accompany it. I even look 
forward, for this reason, to the month now 
current, with the most miserable apprehen- 
sions; for in this month the distemper has 
twice seized me. I wish to be thankful, 
however, to the sovereign Dispenser both of 
health and sickness, that, though I have felt 
cause enough to tremble, he gives me now 
encouragement to hope that I may dismiss 
my fears, and e.xpeet, for this January at least, 
to escape it. 

The mention of quantity reminds me of a 
remark that I have seen somewhere, possi- 
bly in Johnson, to this purport, that, the syl- 
lables in our language being neither long 
nor short, our ver.se accordingly is less beau- 
tiful than the verse of the Greeks or Romans, 
because roqniring less artifice in its construc- 

* See mortuary verses composed on this occasion. 



tion. But I deny the fact, and am ready to 
depose on oath, that I find every syllable as 
distingiii.sliably and clearly, either long or 
short, in our language, as in any otlier. 1 
know also, that without an attention to the 
quantity of our syllable.% good verse cannot 
possibly be written, and that ignorance of 
this matter is one reason why we see so 
much that is good for nothing. The move- 
ment of a verse is always either .sluiftiing or 
graceful, according to our management in 
thi> particular, and ^Milton gives almost as 
many proofs of it in his Paradise Lost as 
tliere are lines in the poem. Away, there- 
fore, with all such unfounded observations! 
I would not give a farthing for many bushels 
of them — nor you perhaps for this letter. 
Yet, upon recollection, forasmuch as I know 
you to be a dear lover of literary gossip, I 
think it possible you may esteem it highly. 
Believe me, my dear friend, most trnly 



yours, 



W. C. 



The following letter records the death of 
Mrs. Newton, the object of so early and last- 
ing an .attachment on the part of the Rev. 
John Newton. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, Jan. 20, 1791. 
My dear Friend, — Had you been a man of 
this world, I should have held myself bound 
by the law of ceremonies to have sent you 
long since my tribute of condolence. I have 
sincerely mourned with you : and though you 
have lost a wife, and I only a friend, yet do 
I understand too well the value of such a 
friend as Mrs. Newton not to have sympa- 
thised with you very nearly. But you are 
not a man of this world ; neither can you, 
who have both the Scripture and the tiiver 
of Scrii)ture to console you, have any need 
of aid from others, or e.\pect it from such 
spiritual imbecility .as mine. I considered, 
likewise, that receiving a' letter from Jlrs. 
Unwin, you, in fact, received one from my- 
self, with this difference only, — that hers 
could not fail to be better .adapted to the 
occasion and to your own frame of mind th.an 
any that I could send you. 
[Torn off.] 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Wesum, Jan. 21, 1791. 
I know that you have already been cate- 
chised by Lady Hesketh on the subject of 
your return hither, before the winter shall 
be over, and shall therefore only say, that if 
you CAN come, we shall be happy to receive 
you. Remember also, th.at nothing can ex- 
* Private correspondence. 



364 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



cuse the non-performance of a promise, but 
absolute necessity! In the meantime, my 
faith in your veracity is sucli that I am per- 
suaded you will suffer nothing less than ne- 
cessity to prevent it. Were you not ex- 
tremely pleasant to us, and just tlie sort of 
youth that suits us, we should neither of us 
have said half so much, or perhaps a word 
on the subject. 

Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that 
I shall never see practised by any other; and 
whether you slap your uncle, or reel as if 
you were fuddled, or dance in the path be- 
fore me, all is characteristic of yourself, and 
therefore to me delightful.* I have hinted 
to you indeed sometimes, that you should be 
cautious of indulging antic habits and singu- 
larities of all sorts, and young men in general 
have need enough of such admonition. But 
yours are a sort of fairy habits, such as might 
belong to Puck or Robin Goodfellovv, and 
therefore, good as the advice is, I should be 
half sorry should you take it. 

This allowance at least I give you. Con- 
tinue to take your walks, if walks they may 
be called, exactly in their present fasliion, 
till you have taken orders! Then indeed, 
forasmuch as a skipping, curvetting, bound- 
ing divine might be a spectacle not altogether 
seemly, 1 shall consent to your adoption of 
a more grave demeanor. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1791. 
My dear Friend, — My letters to you are 
all either petitionary, or in the style of ac- 
knowledgments and thanks, and such nearly 
in an alternate order. In my last I loaded 
you with commissions, for the due discharge 
of wliich I am now to say, and say truly, how 
much I feel myself obliged to you ; neither 
can I stop there, but must tliank you like- 
wise for new honors from Scotland, which 
have left me notliing to wish for from that 
country ; for my list is now, I believe, graced 
with the subscription of all its learned bodies. 
I regret only that some of them arrived too 
late to do honor to my present publication 
of names. But there are tliose among them, 
and from Scotland too, that may give a useful 
hint perhaps to our own universities. Your 
very handsome present of Pope's Homer has 
arrived safe, notwithstanding an accident that 
befell him by the w.ay. The Hall-servant 
brought tlie parcel from Olney, resting it on 
the pommel of the saddle, and his horse fell 
with him. Pope was in consequence rolled 
in tlie dirt, but being well coated, got no 
damage. If augurs and soothsayers were 

* These innocent peculiarities were in a leas degree re- 
tained to the end of life by this truly amiable and inter- 
esting man. 



not out of fashion, I should have consulted 
one or two of that order, in hope of learning 
from them that this ftill was ominous. I 
have found a place for him in the parlor, 
where he makes a splendid appearance, and 
where he shall not long want a neighbor, one, 
who if less popular than himself, shall at least 
look as big as he. How has it happened 
that, since Pope did certainly dedicate both 
Iliad and Odyssey, no dedication is found in 
this first edition of them '. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Feb. 13, 1701. 
I now send you a full and true account of 
this business. Having learned that your inn 
at Woburn was the George, we sent Samuel 
thither yesterday. Mr. Blartin, master of the 
George, told him.* 

W. C. 

P. S. I cannot help adding a circum- 
stance that will divert you. Martin, having 
learned from Sam whose servant he was, 
told him that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, 
but he had heard him frequently spoken of 
by the companies tliat had called at his 
house ; and therefore, when Sam would have 
paid for his breakfast, would take nothing 
from him. Who says that fame is only 
empty breath 't On the contrary, it is good 
ale, and cold beef into the bargain. 



TO THE REV. WALTER EAGOT. 

Weston Underwood, Feb. 20, 1701. 
My dear Friend, — 

It is a maxim of much weight, 
Worth cunning o'er and o'er, 

He who has Homer to translate, 
Had need do nothing more. 

But, notwithstanding the truth and im- 
portance of this apophthegm, to which I lay 
claim as the origin.al author of it, it is not 
equally true that my application to Homer, 
close as it is, has been the sole cause of my 
diday to answer you. No. In observing so 
long a silence I have been influenced much 
more by a vindictive purpose, a purpose to 
punisli you for your suspicion that I could 
possibly feel myself hurt or offended by any 
critical suggestion of yours, that seemed to 
reflect on the purity of my nonsense verses. 
Understand, if you jilease, for the future, 
that whether I disport myself in Greek or 

* This IcUer contained the history of a servant's cruelly 
to a post-horse, which a reader of liumanity could not 
wish to see in print. But the postscript describes so 
pleasantly Die siijnal influence of a poet's reputation on 
the spirit of n liberal innlieeper, that it surely ought not 
to be suppressed. — Haylcij. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



365 



Latin, or in whatsoever otiier lang'uage, you 
are hereby, heneeforlh and t'lirever, eiititleil 
and \varr;inted to take any liberties with it 
to which ymi sliall feel yourself inelined, not 
excepting even the lines themselves, whieh 
stand at the head of this letter! 

You delijflit me when you eall blank verse 
the En;,'lish heroic ; for I have always 
thought, and often said, that we have no 
other verse win'thy to be so entitled. When 
you read my prefaee, you will be made ac- 
quainted with my sentiments on this subject 
pretty much at larfre, for which reason I will 
curb my zeal, and say the less about it at 
present. That Johnson, who wrote har- 
moniously ill rhyme, should have had so de- 
fective an ear as never to have discovered 
any music at all in blank verse, till he heard 
a particular friend of his reading it, is a 
wonder never suHieiently to be wondered at. 
Yet this is true on his own acknowledg- 
ment, and amounts tp a plain confession, (of 
which, perhaps, he was not aware when he 
made it,) that lie did not know how to re.ad 
blank verse himself. In short, he cither 
sutfered prejudice to lead him in a string 
whithersoever it would, or his taste in poetry 
was worth httle. I don't believe he ever 
read anything of that kind with enthusiasm 
in his life ; and as good poetry cannot be 
composed without a considerable share of 
that quality in the mind of the author, so 
neither can it be read or tasted as it ought 
to be without it. 

I have said all this in the morning fasting, 
but am soon going to my tea. When, there- 
fore, I shall have told you that we are now, 
in the course of our printing, in the second 
book of the Odyssey, I shall only Imve time 
to add, that I am, my dear I'ricnd, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 

I think your Latin quotations very .ip- 
plicable to (he present state of France. But 
France is in a situation new and untried be- 
fore. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Wi'-lon, Feb. 27, 1791. 

Now, my dearest Johnny, I must tell thee 
in few words, how much I love and am 
obliged to thee for thy atfcctionate services. 

My Cambridge honors are all to be as- 
cribed to yon. and to you only. Yet you 
are but a little man, and a little nitm, into the 
bargain, wlio have kicked the mathematics, 
their idol, out of your study. So important 
are the endings scliich Providence frequently 
connects with small beginnings. Had yvju 
Ix'cn here, I could have furnished you with 
much employment ; lor I h.ave so dealt with 
your fair M.S. in the course of my polishing 
and improving, that I have almost blotted 



out the whole. Such, however, as it is, I 
must now send it to the printer, and he must 
be content with it, for there is not time to 
make a fresh coi)y. We are now printing 
tiie second book of the Odyssey. 

Should the O.Konians bestow none of their 
notice on me on this occasion, it will happen 
singularly enough, that, as Pope received all 
his University honors in the subscription 
way from O.vford, and none at all from Cam- 
bridge, so 1 shall have received all mine 
from Cambridge, and none from 0.\ford. 
This is the more likely to be the case, be- 
cause I understand, that on whatsoever occa- 
sion either of those learned bodies thinks lit 
to move, the other always makes it a point 
to sit still, thus proving its superiority. 

I shall send up your letter to Lady Hcs- 
keth in a day or two, knowing that the intel- 
ligence contained in it will afford her the 
greatest pleasure. Know likewise, for your 
own gratification, that all tlie Scotch Uni- 
versities have subscribed, none excepted. 

We are all as well as usual ; that is to 
say, as well as reasonable folks expect to be 
on the crazy side of this frail existence. 

I rejoice that we shall so soon have you 
again at our tireside. W. C. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Wc'stnn, .M,ircli 2, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I am sick and ashamed 
of myself that I forgot my promise : but it 
is actually true that I did forget it. You, 
however, I did not forget ; nor did I forget 
to wonder and to be alarmed at your silence, 
being perfectly unconscious of my arrears. 
All this, together with various other tres- 
passes of mine, must be set down to the 
account of Homer ; and, wherever he is, he 
is bound to make his apology to all my cor- 
respondents, but to you in particular. True 
it i.s, that if Mrs. Unwin did not call nic from 
that jiursuit, I should forget, in the ardor 
with which I persevere in it, both to eat, and 
to drink, and to retire to rest. This zeal 
has increased in me regularly as I have pro- 
ceeded, .and in an exact ratio, as a mathema- 
tician would say, to tlie progress I have 
made toward the point at which I have been 
aiming. You will believe this, when I tell 
you, that, not contented with my previous 
labors, [ have actually revised the whole 
work, and have m.ade a thousand alterations 
in it, since it has been in the press. I have 
now, however, toleraljly well satisfied myself 
at le.ast, and trust that the printer and I shall 
trundle along merrily to the conclusion. I 
expect to correct the proof-sheets of the 
third book of the Odyssey to d.iy. 

Thus it is, as I believe Ihave said to you 
before, that you are doomed to hear of notli- 

^' Frivale correspondence. 



366 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ing but Homer from me. There is less of 
gallantry than of nature in this proceeding. 
When I write to you, I think of nothing but 
the subject that is uppermost, and lliat up- 
permost is always Homer. Then I consider 
that though, as a lady, you have a right to 
expect other treatment at my hands, you are 
11 lady who has a husband, and that husband 
.■m old schoolfellow of mine, and who, I 
know, interests himself in my success. 

I am likely, after all, to gather .1 better 
harvest of subscribers at Cambridge than I 
e.xpected. A little cousin of mine, an under- 
graduate of Caius College, suggested to me, 
when he was here in the summer, that it 
might not be amiss to advertise the work at 
Merrii's the bookseller. I acquiesced in the 
measure, and at his return he pasted me on 
a board, and hung me up in the shop, as it 
has proved in the event, much to my emolu- 
ment. For many, as I understand, have 
.subscribed inconsequence; and, among the 
rest, several of the College libraries. 

I am glad that you have seen the last 
Northampton dirge, for the rogue of a clerk 
sent me only half tlie number of printed 
copies for which I stipulated with him at 
first, and they were all expended immedi- 
ately. The poor man himself is dead now : 
and whether his successor will continue me 
in my othce, or seek another laureat, has not 
yet transpired. 

' I am, dear madam, 

AtTectionatcly your.s, W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, March 0, 1791. 
After all this ploughing and sowing on 
the plains of Troy, once fruitful, such at 
least to my translating predecessor, some 
harvest, I hope, will arise for me also. My 
long work has received its last, last touches ; 
and I am now giving my preface its final 
adjustment. We are in the fourth Odyssey 
in the course of our printing, and I expect that 
I and the swallows shall appear together. 
They have slept all the winter, but I, on the 
contrary, have been extremely busy. Vet if 
I can " virum volitare per nra,'" as swiftly as 
they through the air, I shall account myself 
well requited. 

Adieu ! W. C. 

The Rev. James Hurdis, to whom the nc.\t 
letter is adressed, was formerly Professor of 
Poetry in the University of Oxford, and con- 
sidered to have established his claim to the 
title of poet, by his popular work, "The Vil- 
lage Curate." But there is an observation 
which has frequently suggested itself to us, 
in recording the names of writers in the cor- 
respondence of Cowper, how few have ac- 



quired more than an ephemeral celebrity, and 
been transmitted to the present day ! Au- 
thors resemble the waves of the sea, which 
pass on in quick succession, and engage the 
eye, till it js diverted by those which follow. 
Each in its turn yields to a superior impel- 
ling force. Some tower above the rest, and 
yet all by their collective strength and ener- 
gy, form one grand and mighty expanse of 
ocean. 

Such are the vicissitudes of literature, the 
eftects of competition, and the appetite for 
novelty, that few productions outlive the 
generation in which they are written, unless 
they bear a certain impress of immortality, a 
character of moral or intellectual superiority. 
They then survive to every age, and are the 
property of every country, so long as taste, 
genius, or religion preserve their empire over 
mankind. 

Cowper, having received an obliging letter 
from i\Ir. Hurdis, though not personally ac- 
quainted with him, addressed the following 
reply. 

Wcslon, March 0, 1791. 

Sir, — I have always entertained, and have 
occasionally avowed, a great degree of respect 
for the abilities of the unknown author of 
"The Village Curate," — unknown at that 
time, but now well known, and not to me 
only but to many. For, before I w'as favored 
with your obliging letter, I knew your name, 
your place of abode, your profession, and 
that you had four sisters; all which 1 neither 
learned from our bookseller, nor from any 
of his connexions. You will perceive, there- 
fore, that you are no longer an author in- 
cognito. The writer indeed of many pas- 
sages that have fallen from your pen could 
not long continue so. Let genius, true gen- 
ius, conceal itself where it m.ay, we may say 
of it, as the young man in Terence of his 
beautiful mistress, " Dia latere mm potest." 

I am obliged to you for your kind offers of 
service, and will not say that I shall not be 
troublesome to you hereafter ; but at present 
I have no need to be so. I have within these 
two days given the very last stroke of my 
pen to my long translation, and what will he 
my next career I know not. At any rate we 
shall not, I hope, hereafter be known to each 
other as poets only, for your writings have 
made me ambitious of a nearer appro.aeh to 
you. Your door however will never be 
opened tf> me. Jly fate and fortune have com- 
bined with my natural disposition to draw a 
circle round me, whicli I cannot pass ; nor 
have I been more than thirteen miles from 
lionie these twenty years, and so far very 
seldom. But you are a younger man. .ind 
therefore m.ay not be quite so immoveable ; 
in which case should you choose at any time 
to move Westonward, you will always find 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



367 



me happy to receive you ; and in the mean- 
time I remain with mueli respect, 

Your most obedient servant, critic, and 
friend, W. C. 

P. S. — I wish to know wliat you mean to 
do with •' Sir Thomas."* For, thou<!;h I ex- 
pressed doubts about his theatrical possibil- 
ities, I think him a very respectjible person, 
and, with some iiniirovement, well worthy of 
being introduced to the public. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Munli 10, 179L 

Give my affectionate remembrances to 
your sisters, and tell tliem I am impatient to 
entertain them with my old story new 
dressed. 

1 have two French prints hanEfing in my 
study, both on Iliad subjects ; and I have an 
Ensflish one in the parlor, on a subject from 
the same poem. In one of the former, Aga- 
memnon addresses Achilles exactly in the at- 
titude of a dancing master turning miss in a 
minuet : in the latter, the figures are plain, 
and the attitudes plain also. This is, in 
some considerable measure, I believe, the dif- 
ference between my translation and Pope's ; 
and will serve us an exemplification of what 
I am going to lay before you and the public. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Marcli, 18, 1791. 

Jly dear Friend, — I give you joy that you 
are about to receive some more of my ele- 
gant prose, and I feel myself in danger of 
attempting to make it even more elegant than 
usual, and thereby of spoiling it, under the 
influence of your commendations. But ray 
old helter-skelter maimer has already suc- 
ceeded so well, that I will not, even for the 
sake of entitling myself to a still great por- 
tion of your praise, abandon it. 

I did not call in question Johnson's true 
spirit of poetry, because he was not (jnalilied 
to relish blank ver.se, (though, to tell you the 
truth, I think that but an ugly svmptoin.) but, 
if I did not express it, I meant howe\er to 
infer it, from the perverse judgment that he 
has formed of our poets in general : depreciat- 
ing some of the best, and making honorable 
mention of others, in my opinion, not unde- 
servedly neglected. I will lay you sixpence 
that, had he lived in the days of .Milton, and 
by any accident had met with his " Paradise 
Lost," he would neither have directed the at- 
tention of others to it, nor have mui-h ad- 
mired it himself. Good sense, in short, and 
strength of intellect, seem to me, rather than 
a fine taste, to have been his distinguishing 
* ** Sir Tbum.i3 .Mure," a tragedy. 



characteristics. But should you think other- 
wise, you have my free permission; for so 
long as you have yourself a taste for the 
beauties of Cowper, I care imt a fig whether 
Johnson has a taste or not. 

I wonder where you find all your quota- 
tions, pat .as they are to the present condition 
of France. Do yo\i make them yourself, or 
do you actually find them ? I am apt to sus- 
pect sometimes that you impose them only 
on a poor man wlio has but twenty books in 
the world, and two of them are voiu- brother 
Chester's. They are, however, much to the 
purpose, be the author of them who he may. 

I was very sorry to learn lately, that my 
friend at Chichely h.as been some time indis- 
posed, either with gout or rheumatism, (for 
it seems to be uncertain which,) and attended 
by Dr. Kerr. I am at a loss to conceive how 
so temperate a man should acquire the gout, 
and am resolved therefore to conclude that it 
must be the rheumatism, which, bad as it is, 
is in my judgment the best of the two, and 
will afford me, besides, some opportunity to 
sympathize witli him, for I am not perfectly 
exempt from it myself Distant as yi>u are 
in situation, you are yet, perhaps, nearer to 
him in point of intelligence than I, and if you 
can send me any ))articular news of him, pray 
do it in your next. 

I love and thank you for your benediction. 
If God forgive me my sins, surely I shall 
love him much, for I have much to be for- 
given. But the qu.antum need not dis- 
courage me, since there is One, whose atone- 
ment can suffice for all. 

Toil Jt KaO a^|In pUvj Kal coTj kui tjiot^ Kai ddcXipoii 
'ri/t£rcpo[$, dvrov otii^ituci/ov^ daiariii. 

Accept our joint remembrance, and believe 
me affectionately yours, VV. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Wesloll, Marcli 10, 1791. 

My dearest Johnny, — You ask if it may 
not be impro])er to solicit Lady llesketh's 
subscription to the poems of the Norwich 
maiden .' To which I reply it will be by no 
means imjiroper. On the contrary, 1 am per- 
suaded that she will give her name with a 
very good will : for she is much an admirer 
of poesy that is worthy to be admired, and 
such I think, judging by the specimen, the 
poesy of this maiden, Elizabeth Bentley of 
.Norwich, is likely to prove. 

Not that I am myself inclined to e.xpect in 
general great matters in the poetical way 
from persons whose ill-fortune it has been to 
want the common advantages of education : 
neither do I account it in general a kindness 
to^ such to encourage them in the indulgence 
of a propensity more likely to do them harm 
in the end, than to advance their interest. 



368 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Many such phenomena have arisen within my 
remembrance, at which all the world has 
wondered for a season, and has then forgot 
them.* 

The foct is, that though strong natural 
genius is always accompanied with strong 
natural tendency to its object, yet it often 
happens that the tendency is found where 
the genius is wanting. In the present in- 
stance, however, (the poems of a certain 
Mrs. Leapor excepted, who published some 
forty years ago,) I discern, I think, more 
marks of true poetical talent than I remem- 
ber to have observed in the verses of any 
other, male or female, so disadvantageously 
circumstanced. I wish her therefore good 
speed, and subscribe to her with all my heart. 

You will rejoice when I tell you, that I 
have some hopes, after all, of a harvest from 
O.xford also ; Mr. Throckmorton has written 
to a person of considerable influence there, 
which he has desired him to exert in my 
favor, and his request, I should imagine, will 
hardly prove a vain one. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, March, 24, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — You apologize for your 
silence in a manner which affords me so 
much pleasure, that I cannot but be satisfied. 
Let business be the cause, and I am con- 
tented. Th.at is the cause to which I would 
even be accessary myself, and would increase 
yours by any means, except by a law-suit of 
my own, at the expense of all your opportuni- 
ties of writing oftener than twice in a twelve- 
month. 

Your application to Dr. Dunbar reminds 
me of two lines to be found somewhere in 
Dr. Young — 

"And now a poet's gratitude you see, 

Grant him two favors, and he'll ask for three." 

In this particular, therefore, I perceive, that 
a poet and a poet's friend bear a striking re- 
semblance to each other. The Doctor will 
bless himself that the number of Scotch uni- 
versities is not larger, assured that if they 
equalled those in England in number of col- 
leges, you would give him no rest till he hiid 
engaged them all. It is true, as Lady Hesketli 
told you, that I shall not fear, in the matter 
of subscriptions, a comparison even with 
Pope himself; considered (I mean) that we 
live in days of terrible taxation, and when 
verse, not being a necessary of life, is ac- 
counted dear, be it what it may, even at the 
lowest price. I am no very good arithme- 
tician, yet I calculated the other day in my 

* See a similar instance, recorded in tlie Memoirs of 
Mrs. Hannah More, of the Bristol Milk-woman, Mrs. 
Ycarsley, 



morning walk, that my two volumes, at the 
price of three guineas, will cost the purchaser 
less than the seventh part of a farthing per 
line. Yet there are lines among them, that 
have cost me tlie labor of hours, and none 
that have not cost me some labor. 

W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Friday night, March 25, 1791. 

My dear Coz., — Johnson writes me word, 
tliat lie has repeatedly called on Horace VVal- 
pole, and has never found him at home. He 
has also written to him and received no 
answer. I charge thee therefore on thy alle- 
giance, that th.ou move not a finger more in 
this business. My back is up, and I cannot 
bear the thought of wooing him any farther, 
nor would do it, though he were as piir a 
gentleman (look you 1) as Lucifer himself. 
I have Welsh blood in me, if the pedigree 
of the Donnes say true, and every drop of it 
says — " Let him alone !" 

I should have dined at the Hall to-day, 
liaving engaged myself to do so. But an 
untoward occurrence, that happened last night 
or rather this morning, prevented mc. It 
was a thundering rap at the door, just after 
the clock struck three. First, I thought the 
house was on fire. Then I thought the Hall 
was on fire. Then I thought it was a house- 
breaker's trick. Tiien I thouglit it was an 
express. In any case I thought, that if it 
should be repeated, it would awaken and 
terrify Mrs. Lhiwin, and kill her with spasms. 
The con.sequenee of all these thoughts was 
the worst nervous fever I ever had in my life, 
although it was the shortest. The rap was 
given but once, though a multifarious one. 
Had I heard a second, I should have risen 
myself at all adventures. It «as the only 
minute since you went, in which I have been 
glad that you were not h.ere. Soon after I 
came down, I learned that a drunken party 
had passed through the village at thai time, 
and they were, no doubt, the authors of this 
witty but troublesome invention. 

Our thanks are due to you for the book 
you sent us. Jlrs. Unwin has read to me 
several parts of it, whiclt I have much ad- 
mired. The observations are shrewd and 
pointed ; and there is much wit in the similes 
and illustrations. Yet a remark struck me, 
which I could not help making vim rocc on 
the occasion. If the book has any real value, 
and does in truth deserve the notice taken 
of it by those to whom it is addressed, its 
claim is founded neither on the expression, 
nor on the style, nor o)i the wit of it, but 
altogether on the truth that it contains. 
Now the same truths are delivered, to my 
knowledge, pei-petually from the pulpit by 
ministers, whom the admirers of tins writer 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



369 



would disdain to hem-. Yet the truth is not 
the less important for not being accompanied 
and recommended l>y brilliant tliouglits and 
expressions; neither is God, from whom 
conies all trnth, any more a respecter of wit 
than he is of persons. It will appear soon 
whether they a])plaud the book for the sake 
of its unanswerable arguments, or only tol- 
erate the argument for the sake of the splen- 
did manner in which it is enforced. I wish 
as heartily that it may do them good as if I 
w-ere my.self the author of it. But, alas ! my 
wishes and hopes are much at variance. It 
will be the talk of the day, as another publi- 
cation of the same kind has been ; and then 
the noise of vanity-fair will drown the voice 
of the preacher. 

I am glad to learn th.at the Chancellor does 
not forget me, though more for his sake than 
my own ; for I see not how he can ever 
serve a man like me. 

Adieu, my dearest coz., 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Wi'slon, March 29, 17U1. 

J[y dear Friend, — It aflbrds me sincere 
pleasure that you enjoy serenity of mind 
after your great loss. It is well in all cir- 
cumstances, even in the most afflictive, with 
those who have God for their comforter. 
You do me justice in giving entire credit to 
my expressions of friendship for you. No 
day passes in which I do not look back to 
the days that are tied; and, consequently, 
none in which I do not feel myself atfee- 
tionalely reminded of you and of her whom 
you have lost for a season. I cannot even 
see Olney spire from any of the fields in the 
neighborhood, much less can I enter the 
town, and still less the vicarage, without ex- 
periencing the force of those mementoes, 
and recollecting a multitude of passages to 
which you and yours were parties. 

The past would appear a dream were the 
remembrance of it less atfecting. It was in 
the most important respects so unlike my 
present moments that I am sometimes almost 
tempted to suppose it a dream. But the dif- 
ference between dreams and realities long 
since elapsed seems to consist chiefly in this 
— that a dream, however painful or pleasant 
at the time, and perhaps for a faw ensuing 
liours, pisses like an arrow through the air, 
leaving no trace of its passage behind it: 
but our actual experiences make a lasting 
impression. We review those which inter- 
ested us nuich when they occurred, with 
hardly less interest than in the first instance; 
and whether few years or many have inter- 
vened, our sensibility makes them still pres- 
ent, such a mere nullity is time to a creature 

* Private correspondence. 
\ 



to whom God gives a feeling heart and the 
faculty of recollection. 

That yon have not the first sight and 
sometinu's, perhaps, have a late one of what 
I write, is owing merely to your distant sit- 
uation. Some things I have written not 
worth your perusal ; and a few, a very few, 
of such length that, engaged as I have been 
to Homer, it has not lieen possible that I 
should find opportunity to transcribe them. 
At the same time, llrs. Unwin's pain in her 
side has almost forbidden her the use of the 
pen. She cannot use it long without in- 
creasing that pain ; for which reason I am 
more unwilling than herself that she should 
ever meddle with it. But, whether what I 
write be a trilie, or whether it be serious, you 
would cert.ainly, were yon present, see them 
all. Others get a sight of them by being so, 
who would never otherwise see them ; and 1 
should hiirdly withhold them from you, 
whose claim upoii me is of so much older a 
date than theirs. It is not indeed with read- 
iness and good-will that I gi\e them to any- 
body ; for, if I live, I shall probably print 
them ; and my friends, who are previously 
well acquainted with them, will have the less 
reason to value the book in which they shall 
appear. A trifle can have nothing to recom- 
mend it but its novelty. I have spoken of 
giving copies ; but, in fact, I have given none. 
They who have them made them ; for, till 
my whole work shall have fairly passed the 
press, it will not leave nie a moment more 
than is necessarily due to my correspondents. 
Their number has of late increased upon 
me, by the addition of many of my maternal 
relatives, who, having fomul me out about a 
year since, have behaved to me in the most 
alfectionate manner, and have been singul.Tj-ly 
serviceable to me in the article of my sub- 
scription. Several of them are coming from 
Norfolk to visit me in the cour.se of the 
summer. 

I enclose a copy of my last mortuary ver- 
ses. The clerk for whom they were written 
is since dead ; and whether his successor, the 
late sexton, will choose to be his own dirge- 
maker, or will employ me, is a piece of im- 
portant news which has not yet re.ached me. 

Our best remembrances attend yourself and 
Miss Cailett, and we rejoice in the kind Prov- 
idence that has given you in her so amiable 
and comfortable a companion. Adieu, my 
de:u- friend. I am sincerely yours, 

\V. C. 



TO JIRS. THBOCKMOETON. 

We.-iton, April 2, I79I. 
My dear Mrs. Frog, — A word or two be- 
fore breakfast; which is all that I shall have 
time to send you I You have not. I hope, 
forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am 
24 



370 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



obliged to him for his kind though unsuc- 
cessful attempt in my fiivor at Oxford. It 
seems not a little extraordinary that persons 
so nobly patronised themselves on the score 
of literature should resolve to give no en- 
couragement to it in return. Should I find 
a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I 
will not neglect it. 

Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor, 
.\nd tune his harp at Rhedicinc's door. 
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear) 
" Begone ! no tramper gels a farthing here." 

I have read your husband's pamphlet 
through and through. You may think pcr- 
hap.s, and so may he, th.at a question so re- 
mote from all concern of mine could not in- 
terest me ; but if you think so, you .are both 
mistaken. He can write nothing that will 
not interest me : in the fir.st place, for the 
writer's sake, and in the next place, because 
lie writes better and reasons better than any- 
body ; with more candor, and with more suf- 
ficiency, and, consequently, with more satis- 
faction to all his readers, save only his oppo- 
nents. They, I think, by this time, wish that 
they had let him alone. 

Tom is delighted past measure with his 
wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would 
kill any horse that had a life to lose. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, April 6, 1791. 
My dear Johnny, — A thousand thanks for 
your splendid assemblage of Cambridge lu- 
inin.irics! If you are not contented with 
your collection, it can only be because you 
are' unreasonable ; for I, who may be sup- 
posed more covetous on this occasion than 
anybody, am highly satisfied, and even de- 
lighted with it. If indeed you should find it 
practicable to iidd still to the number, I have 
not the least objection. But this charge I 
give you : 

"AXXo (?£ Toi £pEw, ffO ^' fi'f ^pcffi Pa^},£0 atjat. 

Stay not an hour beyond the time you have 
mentioned, even though you should be able to 
add a thousand n.araes by doing so ! For I 
cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. 
I long to see you, and so do we both, and will 
not suffer you to postpone your visit for any 
such consideration. No, my dear boy I In 
the affair of subscriptions, we arc already il- 
lustrious enough, shall be so .at least, when 
you shall have enlisted a college or two more ; 
which, perhaps, you m.ay be able to do in the 
course of the ensuing week. I feel myself 
much obliged to your university, and much 
disposed to admire the liberality of spirit 
wliich they have shown on this occasion. 



Certainly I had not deserved much ftivor at 
their hands, all things considered. But the 
cause of literature seems to have some weight 
with thcra, and to have superseded the resent- 
ment they might be supposed to entertain on 
the score of certain censures that you wot of. 
It is not so at Oxford. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, April 29, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I forget if I told you 
that Mr. Throckmorton had ajiplied through 

the medium of to the university of 0\- 

ford. He did so, but without success. Their 
answer w.as, " that they sub.scribe to nothing." 

Pope's subscriptions did not amount I think, 
to six hundred ; and mine will not fall very 
short of five. Noble doings, iit a time of diiy 
when Homer has no news to tell us, and when, 
all other comforts of life having risen in price, 
poetry has of course fallen. I call it a " com- 
fort of life ;" it is so to others, but to myself 
it is become even a necessary. 

The holiday times are very unfavorable to 
the printer's progress. He and all his demons 
are making themselves merry and me sad, for 
I mourn at every hinderance. W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER EAGOT. 

Westuu, May 2, 1791. 

JMy dear Friend, — Monday being a day in 
which Homer has now no demands upon me, I 
shall give part of the present Monday to you. 
But it this moment occurs to me that the pro- 
position with which 1 begin will be obscure 
to you, unless followed by an explanation. 
You are to understand, therefore, that Mon- 
day being no post-d.ay, I have consequently 
no proof-sheets to correct, the correction of 
which is nearly all that I have to do with Ho- 
mer at present. I say nearly all, because I am 
likewise occasionally employed in reading 
over the whole of what is already printed, that 
I may make a table of errata to each of the 
poems. How much is alVeady printed ? say 
you: I answer — the whole Iliad, and almost 
seventeen books of the Odyssey. 

About a fortnight since, perhaps three 
weeks, I had a visit from yotn- nephew, Mr. 
Bagot, and his tutor, Mr. Hurlock, who came 
hither under conduct of your neice. Miss 
Barbara. So were the friends of Ulysses 
conducted to the p.alace of Antiph.atcs the 
La^strigonian by that monarch's daughter. 
But mine is no palace, neither am I a giant, 
neither did I devour one of the party. On 
the contrary, I gave them chocolate, and per- 
mitted them to depart in peace. I was much 
pleased both with the young man and his 
tutor. In the countenance of the former I 
saw much Bagotism, and not less in his man- 
ner. I will leave you to guess what I mean 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



371 



by that expression. Physiognomy is a study 
of which 1 have ahnost as hifjh an opinion as 
Lavaler himself, Ihe professor of it, and for 
this good reason, because it never yet deceived 
nie. lUil perhaps I shall speak more truly if 
1 say, that I am somewhat an adept in the art, 
aliliough I have never sludied it; for whether 
I will or not, I judge of every human creature 
by the countenance, and, as I say, have never 
yet seen reason to repent of my judgment. 
Sometimes 1 feel myself powerfully attracted, 
as I was by your nephew, and sometimes with 
equal vehemence repulsed, which attraction 
and repulsion have always been justified in 
the sequel. 

I have lately read, and with more attention 
than I ever gave to them before, Milton's 
Latin poems. lint these I must make the 
subject of some future letter, in which it will 
be ten to one that your friend Samuel John- 
son gets another slap or two at the hands of 
your humble servant. Pray reiid them your- 
self, and with as much attention as I did : 
then read the Doctor's remarks if you have 
them, and then tell me what you think of 
both.* It will be pretty sport for you on 
such a day as this, which is the fourth that 
we have had of almo.st incessant rain. The 
weather, and a cold, the efiect of it, have con- 
fined me ever since last Thursday. Jlrs. Un- 
win however is well, and joins me in every 
good wish to yourself and family. I am, my 
good friend, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN. 

WcstOD, May 11, 1791. 

My dear Sir, — You have sent me a beauti- 
ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would 
to heaven that you could give it that requisite 
yourself; for he who could made the sketch 
cannot but be well qualified to finish. But 
if you will not, I will ; provided always, never- 
theless, that God gives me ability, for it will 
require no common share to do justice to your 
conccptions.f 

I am much yours, W. C. 

Your little messenger vanished before I 
could catch him. 

* Joiins(M»'!* romark on Miltoirs Latin poems is as fol- 
lows: "Tht- I«itiu piyci'sare lusciously eletiant; but the 
(loIii,'ht which they afford is rather by the exquisite imi- 
tiiliim <)rthe ancient writers, liy the purity of the diction 
and tlie harmony of the numl>ens than by any power of 
invention or vii^or of sentiment. They an: not all of 
equal value ; the elegies excel the odes ; and some of 
the exercises on gunpowder treason might have been 
spared." 

He, however, quotes with approbation the remark of 
Iliimpton, the translator of Polyljius, tliat "Millon was 
the Hr^t Knglishman who, after the revival of letters, 
wrote Latin verses with cln-ssic elegance." — See JoJmsvn^tt 
/../,■ of M:tl,m. 

t We are indebted to Mr. lluchanan for having sug- 
gested to Cowper the outline of Ihe pnem called "The 
t'our Ages," viz., infancy, youth, middle age, and old age. 
TIte writer was acquainled with this "respectable clcrgy- 



TO I.ADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May W, 1701. 

My dearest Coz., — Has another of my let- 
ters fallen .short of its destination ; or where- 
fore is it. that thou writest not? One letter 
in five weeks is a poor allowance for your 
friends at Weston. One, that I received two 
or three days since from Mrs. Frog, has not 
at all enlightened me on this head. But I 
wander in a wilderness of vain conjecture. 

I have had a letter lately from New York, 
from a Doctor Cogswell of that place, to thank 
me for my fine verses, and to tell me, which 
pleased me particularly, that, tifter having 
read " The Task," my first volume fell into 
his hands, which he read also, and was equally 
pleased with. This is the only instance lean 
recollect of a reader doing justice to my first 
effusions : for I am sure, that in point of e.\- 
pression they do not fall a jot below my 
second, and that in point of subject they are 
for the most part superior. But enough, and 
too much of this, •' The Task" he tells me 
has been reprinted in that city. 

Adieu ! my dearest coz. 

We have blooming scenes under wintry 
skies, and with icy blasts to fan them. 

Ever thine, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, May 23, 1791 

My dearest Johnny, — Did I not know that 
you are never more in your element than 
when you are exerting yourself in my cause, 
I should congratulate you on the hope there 
seems to be that your labor will soon have an 
end.* 

You will wonder, perhaps, ray Johnny, that 
Sirs. Unwin, by my desire, enjoined you to 
secrecy concerning the translation of the 
Frogs and Mice.f Wonderful it may well seem 
to you, that I should wish to hide for a short 
time from a few what I am just going to pub- 
lish to all. But I had more reasons than one 
for this mysterious management ; that is to 
say, I had two. in the first place, I wished to 
surprise my readers agreeably ; and secondly, 
I wished to allow none of my friends an op- 
portunity to object to the measure, who might 
think it perhaps a measure more bountiful 
than prudent. But I have liad my suflicient 
reward, though not a pecuniary one. It is a 
poem of much humor, and accordingly I found 
the translation of it very amusing. It struck 
me loo, that I must either make it part of the 
present publicalion, or never publish it at all; 
it would have Ijeen so terribly out of its place 
in any other volume. 

I long for the time tliat shall bring you 

man in his declining years. Mo was considered to be a 
man of cutUvaleil mind aridta.x:e. 

* The labor of transcribing Cowpcr's version. 

t Sec his version of Homer. 



372 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



once more to Weston, and all your et ceteras 
with you. Oh ! what a month of May has 
this been ! Let never poet, English poet at 
least, give himself to the praises of May again. 

W. C. 

We add the verses that he composed on 
this occasion. 

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 

Two nymphs,* both nearly of an age, 

Of numerous charms possess'd, 
A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage, 

Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete, 

Had both ahke been mild ; 
But one, although her smile was sweet. 

Frown'd ofl'ner than she smil'd. 

And in her humor, when she frown'd. 
Would raise her voice and roar; 

And shake with fury to the ground. 
The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast, 

P^rom all such frenzy clear; 
Her frowns were never known to last, 

And never prov'd severe. 

To poets of renown in song. 

The nymphs referr'd the cause. 
Who, strange to tell ! all judged it wrong 

And gave misplac'd applause. 

They gentle calfd. and kind, and soft, 

The flippant and the scold ; 
And, though she chang'd her mood so oft. 

That failing left untold. 

No judges sure were e'er so mad. 

Or so resolv'd to err ; 
In short, the charms her sister had, 

They lavish'd all on her. 

Then thus the god, whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call. 
Was heard one genial summer's day. 

To reprimand them all : 

" Since thus ye have combin'd," he said, 

" My fav'rite nymph to slight, 
Adorning May, that peevish maid ! 

With June's undoubted right ; 

" The minx shall, for your folly's sake. 

Still prove herself a shrew; 
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache ' 

And pinch your noses blue." 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, Miiy 27, 1791. 

My deai-est Coz., — I, who am neither dead, 
nor sick, nor idle, should have no e.xcuse, 
were I as tardy in answering as yoti in writ- 
ing. I live indeed where leisure abounds, 
and you where leisure is not ; a ditferenee 
tliat accounts sufficiently both for your si- 
lence and my loquacity. 

* May flnd June. 



Wlien you told Mrs. that my Homer 

would come forth in May, you told her wliat 
you believed, and, therefore, no falsehood. 
But you told her at the same time wh.it will 
not happen, and therefore not a truth. There 
is a medium between truth and falsehood ; 
and I believe the word mistake expresses it 
exactly. I will therefore say that you were 
mistaken. If instead of May you had men- 
tioned June, I fiatter myself that you would 
have hit the mark. For in June there is 
every probability that we shall publish. You 
will .say, "Hang the printer! for it is his 
f;iult !" But stay, my dear ; hang him not 
just now! For to execute him and find an- 
other will cost us time, and so much, too, 
that I question if, in that case, we should 
publish sooner than in August. To say 
truth, I am not perfectly sure that there will 
be any necessity to hang him at all ; though 
that is a matter which I desire to leave entire- 
ly at your discretion, alleging only, in the 
meantime, that the man does not appear to 
me during the last half year to have been at 
all in fault. His remittance of sheets in all 
that time. has been punctual, save and except 
while the Easter holidays lasted, when I sup- 
pose he found it impossible to keep his devils 
to tlieir business. I sh.all, however, receive 
the la.st sheet of the Odyssey to-morrow, and 
have already sent up the Preface, together 
with all the needful. Vou see, therefore, that 
the publication of this famous work cannot 
be del.iyed much longer. 

As for politics, I reck not, having no room 
in my head for anything but the Slave bill. 
That is lost ; and all the rest is a trifle. I 
have not seen Paine's book,* but refused to 
see it, when it was offered to me. No man 
shall convince me that I am improperly gov- 
erned while I feel the contrary. 

Adieu," W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Westou, June I, 1791. 
Jly dearest Johnny, — Now you may rest. 
No\\' I can give you joy of the period, of 
which I gave you hope in my last ; the period 
of all your labors in my service.! But this 
I can foretell yon, also, that, if you persevere 
in serving your friends at this r.ite, your life 
is likely to be a life of labor. Vet persevere I 
Your rest will be the sweeter hereafter ! In 
the mean time I wish you, if at any time you 
siiould find occasion for him, just such a 
friend as vou have proved to me ! 

W. c. 

* The " Richls of Man," a book which created a great 
ferment in the country, by its revolutionary character and 
statements. 

t Aa a transcriber. 



PART THE THIRD. 



Haxtsg now arrived at that period in the 
history of Cowper wlieii he had l)rought to a 
close his j^reat andlaliorious undertaking, his 
version of Homer, we suspend for a moment 
the progress of the correspondence, to aftord 
room for a few observations. 

We have seen in many of tlie preceding 
letters, with what ardor of application and 
liveliness of hope he devoted himself to this 
favorite pnjject of enriching the literature of 
his country with an English Homer, that 
might justly be esteemed a faithful yet free 
translation : a genuine and graceful repre- 
sentative of the justly admired original. 

After five years of intense lal>tir, from 
which nothing could withhold him, except the 
pressure of that unhappy malady which re- 
tarded his exertions for several months, he 
published his complete version in two quarto 
volumes, on the fir.st of July, 1791, having in- 
scribed the Iliad to his young noble kinsman. 
Earl Cowper, and the Odyssey to the dowa- 
ger Countess Spencer — a lady for whose 
virtues he had long entertained a most cordial 
and affectionate veneration. 

He had exerted no common powers of 
genius and of industry in this great enterprise, 
yet, we lament to say, lie failed in satisfying 
the expectations of the public. Hayley as- 
signs a reason for this failure, which we give 
in his own words. "Homer," he observes, 
" is 80 exquisitely beautiful in his own lan- 
guage, and he has been so long an idol in 
every literary mind, that any copy of him, 
which the best of modern jioets can execute, 
must probably resemble in its effect the por- 
trait of a graceful woman, painted by an ex- 
cellent artist for her lover : the lover indeed 
will acknowledge great merit in the work, 
and think himself much indebted to the skill 
of such an artist, but he will never admit, as 
in truth he never can feel, that the best of re- 
semblances exhibits all the grace that he dis- 
cerns in the beloved original." 

This illustration is ingenious and amusing, 
but we doubt its justness ; because the paint- 
er may produce a correct and even a flattering 
likeness of the lover's mistress, though it is 
true that the lover himself will think other- 
wise. But where is the translator that can 
dojustice to the merits of Homer? Who can 
exhibit his majestic simplicity, his .sententious 
force, the lofty grandeur of his conceptions, 
and the sweet charm of his imagery, embel- 
lished with all the graces of a language never 



surpassed either in harmony or richness ? 
The two competitors, who are alone entitled 
to be contrasted with each other, are Pope 
and Co\vper. We pass over Ogilby, Chap- 
man, and others. It is Hector alone that is 
worthy to contend with Achilles. To the 
version of Pope must be allowed the praise 
of melody of numbers, richness of poetic dic- 
tion, splendor of inuigery and brilliancy of 
efi'ect ; but these merits arc acquired at the 
expense of fidelity and justness of interpre- 
tation. The simplicity of the heroic ages is 
exchanged for the refinement of modern taste, 
and Homer sinks under the weight of orna- 
ments not his own. Where Pope fails, Cow- 
per succeeds : but, on the other hand, where 
Pope succeeds, Cowper seems to fail. Cow- 
per is more faithful, but less rich and spirited. 
He is singularly exempt from the defects at- 
tributable to Pope. Tliere is nothing extra- 
neous, no meretricious ornament, no labored 
elegance, nothing added, nothing omitted. 
The integTity of the text is happily preserved. 
But though it is in the page of Cowper that 
we mu.st seek for the true interpretation of 
Homer's meaning — though there are many 
passjvges distinguished by much grace and 
beauty — yet, on the wliole, the lofty spirit, 
the bright glow of feeling, the "thoughts 
that breathe, the words that burn," are not 
sufficiently sustained. Each of these distin- 
guished writers, to a certain extent, has failed, 
not from any want of genius, but because 
complete success is diflicult, if not unattaina- 
ble. Two causes may perhaps be assigned 
for this failure ; first, no copy can equal the 
original, if the original be the production of 
a master artist. The poet who seeks to 
transfuse into his own page the meaning and 
sjiiHt of an author, endowed with extraordi- 
nary powers, resembles the chemist in his 
laboratory, who, in endeavoring to condense 
the properties of ditl'erent substances, and to 
extract their essence, has the misfortune to 
see a great portion of the volatile ((ualities 
evaporate in the process, and elude all the 
efforts of his philosophic art. Secondly, Ho- 
mer still remains untranslated, because of all 
poets he is the most untranslateable. He 
seems to claim the lofty ))rerogative of stand- 
ing alone, and of enjoying the solitary gr.an- 
deur of his own unrivalled genius: allowing 
neither to rival nor to friend, to imitator nor 
to transl.ator, the honors of participation : but 
exercising the exclusive right of interpreting 



ni 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the majestic simplicity of his own conceptions, 
in :ill the fervor of his own poetic fancy, and 
ill the sweet melody of his own graceful and 
(lowing- numhers. He who vxishes to under- 
stand and to appreciate Homer, must seek 
him in the charm and beauty of his own in- 
imit;',ble language. 

As Cowpers versions of the Iliad and 
Ody-'sey have formed so prominent a feature 
in his correspondence, for live successive 
years, we think it may be interesting to sub- 
join a few specimens from each translator, re- 
stricting our quotations to the Iliad, as being 
the most familiar to the reader. 

We extract passages, where poetic skill 
was most likely to be e.\erted. 

Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found, 
Now green in youth, now with'ring on the ground ; 
Another race the Ibllowing spring supplies ; 
They fail successive, and successive rise : 
So generations in their course decay ; 
So flourish these, when those are past away. 
Pope's Version, book vi. line 181. 

For as the leaves, so springs the race of man. 
Chill blasts shake down the leaves, and warra'd 

anew 
By vernal airs the grove puts forth again : 
Age after age, so man is born and dies. 

Couper's Version, book vi. line 164. 

The interview between Hector and Andro- 
mache — 

Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates ; 
(Hovvmy heart trembles while my tongue relates !) 
The day when Thou, imperial Troy, must bend, 
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. 
And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
Not Priam's hoary hairs defii'd with gore, 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore ; 
As tiiine, .\ndromache ! thy griefs I dread, 
I see thee trembhng, weeping, captive led ! 
In .Argive looms our battles to design 
And woes, of which so large a part was thine ! 
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. 
There, while you groan beneath the load of life, 
They cry, Beliokl the mighty Hector's wife ! 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
Eaibitters all thy woes, by naming me. 
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 
Press'd with a load of monumental clay! 
Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, 
Shall neither see thee sigh, nor see thee weep. 
Pope's Version, book vi, line 570. 

For my prophetic soul foresees a day 
When IHum, Ihum's people, and, himself, 
Her warlike king, shall perish. But no grief 
For IHum, for her people, for the king 
My warlike sire ; nor even lor the queen ; 
Nor for the num'rous and the valiant band, 
My brothers, destin'd all to bite the ground, 
So moves me as my grief tor tiiee alone. 
Doom'd then to follow some imperious Greek, 
\ weeping captive to the distant shores 
Of Argos ; there to labor at the loom 



For a task-mistress, and with many a sigh 
But heav'd in vain, to bear the pond'rous urn 
From Hypereia's, or Messeis' fount. 
Fast flow thy tears the while, and as he eyes 
That silent shower, some passing Greek shall say : 
'■ This was the wife of Hector, who exceli'd 
All Troy in light, when Ilium was besieg'd," 
While thus he speaks thy tears shall flow afresh ; 
The guardian of thy freedom while he liv'd 
Forever lost ; but be my bones inhum'd. 
A senseless store, or e'er thy parting cries 
Shall pierce mine ear, and thou bedragg'd away. 
Coirper's Version, book vi. line 501. 

We add one more specimen, where the 
beauty of the imagery demands the exercise 
of poetic talent. 

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
O'er heaven's clear azure sheds her sacred light, 
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, 
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene j 
Around her throne the vivid planets roll, 
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole ; 
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed. 
And tip with silver every mountain's head, 
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies,* 

Book viii, hne 687. 

As when around the clear bright moon, the stars 
Shine in full splendor, and the ivinds are hush'd, 
The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland 
Stand all apparent, not a vapor streaks [heights. 
The boundless blue, but ether open'd wide 
All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheer'd. 
Book viii. line 637. 

We leave the reader to form his own de- 
cision as to the relative merits of the two 
translations. Pope evidently produces effect 
by e.vpanding the sentiments and imagery of 
his author ; Cowper invariably adlieres to the 
original text. Tliat full justice may be ren- 
dered to him, it is necessary not merely to 
compare hira with Pope but with his great 
original. 

After these remarks we once more return 
to the correspondence of Cowper. 

TO THE REV. MR. IIURDIS. 

Weston, June 13, 1791. 
My dear Sir, — I ought to have thanked you 
for your agreeable and entertaining letter 
much sooner, but I have m.iny correspond- 
ents who will not be said nay; and have 
been obliged of late to give my last atten- 
tions to Homer. The very last indeed, for 
yesterday I despatched to town, after revis- 
ing them carefully, the proof sheets of sub- 
scribers' names, among which I took special 

* There is a similar passage in Micklc's " Lusiad," so 
full of beauty, that we cannot refrain from inserting it :— 
The moon, full orb'd. forsakes her watery cave, 
And lifls her lovely heail above ttie wave ; 
The snowy splendors of her modest ray 
Stream o'er the liquid wave, and Rlittering play ; 
The masis' tall shadows tremble in the deep ; 
The peaceful winds a holy silence keep; 
The watchman's eai-ol, echoed from the prows, 
Alone, at times, disturbs the calm repose. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



375 



notice of yours, and am much obliged to you 
for it. We have contrived, or ratiicr my 
bookseller and printer have contrived (for 
they have never wailed a moment for me) to 
publish as critically at the wron<j time, as if 
ray whole interest and success had depended 
upon it. March, April, and May, said .lolui- 
son to me in a letter that I received from him 
in Februar}', are the best months for publica- 
tion. Therefore now it is determined that 
Homer shall come out on llie hrst of July; 
that is to say, exactly at the moment when, 
e.vcept a iew lawyers, not a creature will be 
left in town who will ever care one farthing 
about him. To which of these two friends 
of mine I am indebted for this management, 
I know not. It does not please, but I would 
be a philosopher as well as a poet, and there- 
fore make no complaint, or grumble at all 
about it. You, I presume, have had dealings 
with them both — how did they manage for 
you? And, if as they have for me, how did 
you behave under it? Some who love me 
complain that I am too passive: and I should 
be glad of an opportunity to justify myself 
by your example. The fact is, should I thun- 
der ever so loud, no ertbrts of that sort will 
avail me now ; therefore, like a good econo- 
mist of my bolts, I choose to reserve them 
for more profitable occasions. 

I am glad to find that your amusements 
h.ave been so similar to mine : for in this in- 
stance too I seemed in need of somebody to 
keep me in countenance, especially in my at- 
tention and attachment to animals. All the 
notice that we lords of the creation vouch- 
safe to bestow on the creatures is generally 
to abuse them ; it is well, therefore, that here 
and there a man should be found a little 
womanish, or perhaps a little childish, in this 
matter, who will make some amends, by kiss- 
ing and coa.xing and laying them in one's 
bosom. You remember the little ewe lamb, 
mentioned by the prophet Nathan ; the pro- 
phet perhaps invented the tale for the sake 
of its application to David's conscience ; but 
it is more probable that God inspired him 
with it for that purpose. If he did, it amounts 
to a proof, that he does not overlook, but, on 
the contrary, much notices such little partial- 
ities and kindnesses to his dumb creatures, 
as we, because we articulate, are pleased to 
call them. 

Your sisters arc fitter to judge than I, whe- 
ther assembly-rooms are the places, of all 
others, in which the ladies may he studied to 
most advantage. I am an old fellow, but I 
had once my dancing days as you have now, 
yet I could never find that I learned half so 
much of a woman's real character by dancing 
with her as by conversing with her at home, 
where I could observe her behavior at the 
table, .at the fire-side, and in all the trying 
circumstances of domestic life. We are all 



good when we are pleased, but she is the 
good woman who wants not a fiddle to 
sweeten her. If I am wrong, the young 
ladies will set me right ; in the meantime 1 
will not tease you with graver arguments on 
the subject, especially as I have a hope, that 
years, and the study of the Scripture, and 
His Spirit whose word it is, will, in due 
time, bring you to my way of thinking. I 
am not one of those sages who retinire that 
young men should be as old as themselves 
before they have time to be so. 

With my love to your fair sisters, I remain, 
Dear Sir, most truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, 

The Lodge, June 15, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — If it will aiTord you any 
comfort that you have a share in my atfec- 
tions, of that comfort you may avail yourself 
at all times. You have aetinired it by means 
which, unless I should have become worth- 
less myself to an uncommon degree, will al- 
ways secure you from the loss of it. You 
are learning what all learn, though few at so 
early an age, that man is an ungrateful ani- 
mal ; and that benefits, too often, instead of 
securing a due return, operate rather as prov- 
ocations to ill-treatment. This I take to be 
the summuin malum of the human heart. 
Towards God we are all guilty of it more or 
less: but between man and man, we m.ay 
thank God for it, there arc some exceptions. 
He leaves this peccant principle to operate, 
in some degree against himself, in all, for our 
humiliation, I suppose ; and because the per- 
nicious effects of it in reality cannot injure 
him, he cannot suffer by them ; but he knows 
that, unless he should retain its infiuence on 
the dealings of mankind with e.ich other, the 
bonds of society would be dissolved, and all 
charitable intercourse at an end amongst us. 
It was said of Archbishoj) Cranmer, " Do him 
an ill turn, and you nmke him your friend 
forever ;" of others it may be said, " Do them 
a good one, and they will be forever your 
enemies." It is the grace of God only that 
makes the difference. 

The absence of Homer (for we have now 
shaken hands and parted) is well suiiplied by 
three relations of mine, from Norfolk — my 
cousin Johnson, an aunt of his,* and his sis- 
ter.f I love them all dearly, and am well 
content to resign to them the place in my 
attentions so lately occupied by the chiefs 
of Greece and Troy. His aunt and I have 
spent many a merry day together, when we 
were some forty years younger; and we 
make shift to be merry togetjier still. His 
sister is a sweet young woman, graceful, 



^ Mrs. Bodham. 



t Mrs. iiewilt. 



good-natured, and gentle, just what I had 
imagined lier to be before I had seen her.* 
Farewell, W. C. 



TO DR. JAMES COG.SWELL, NEW TORK. 

Weston-Underwood, near Oliicy, Bucks, 
June 15, 1791. 

Dear Sir, — Your letter and obliging pres- 
ent I'rom so great a distance deserved a 
speedier acknowledgment, and should not 
have wanted one so long, had not circum- 
stances so fallen out since I received them 
as to make it impossible for me to write 
sooner. It is indeed within this day or two 
that I have heard how, by the help of my 
bookseller, I may transmit an answer to you. 
My title-page, as it well might, misled you. 
It speaks me of the Inner Temple; and so I 
am, but a member of that society only, not 
as an inhabitant. I live here almost at the 
distance of si.xty miles from London, which 
I have not visited these eight-and-twenly 
years, and probably never shall again. Thus 
it fell out tliat Mr. Blorewood had sailed 
again for America before your parcel reached 
me, nor should I (it is likely) have received 
it at all, had not a cousin of mine, who lives 
in the Temple, by good fortune received it 
first, and opened your letter; finding for 
whom it was intended, he transmitted to me 
both that and the parcel. Your testimony 
of approbation of what I have published, 
coming from another quarter of the globe, 
could not but be exceedingly flattering, as 
was your obliging notice that "The Task" 
had been reprinted in your city. Both vol- 
umes, I liope, have a tendency "to discounte- 
nance vice, and promote the best interests 
of mankind. But how far they shall be ef- 
fectual to these invaluable purposes depends 
altogether on His blessing, whose truths I 
have endeavored to inculcate. In the mean- 
time I have sufficient proof, tlmt readers m.ay 
be pleased, may approve, and yet lay down 
the book unedified. 

During the last five years I have been oc- 
cupied with a work of a very different na- 
ture, a transl.ation of the Iliad and Odyssey 
into blank verse, and the work is now ready 
for publication. I undertook it, partly be- 
cause Pope's is too lax a version, which has 
lately occasioned the learned of this country 
to call aloud for a new one ; and partly be- 
cause I could fall on no better expedient to 
amuse a mind too much addicted to melan- 
choly. 

I send you, in return for the volumes with 
which you favored me, three on religious sub- 
jects, popular productions that have not been 

* Mis. Hewitt fully merited this descriplion. She de- 
parted a few years before her brotlier, the late Dr. Jolin- 
son. Tlieir remains lie in the same vault, at Yaxham, 
near Dereham, Norfolk. 



long published, and that may not therefore 
yet iiave reached your country : " The Chris- 
tian Officer's Panoply, by a marine officer'' — 
"The Importance of the Manners of the 
Great," and "An Estimate of the Religion 
of the Fashionable 'World." The two last 
are said to be written by a lady. Miss Han- 
nah More, .and are univer.sally read by people 
of that rank to which she addresses them. 
Your manners, I suppose, may be more pure 
llian ours, yet it is not unlikely that even 
among you may be found some to whom her 
strictures are applicable. I return you my 
thanks, sir, for the volumes you sent me, two 
of which I have read with pleasure, Sir. Ed- 
wards's* book, and tlie Conquest of Canaan. 
The rest I have not had time to read, except 
Dr. Dwight's Sermon, which pleased me al- 
most more than any that I have either seen 
or heard. 

I shall account a correspondence with you 
an honor, and remain, dear sir, 

Your obliged and obedient servant, 

W. 0. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weston, June 34, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Considering the multi- 
plicity of your engagements, and the impor- 
tance, no doubt, of most of them, I am bound 
to set the higher value on your letters, and, 
instead of grumbling that they come seldom, 
to be thankful to you that they come at all. 
You are now going into the country, where, 
I presume, you will have less to do, and I am 
rid of Homer. Let us try, therefore, if, in 
the interval between the present hour and 
the next busy season (for I, too, if I live, 
shall probably be occupied again), we can 
continue to exchange letters more frequently 
than for some time past. 

You do justice to me and Mrs. Unwin, 
when you assure yourself that to hear of 
your health will give us pleasure : I know 
not, in truth, whose health and well-beinn- 
could give us more. The years that we have 
.seen together will never be out of our remem- 
brance; and, so long as we remember them, 
we must remember you with affection. In 
the pulpit, and out of the pulpit, you have la- 
bored in every possible way to serve us ; and 
we must have a short memory indeed for the 
kindness of a friend, could we by any means 
become forgetful of yours. It would grie\e 
me more tlian it does to hear you complain 
of the eflfects of time, were not 1 also myself 
the subject of them. While he is wearing 
out you and other dear friends of mine, he 
spares not me ; for which I ought to account 

* The celebrated American Edwards, well known for 
his two ^'reat works on "Tlie Freedom of the Human 
Will,'* and on " Relif^ious Affections." Dr. Dwij,'ht's Ser- 
mons are a body of sound and excellent theology. 

t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



377 



myself obliged to him, since 1 should other- 
wise be in d:iii<fer of surviving :ill that I have 
ever loved — the most melanc-holy lot that can 
befall a mortal. God knows what will be 
my doom hereafter; but preeious as life nec- 
essarily seems to a mind doubtful of its fu- 
ture happiness, I love not the world, I trust, 
so much as to wish a place in it when all my 
beloved shall have left it. 

You speak of your late loss in a manner 
that adocted me much ; and when I read that 
])art of your letter, I mourned with you and 
for you. But surely, I said to myself, no 
m;ln had ever less reason to charge his con- 
duct to a wife with anything blameworthy. 
Tlioughts of that complexion, however, are 
no doubt e.vtrcmely natural on the occasion 
of such a loss ; and a man seems not to have 
valued sullicienlly, when he possesses it no 
longer, what, while he possessed it, he valued 
more than life. I am mistaken, too, or you 
can recollect a time when you had fears, and 
such as became a Christian, of loving too 
much : and it is likely that you have even 
prayed to be preserved from doing so. I 
suggest this to you as a plea against those 
self-accusations, which I am satisfied that you 
do not deserve, and as an eftectual answer 
to them all. You may do well too to con- 
.sider, that had the deceased been the survivor 
she would have charged herself in the same 
manner, and, I am sure you will acknowledge, 
without any .sufficient rea.son. The truth is, 
that you both loved at least as much as you 
ought, and, I dare say, had not a friend in the 
world who did not frequently observe it. 
To love just enough, and not a bit too much, 
is not for creatures who can do nothing well. 
If we fail in duties less arduous, how should 
we succeed in this, llie most arduous of all ? 

I am glad to learn from yourself that you 
are about to quit a scene that probably keei)s 
your tender recollections too much alive. 
Another place and other company may have 
their uses; and, while your church is under- 
going repair, its minister may be repaired 
also. 

As to Homer, I am sensible that, except as 
an amusement, he was never worth my med- 
dling with : but, as an amusement, he was to 
me invaluable. As such he served me more 
than five years: and, in tliat respect, I know- 
not where I sli.-dl find his equal. You obliire 
me by saying, that you will read him for my 
sake. I verily think that any person of a 
spiritual turn may read him to some advan- 
tage. Ho may suggest reflections that may 
not be unserviceable even in a sermon; for I 
know not where we can find more striking 
exemplars of the pride, the arrogance, and 
the insignificance of man ; at the same time 
Ih-it, by ascribing all events to a divine inter- 
po.sition. he indicates constantly the belief of 
a providence ; insists much on the duly of 



charity towards the poor and the stranger ; 
on the respect that is due to superiors, and 
to our seniors in particular; and on the ex- 
pedience and necessity of prayer and piety 
toward the gods, a piety mistaken, indeed, in 
its object, but exemplary for the punctuality 
of its performance. Thousands, who will 
not learn from scripture to ask a blessing 
either on their actions or on their food, may 
learn it, if they please, from Homer. 

J[y Norfolk cousins are now with us. We 
are both as well as usual ; and with our af- 
fectionate remembrances to Jliss Catlett, 
I remain suicerely yours, W. C. 



We are indebted to the kindness of a friend 
for the following letter: — 

TO MRS. DODHAM, SOUTH GREEN, MATTISHALL, 
NORFOLK. 

Weslon-Underwood, July 7, 1791. 

My dearest Cousin, — Jlost true it is, how- 
ever strange, that on the 25th of last month 
I wrote you a long letter, and verily thought 
I sent it; but, opening my desk the day 
before yesterday, there I found it. Such a 
memory have I — a good one never, but at 
present worse than usual, my head being 
filled with the cares of publication,* and the 
bargain that I am making with my book- 
seller. 

I am sorry that through this forgetfulness 
of mine you were disappointed, otherwise 
should not at all regret that my letter never 
reached you ; for it consisted principally of 
such reasons as I could muster to induce you 
to consent to a favorite measure to which you 
liave consented without them. Your kind- 
ness and self-denying disinterestedness on 
this occasion have endeared you to us all, if 
possible, still the more, and are truly worthy 
of the Rosef that used to sit smiling on my 
knee, I will not s.-iy how many years ago. 

Make no apologies, my dear, that thou 
dost not write more frequently ; — write when 
thou canst, and I shall be satisfied. I am 
sensible, as I believe I have already told you, 
that there is an awkwardness in writing to 
those with whom we have hardly ever con- 
versed ; in considwation of which, I feel my- 
self not at all inclined either to wonder at or 
to blame your silence. At the same time, be 
it known to you, that you must not take en- 
couragement from this my great moderation, 
lest, disuse increasing the labor, you should 
at last write not at all. 

That I should visit Norfolk at present is 
not possible. I liave heretofore pleaded my 
engagement to Homer as the reason, and a 
reason it was, wliile it subsisted, that was al> 

* The publication of the translation of llotiur. 

t The name he gave lu Mrs. liudliam when a child. 



378 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



solutely insurmountable. But there are still 
other impediments, which it would neither be 
[jleas.nnt to me to relate, nor to you to know, 
and whicli iould not well be comprised in a 
letter. Let it suffice for me to say that, could 
tliey be imparted, you would admit the force 
of {hem. It shall be our mutual consolation, 
tiiat, if we cannot meet at Matlishall,at least 
we may meet at Weston, and that we shall 
meet here with double satisfaction, being now 
so numerou.s. 

Vour sister is well ; Kitty,* I think, better 
llian when she came ; and Johnnyf ails 
nothing', e.xcept that if he cat a little more 
supper than usual, he is apt to be riotous in 
his sleep. We have an excellent physician 
at Northampton, whom our dear Catharine 
wislies to consult, and I have recommended 
it to Johnny to consult him at the same time. 
His nocturntd ailment is, 1 dare say, within 
the reach of medical advice ; and, because it 
may happen some time or other to be very 
luirtful to him, 1 heartily wish him cured of 
it. Light suppers and early rising perhaps 
might alone be efl'ectual — but tlie latter is a 
diihculty that threatens not to be easily sur- 
mounted. 

We are all of one mind respecting you ; 
therefore I send the love of all, though I 
shall see none of the party till breakfast calls 
us together. Great preparation is making in 
the empty house. The spiders have no rest, 
and hardly a web is to be seen where lately 
there were thousands. 

I am, my dearest cousin, with the best re- 
spects to Mr. Bodham, most affectionately 
yours, W. C. 

TO THE REV. JOHN NE\VTON.| 

Weston, July 22, 17D1. 

My dear Friend, — I did not foresee, when I 
challenged you to a brisker correspondence, 
that a new engagement of all ray leisure was 
at hand : a new and yet an old one. An in- 
terleaved copy of my Homer arrived soon 
after from .lolmson, in whicli he recom- 
mended it to me to make any alterations 
that might yet be e.xpedient, with a view to 
another impression. The alterations that I 
make are indeed but few, and they are also 
sliort ; not more, perhaps, than lialf a line in 
two thou.saud. But the lines are, I sujipose, 
nearly forty thousand in all, and to revise 
them critically must consequently be a work 
of labor. I suspend it, however, for your 
sake, till the present sheet be filled, and that 
[ may not seem to shrink from my own 
oiler. 

iMr. Bean has told me that he saw you at 

Bedford, and gave us your reasons for not 

coming our way. It is well, so far as your 

* Miss Jnlinson, afterwards Mrs. Hewitt. 

t Mr. Johnson. 

X Private correspondence. 



own comfortable lodging and our gratifica- 
tion were concerned, th.at you did not ; for 
our house is brimful, as it has been all the 
summer, with my relations from Norfolk. 
We .should all have been mortified, both you 
and we, had you been obliged, as you must 
liave been, to seek a residence elsewhere. 

I am sorry that Mr. Venn's* labors below 
are so near to a conclusion. I have seen 
few men whom I could have loved more, had 
opportunity been given me to know him 
better. So, at least, I ha\-e thought as often 
as I have seen him. But when I saw liini 
last, which is some years since, he appeared 
then so much broken that I could not have 
imagined that he would last so long. Were 
I capable of envying, in the strict sense of 
the word, a good man, I should envy him, 
and Mr. Bcrridge,t and yourself, who ha\e 
spent, and while they last, will continue to 
spend, your lives in the service of the only 
Master worth serving; laboring always for 
the souls of men, and not to tickle their ears, 
as I do. But this I can say — God knows 
how much rather I would be the obscui'c 
tenant of a lath-and-plaster cottage, with a 
lively sense of my interest in a Redeemer, 
than the most admired object of public no- 
tice without it. Alas! what is a whole 
poem, even one of Homer's, compared with 
a single aspiration that finds its way imme- 
diately to God, though clothed in ordinary 
language, or perhaps not articulated at all 1 
These are my sentiments as much as ever 
they were, though my d.ays are all running 
to waste among Greeks and Trojans. The 
night cometh when no man can work ; aiul, 
if I am ordained to work to better purpose, 
that desirable period cannot be very di-^tant. 
My day is beginning to shut in, as every 
man's must who is on the verge of .sixty. 

All the leisure that I h.ave had of late for 
thinking, h.as been given to the riots at Bir- 
mingham. What a horrid zeal for the chnrch, 
and what a horrid loyalty to government, 
liave manilested themselves there ! How 
little do they dream that they could not have 
dishonored their idol, the Establishment, 
more, and that the great Bishop of souls 
himself with abhorrence rejects their ser- 
vice ! But I have not time to enlarge ; 
breakfast calls me ; and all ray post-break- 
fast time must be given to poetry. Adieu ! 
Most truly yours, W. C. 

* The Rev. Henry Venn, successively vicar of Hnd- 
derstield, Yorkshire, and rector of Yelliii,!?, liuirfingdim- 
shire, eminent for his piety and usefulness. He was the 
author of " The Complete Duty of Man," the design of 
which was to correct the deficiencies so justly imputalile 
to " The Whole Duty of Man," by laying the fiiiindali?n 
of moral duties in the principles inculcated hy the gos- 
pel. There is an interesting and valuable memoir of this 
excellent man, edited by the Kev. Henry Veini, li.D., his 
grandson, which we recommend to the notice of the 
reader. 

t IVlr. Berridge was vicar of Everton, Beds; a most 
zealous and pious minister. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



379 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, August 2, 1701. 

My dear Friend, — I was much obliged, and 
still teel myself nineli obliged, to L;idy Bagot 
for the vi.sit willi whicli she favored me. 
Had it been possible that I could have seen 
Lord Bagot too, I should have been com- 
pletely ha])py. For, as it happened, I was 
that morning in better sj)irits than usual, 
and, though I arrived late, and after a long 
walk, and extretiii-ly hot, which is a circum- 
stance very apt to disconcert me, yet I was 
not disconcerted half so much as I generally 
am at the sight of a stranger, especially of a 
stranger lady, and more especially at the 
sight of a stranger lady of quality. When 
the servant told me that Lady Bagot was in 
the parlor, 1 felt my spirits sink ten degrees; 
but, the moment I saw her, at least, when I 
had been a mimite in her company, I felt 
them rise again, and they soon rose even 
above their former pitch. I know tn-o ladies 
of fashion now whose manners have this 
eli'ect upon me, the lady in question and the 
Lady Spencer. I am a shy animal, and want 
much kindness to make me easy. Such I 
sliall be to my dying day. 

Here sit /, calling myself shy, yet have 
just published by tlic bye, two great volumes) 
of poetry. 

This reminds me of Ranger's observation 
ill the '■ Suspicious Husband," who says to 
somebody, I forget wlioni, " There is a de- 
gree of assurance in yuu mndest men that wc 
impudent fetlnws can never arrive at." — As- 
surance, indeed ! Have you seen 'cm? What 
do you think they are ? Nothing less, I can 
tell you, than a translation of Homer, of the 
sublimest poet in the world. That's all. 
Can I ever have the impudence to call my- 
self shy again ? 

You live, I think, in the neighborhood of 
Birmingham. What must you not have felt 
on the late alarming occasion ! Vou, I sup- 
pose, could see the fires from your windows. 
We, who only heard the news of them, have 
trembled. Never sure was religious zeal 
more terribly manifested or more to the 
prejudice of its own cause.* 

Adieu, my dear friend. I am, with Mrs. 
Unwin's best compliments. 

Ever yours, 

W. C. 



* Thp riots at Hirmiii'.'liiini oritfinntcd in tlic imprudent 
r.i'al <)!' Dr. Prifstlev. iitiil iiis :ulherent-s, the iriiitiiriandis- 
seiUers, win) ii-Hcnilil'-d tM'.;i-ltier at a public dinner, to 
coinrnemurate tlie events uf the Freneli revohllioll. 
Toasts were given of an inilammutory tendency, and 
handbills were previously circulated of a similar charac- 
ter. The town of Itirniint;hani being disliie^uished for 
it.s loyalty, became deeply excited by these aclj*. The 
mol) collected in Kreat multitudes, anil proceeded to the 
house of Dr. Priestley, which they destroyed with fire. 
All his valuatile philosophical apparatus and manu- 
seript-s perished on this occasion. We concur with ',ow- 
l>or in latnenting such outrages. 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston, Aug. 4, 1701. 

My dear Madam, — Your last letter, which 
gave us so unfavorable an account of your 
health, and which did not speak much more 
comfortably of Mr. King's, afteeted us with 
much concern. Of Dr. Raitt we may say, 
in the words of Milton, 

" His long experience did attain 
To something like prophetic strain ;" 

for as he foretold to you, so he foretold to 
Mrs. Unvvin, that, though her disorders might 
not much threaten life, they would yet cleave 
to her to the last ; and she and perfect health 
must ever be strangers to each oilier. Such 
was his prediction, and it has been hitherto 
accomplished. Eitlier headache or pain in the 
side has been her constant companion ever 
since we had the pleasure of seeing you. As 
for myself, I cannot properly s;iy that I oijuy 
a good state of health, though in general I have 
it, because I have it accoiupanicd with fre- 
quent (its of dejection, to which less health 
and better spiiits would, perhap.s, be infinitely 
preferable. But it pleased Gcjd that I should 
be born in a country where melancholy is 
the national eharacterisiic. To say the truth, 
I have often wished myself a Frenchman. 

N. B. I write this in very good spirits. 

You gave us so little hope in your last, 
that we should have your company this sum- 
mer at Weston, th.at to repeat our invitation 
seems almost like teasing you. I will only 
say, therefore, that, my Norfolk friends hav- 
ing left us, of whose expected arrival here I 
believe I told you in a former letter, we 
should be happy could you succeed them. 
We now, indeed, expect Lady Hesketh, but 
not immediately : she seldom sees Weston 
till all its summer beauties are lied, and red, 
brown, and yellow, have supplanted the uni- 
versal verdure. 

My Homer is gone forth, and I can de- 
voutly say, " Joy go with it !" What place 
it holds in the estimation of the generality I 
cannot tell, having heard no more about it 
since its publication than if no such work 
existed. I must except, how'ever, an anony- 
mous eulogium from some man of letters, 
which I received about a week ago. It was 
kind in a perfect stranger, as he avows him- 
self to be, to relieve me, at so early a day, 
from much of the anxiety that I could not 
but feel on such an ooKasion. I should be 
glad to know who he is, only that I might 
thank him. 

Mrs. Unwin, who is at this moment come 
down to breakfast, joins me in atTectionate 
eoinplinifnts to yourself and Mr. King; and 
I am, my dear madam, 

Most sincerely yours, W. C. 
* Private correspondence. 



380 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, August 9, 1791. 
My dear Sir, — I never make a correspond- 
ent wait for an answer tlirougli idleness, or 
want of proper respect for him ; but if I am 
silent it is because I am busy, or not well, 
or because I stay till something occur that 
may make ray letter at least a little better 
than mere blank paper. I therefore write 
speedily in reply to yours, being at present 
neither much occupied, nor at all indisposed, 
nor forbidden by a dearth of materials. 

1 wish always, when I liave a new piece in 
hand, to be as secret as you, and tlicre was a 
time wlien I could be so. Then I lived the 
life of a solitary, was not visited by a single 
neighbor, because I had none with whom I 
could associate ; nor ever had an inmate. 
This was when I dwelt at Olney ; but since 
I have removed to Weston the ease is differ- 
ent. Here I am visited by all around me, 
and study in a room exposed to all manner of 
inroads. It is on the ground floor, the room 
in which we dine, and in which I am sure to 
be found by all who seek me. They find 
me generally at my desk, and with my work, 
whatever it be, before me, unless perhaps I 
liave conjured it into its hiding-place before 
they have had time to enter. This, however, 
is not always the case ; and, consequently, 
.sooner or later, I cannot fail to be detected. 
Possibly you, who I suppose have a snug 
study, would find it impracticable to attend 
to anything closely in an apartment e.xposcd 
as mine, but use has made it familiar to me, 
and so familiar, that neither servants going 
and coming disconcert me ; nor even if a 
lady, with an oblique glance of her eye, 
catches two or three lines of my MSS., do I 
feel myself inclined to blush, though natu- 
rally the sliyest of mankind. 

You did well, 1 believe, to cashier the sub- 
ject of which you gave me a recital. It cer- 
tainly wants those agremens which are nec- 
essary to the success of any subject in verse. 
It is a curious story, and so far as the poor 
young lady was concerned a very affecting 
one ; but there is a coarseness in the char- 
acter of the hero that would have spoiled all. 
In fact, I find it myself a much easier matter 
to write, than to get a convenient theme to 
write on. 

I am obliged to you for comparing me as 
you go both with Pope and with Homer. It 
is impossible in any other way of manage- 
ment to know whether the translation be well 
executed or not, and if well, in what degree. 
It was in the course of such a process that I 
fii-st became dissatisfied with Pope. More 
than thirty years since, and when I was a 
young Templar, I accon}panied him with his 
original, line by line, through both poems. 
A fellow student of mine, a person of fine 
classical taste, joined himself with me in the 



labor. We were neither of us, as you may 
imagine, very diligent in our proper business. 

I shall be glad if my reviewers, whosoever 
they may be, will be at the pains to read me 
as you do. I want no praise that I am not 
entitled to, but of that to whicli I am entitled. 
I should be loath to lose a tittle, having 
worked hard to earn it. 

I would heartily second the Bishop of 
Salisbury* in recommending to you a close 
pursuit of your Hebrew studies, were it not 
that I wish you to publish what I may un- 
derstand. Do both, and I shall be satisfied. 

Your remarks, if I may but receive them 
soon enough to serve me in case of a new 
edition, will be e.xtremely welcome. 

W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 9, 1791. 
My dearest Johnny, — The little that I have 
heard about Homer myself has been equally 

or more flattering than Dr. "s intelligence, 

so that I have good reason to hope that I 
have not studied the old Grecian, and how to 
dress him, so long and so intensely, to no 
purpose. At present I am idle, both on ac- 
count of my eyes and because I know not to 
what to attach myself in particular. JMany 
ditt'erent plans and projects are recommended 
to me. Some call aloud for original verse, 
others for more translation, and others for 
other thing.s. Providence, I hope, will direct 
me in ray choice, for other guide I have none, 
nor wish for another. 

God bless you, my dearest Johnny, 

VV. C. 

The active mind of Cowper, and the neces- 
sity of mental e.xertion, in order to arrest the 
terrible incursions of his depressing malady, 
soon led him to contract a new literary en- 
gagement. A splendid edition of Milton was 
at that time contemplated, intended to rival 
the celebrated Sliakspeare of Boydell ; and to 
combine all the adventitious aid tliat editorial 
talent, the professional skill of a mo.st dis- 
tinguished artist, and the utmost embellish- 
ment of type could command, to ensure suc- 
cess. Johnson, the bookseller, invited the 
co-operation of Cowper, in the responsible 
oHice of Editor. For such an undertaking he 
was unquestionably qualified, by his refined 
critical ta.ste and discernment, and by his pro- 
found veneration for this first of modern epic 
poets. Cowper readily entered into this pro- 
ject, and by his admirable translations of the 
Latin and Italian poems of Milton, justly 
added to the fame which he had already ac- 
quired. But to those who know how to ap- 
preciate his poetic powers, and his noble 
ardor in proclaiming the most important 
* Dr. Douglaa. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



381 



truths, it must cvor be a source of unfeigned 
regret that tbe hours given to transhition, 
and especially to Homer, were not dedicated 
to the composiliou of some original work. 
Who would not have hailed with delight 
another poem, rivalling all the beauties and 
moral excellences of '• 'IMie Task," and endear- 
ing to the mind, with still higher claims, the 
sweet poet of nature, and the graceful yet 
sublime teacher of heavenly truth and wis- 
dom .' 

The grief is tliis — that, sunk in Homer's mine, 
I lose my precious years, now soon to tail, 

Handling ids gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian 
scale.* 

It was thi.s literary engagement that first 
laid the foundation of that intercourse, which 
commenced at this time between Cowperand 
llayley ; an intercour.se which seems to have 
ripened into subsequent habits of friendship. 
As their names have been so much associated 
together, and llayley eventually became the 
poet's biographer, we shall record the circum- 
stances of the origin of their intimacy in Hay- 
ley's own words. 

"As it is to iMilton that I am in a great 
measure indebted for what I must ever regard 
as a signal blessing, the friendship of Cow- 
per, the reader will pardon me for dwelling 
a little on the circumstances that produced it ; 
circumstances which often lead me to repeat 
those sweet verses of my friend, on the 
casual origin of our most valuable attaeh- 
ineuts: 

' Mysterious are his ways, whose power. 
Brings forth that unexpected hour. 
When minds that never met before, 
Shall nief;t, unite, and part no more; 
It is th' allotment of tile skies, 
Tim hand ot' the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans and orders our connexions.' 

The.se charming verses strike with peculiar 
force on my heart, when I recollect, that it 
was an idle endeavor to make us enemies 
which gave rise to our intimacy, and that I 
was providentially conducted to Weston at a 
season when my presence there afforded pe- 
culiar comfort to my affectionate friend under 
the pressure of a domestic afllietion, which 
threatened to overwhelm his very tender 
spirits.* 

" The entreaty of many jiersons, whom I 
wished to oblige, had c'ngaged me to write a 
Life of Milton, before 1 had the slightest 
suspicion that my work could interfere with 
the projects of any man ; but I was soon sur- 
prised and concerned in hearing that I was 

• See verses addressed to John Johnson, Esq. 
t An alarming atlHCk with which Mra. I'nwin wap 
visited. 



represented in a newspaper as an antagonist 
of Cowper. 

" I immediately wrote to him on the subject, 
and our correspondence soon endeared us to 
each other in no common degree." 

We gave credit to Hayley for the kind and 
amiable spirit which he manifested on this 
delicate occasion ; and for the address with 
which he converted an apparent collision of 
interests into a magnanimous triumph of lit- 
erary and courteous feeling. 



The succeeding letters will be found to 
contain frequent allusions both to his past 
and newly contracted engagement. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Sept. H, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Whoever reviews me will 
in fact have a laborious task of it, in the per- 
formance of which he ought to move leisurely, 
and to exercise much critical discernment. 
In the meantime, my courage is kept up bv 
the arrival of such testimonies in my favor as 
give me the greatest pleasure ; coming from 
quarters the most respectable. I have reason, 
therefore, to hope that our periodical judges 
will not be \eiT averse to me, and that per- 
haps they may even favor me. If one man of 
taste and letters is pleased, another man so 
qualified can hardly be displeased : and if 
critics of a difFerentdescription grumble, they 
will not however materially liurt me. 

You, who know how necessary it is to me 
to be employed, will be glad to "hear that I 
have been called to a new literary engage- 
ment, and that I have not refused it. A Mil- 
ton, that is to i-ival, and. if possible, to exceed 
in splendor, Boydell's Shakspeai-e, is in con- 
templation, and I am in the editor's office. 
Fuseli is the painter. My business will be to 
select notes from others, and to write original 
notes; to translate the Latin and Italian 
poems, and to give a correct text. I shall 
have years allowed me to do it in. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WAITER BAGOT. 

Weston, Sept. 21, 1T91. 

My dear Friend, — Of all the testimonies in 
favor of my Homer that I have received, none 
has given me so sincere a pleasure as that of 
Lord Bagof. It is an unmixed pleasure, and 
without a drawback ; because 1 know liiin to 
be perfectly, and in all respects, whether eru- 
dition or a line taste be in question, so well 
qualified to judge me, that I can neither ex- 
pect nor wish a sentence more valuable than 
his — 

ittT6<' fiilr/jt) 

El' OTfiOtirat yiitty Kal not ipiXa yovvar' 6au7tl. 



382 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



I hope by this time youhnve received your 
volumes, and are prepared to second tlie ap- 
plauses of your brother — else, woe be to you ! 
1 wrote to Johnson immediately on the receipt 
of your last, giving him a strict injunction to 
despatch them to you without delay. He had 
sold some time sinee a hundred of the unsub- 
seribed-for copies. 

I have not a history in the world except 
Baker's Chronicle, and that I borrowed three 
years ago from Mr. Throckmorton. Now the 
case is this: lam translating Milton's third 
Elegy — his Elegy on the death of the Bishop 
of Winchester.* He begins it with saying, 
that, while he was sitting alone, dejected, and 
musing on many melancholy themes, first, the 
idea of the Plague presented itself to his mind, 
and of the havoc made by it among the great. 
Then he proceeds thus : 

Turn memini clarique ducis, fratrisque verendi 

Intempestivis ossa cremata rogis : 
Et memini Heroum quos vidit ad athera raptos ; 

Flevit et amissos Belgia tota duces. 

I cannot learn from my only oracle. Baker, 
who this famous leader and his reverend 
brother were. Nor does he at all ascertain 
for me the event alluded to in the second of 
these couplets. I am not yet possessed of 
Warton, who probably explains it, nor can 
be for a month to come. Consult him for 
me if you have him, or, if you have him not, 
consult some other. Or you may find the 
intelligence perhaps in your own budget ; no 
matter how you come by it, only send it to 
me if you can, and as soon as you can, for I 
hate to leave unsolved difliculties behind mc.f 
In the first year of Charles the First, Milton 
was seventeen years of age, and then wrote 
this elegy. The period therefore to \\hich I 
would refer you, is the two or three last 
years of James the First. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. KING.J: 

Weston, Sept. 23, 1791. 

Dear Sir, — We are truly concerned at your 
account of Mrs. King's severe indisposition ; 
and, though yon had no better news to tell 
us, are much obliged to you for writing to 
inform us of it, and to Jlrs. King for desir- 
ing you to do it. We take a lively interest 
in what concerns her. I should never have 
ascribed her silence to neglect, had she nei- 
ther written to me herself nor commissioned 

* Mfestus eram, et tacitns nul!o comilante sedebam, 
HHireljjmtque aiiimo Iristia plura meo : &c. &c. 

t Warton informs \is that tlie distinfi:uishetl brothers 
nllmlfxl to in Milton's C'li'i,'y are the Difke of Uninswick 
and Cninit Manstflt,who t'ell in the war of tlie Palatinate, 
that fniiUul scene of warlilte operations. The two latter 
are the Karls of Oxford and Southampton, who died at 
the siege of Breda, in the year IG'25. 

t Private correspondence. 



you to write for her. I hsd, indeed, for some 
time expected a letter from her by every 
post, but accounted for my continual disap- 
pointment by supposing her at Edgeware, to 
which place she intended a visit, as she told 
me long since, and hoped that she would 
write immediately on her return. 

Her sufferings will be felt here till we 
learn that they are removed ; for which rea- 
son we shall be much obliged by the earliest 
notice of her recovery, which we most sin- 
cerely wish, if it please God, tind which will 
not fail to be a constant subject of prayer at 
Woston. 

I beg you, sir, to present Mrs. Unwin'a 
and my aflectionate remembrances to Mrs. 
King, in which you are equally a partaker, 
and to believe me, with true esteem and 
much sincerity, 

Yours, W. C. 



TO iMRS. KING.* 

Weston, Oct. 21, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Yon could not have sent 
me more agreeable news than that of your 
better health, and I am greatly obliged to you 
for making me the first of your correspond- 
ents to whom you have given that welcome 
intelligence. This is a favor which I should 
have acknowledged much sooner, h.ad not a 
disorder in my eyes, to which I ha\'e always 
been extremely subject, required that I should 
make as little use of my pen as possible. I 
felt much for you, when 1 read that part of 
your letter in which you mention your visit- 
ors, and the fatigue which, indisposed as you 
have been, they could not fail to occasion 
you. Agreeable as you would have found 
them at tinother time, and happy as you 
would have been in their company, you could 
not but feel the addition they necessarily 
made to your domestic attentions as a 
considerable inconvenience. But I have al- 
ways said, and shall never say otherwise, that 
if patience under adversity, and submission 
to the afflicting hand of God, be true forti- 
tude — which no reasonable person can deny 
— then your sex have ten times more true 
fortitude to boast than ours; and I have not 
the least doubt that you carried yourself with 
infinitely more equanimity on tli.at occasion 
than I should have done, or any he of my 
acquaintance. Why is it, since the first of- 
fender on earth was a woman, that the women 
are nevertheless, in all the most imporlaut 
points, superior to the men? That they are 
so I will not allow to be disputed, having ob- 
served it ever since I was cajiable of making 
the observation. I believe, on recollection, 
that, when I had the hapijiness to see you 
here, we agitated this qucsiion a little ; but I 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



383 



do not remember that we arrived at any de- 
cision of it. The Scripture calls you the 
weaker vessels; and perhaps the best solution 
of the ditliculty, therefore, may be found in 
those otiier words of Scripture — My strength 
is perfected in weakness. Unless you can fur- 
nish me with a better key tlian this, I shall 
be nuicli inclined to believe that I have found 
the true one. 

I am deep in a new literary engagement, 
being retained by my book.seller as editor of 
an intended most magnificent publication of 
Milton's Poetical Works. This will occupy 
me as much as Homer did for a year or two 
to come ; and when I have finished it, I shall 
liave run through all the degrees of my pro- 
fession, as author, translator, and editor. I 
know not that a fourth could be found ; but 
if a fourth can be found, I dare say I shall 
find it. 

I remain, my dear madam, your affectionate 
friend and humble servant, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Oct. 25, 1791. 
My dear Friend, — Your unexpected and 
transient visit, like everything else that is past, 
has now the a])pearanee of a dream, but it was 
a pleasant one, and I heartily wish that such 
dreams could recur more frequently. Your 
brother Chester repeated his visit yesterday, 
and I never saw him in better spirits. At such 
times he h.as, now and then, the very look that 
he had when he was a boy, and when I see 
it I seem to be a boy myself, and entirely for- 
get for a short moment the years that have 
intervened since I was one. The look that 
I mean is one that you, I dare say, have ob- 
served. — Then we are at Westminster again. 
He left with me that poem of your brother 
Lord Bagot's which was mentioned when you 
were here. It was a treat to me, and I read 
it to my cousin Lady Hesketh and to Jlrs. 
Unwin, to whom it was a treat also. It has 
great sweetness of numbers and much ele- 
gance of expression, and is just such a 
poem as I should be happy to have com- 
posed myself about a year ago, when I was 
loudly called \ipon by a certain nobleman* 
to celebrate the beauties of his villa. But I 
had two insurmountable difficulties to con- 
tend with. One was that I had never seen 
his villa, and the other, that I had no eyes .at 
that time for anything but Homer. Should 
I at any time hereafter undertake the task, I 
sh.ill now at least know how to go about it, 
which, till I had seen Lord Bagot's poem, I 
\erily did not. I was particularly charmed 
with the parodv of those beautiful lines of 
Milton : 

* Lord Bagot. 



" The song was partial, but the harmony 

(What could it less, when spirits iinuiortal sing 1) 
Suspended hell, and took with ravisinnent 
The thronging audience." 

There's a parenthesis for you ! The paren- 
thesis it seems is out of fashion, and perhaps 
the moderns are in the right to proscribe 
what they cannot attain to. I will answer 
for it that had we the art at this day of in- 
sinuating a sentiment in this graceful man- 
ner, no reader of taste «ould ([uarrel with 
the practice. Lord Bagot showed his by se- 
lecting the passage for his imitation. 

I would heat Warton, if he were living, 
for supposing that Milton ever repented of 
his compliment to the memory of Bishop 
Andrews. I neither do, nor can, nor will be- 
lieve it. Milton's mind could not be nar- 
rowed by anything, and, though he quarrelled 
with episcopacy in the church of England 
idea of it, I am persuaded that a good 
bishop, as well as any other good man, of 
whatsoever rank or order, had always a 
shiire of his veneration.* 
Yours, my dear friend. 

Very affectionately, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.' 

Weston, Oct. 31, 1791. 

My dear Johnny, — Your kind and affec- 
tionate letter well deserves my thanks, and 
should have had them long ago, had I not 
been obliged lately to give my attention to 
a mountain of un.inswered letters, which I 
have just now reduced to a mole-hill; yours 
lay at the bottom, and I have at last worked 
my way down to it. 

It gives me great pleasure that you have 
found a house to your minds. May you all 
three be happier in it than the happiest that 
ever occupied it before you ! But my chief 
delight of all is to learn that you and Kitty 
are so completely cured of your long and 
threatening maladies. I always thought 
highly of Dr. Kerr, but his extraordinary suc- 
cess in your two instances has even inspired 
me with an affection for him. 

My eyes are much better than when I 
wrote last, thongli seldom perfectly well 
many days together. At this season of the 
year I catch perpetual colds, and shall con- 
tinue to do so till I have got the better of 
that tenderness of habit with which the sum- 
mer never fails to afi'cct me. 

I am glad that you have heard well of 
my work in your country. Suflicient proofs 
have reached me from various quarters that 
I have not ploughed the field of Troy in 
vain. 

Were you here, I would gratify you with 

* llow miicli more cJiaritable is Cowper's comment, 
Ih-on tliu i[^urioud surmise of Warton ! 



384 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



an enumeration of particulars, but since you 
are not, it must content you to be toldtliat I 
Iiave every reason to be satisfied. 

Mrs. Unwin, I think, in lier letter to Cousin 
Balls, made mention of my new engagement. 
I have just entered on it, and tlierefore can 
at present say little about it. It is a very 
creditable one in itself, and may I but acquit 
myself of it with sufficiency it will do me 
honor. The commentator's part however is 
a new one to me, and one that I little thought 
lo appear in. Remember your promise that 
I shall see you in the spring. 

The Hall has been full of company ever 
since you went, and at present my Catharina* 
is there, singing and playing like an angel. 

W. C. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 14, 1701. 

My dear Friend, — I have waited and wished 
for your "opinion with the feelings that belong 
to the value that I have for it, and am very 
happy to find it so favorable. In my table- 
drawer I treasure up a bundle of suffrages 
sent me by those of whose approbation I was 
most ambitious, and shall presently insert 
yours among them. 

I know not why we should quarrel with 
compound epithets ; it is certain, at least, 
they are as agreeable to the genius of our 
language as to that of the Greek, which is 
sufficiently proved by their being admitted 
into our common and colloquial dialect. 
Black-eyed, nut-brown, crook-shanked, hump- 
backed, are all compound epithets, and, to- 
gether with a thousand other such, are used 
continually, even by those who profess a dis- 
like to sucli combinations in poetry. Why, 
then, do they treat with so much familiarity 
a thing that they say disgusts them 1 I doubt 
if they could give this question a reasonable 
answer, unless they should answer it by con- 
fessing themselves unreasonable. 

I have made a considerable progress in the 
translation of JNIilton's Latin poeras. I give 
them, as opportunity offers, all the variety of 
measure that I can. Some I render in heroic 
rhyme, some in stanzas, some in seven and 
some in eight syllable measure, and some in 
blank verse. They will, altogether, I hojje, 
make an agreeable miscellany for the English 
reader. They are certainly good in them- 
selves, and cannot fail to please but by the 
fault of their translator. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Weaton, Nov. 16, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — I ara weary of making 

* The present Dnwa,e:er Lndy Tlirockmorton. 
t Private corre?pundence. 



you wait for an answer, and therefore resolve 
to send you one, though without the lines 
you ask for. Such as Ihey are they liave 
been long ready ; and could I have found a 
conveyance for them, should have been with 
you weeks ago. Mr. Bean's last journey to 
town might have afforded me an opportunity 
to send them, but he gave me not sufficient 
notice. They must, therefore, be still de- 
layed till either he shall go to London again 
or somebody else shall off'er. I thank you 
for yours, which are as much better than 
mine as gold is better than feathers. 

It seemed necessary that I should account 
for my apparent tardiness to comply with the 
obliging request of a lady, and of a lady who 
employed you as her intermedium. None 
was wanted, as you well assured her. But 
had there been occasion for one, she could 
not possibly have found a better. 

I was much pleased with your account of 
your visit to Cowslip Green,* both for the 
sake of what you saw there, and because I 
am sure you must have been as happy in such 
company as any situation in this world can 
make you. Miss More has been always em- 
ployed, since I first heard of her doings, as 
becomes a Christian. So she was while en- 
deavoring to reform the unreformable great; 
and so she is, while framing means and op- 
portunities to instruct the more tractable lit- 
tle. Horace's Virginibiix, puerisqiie, may be 
her motto, but in a sense much nobler than 
he has annexed to it. I cannot, however, be 
entirely reconciled to the thought of her be- 
ing henceforth silent, though even for the 
sake of her present labors.f A pen useful 
ai hers ought not, perhaps, to be laid aside ; 
neither, perhaps, will she altogether renounce 
it, but, when she has est.iblished her .schools, 
and habituated them to the discipline she in- 
tends, will find it desirable to resume it. I 
rejoice that she has a sister like herself, ca- 
pable of bidding defiance lo fatigue and hard- 
ship, to dirty roads and wet raiment, in so 
excellent a c.ause.l 

I beg that when you \\-rite next to either 
of those ladies, you will present my best 
compliments to Miss Martha, and IcU her 
that I can never feel myself flattered more 
than I was by her application. God knows 
how unworthy I judge myself, at the same 
time, to be admitted into a collectioiij of 
which you are a member. Were there not a 
crowned head or two to keep me in counte- 
nance, I should even blush to think of it. 

I would that I could see some of the mount- 
ains which you have seen; especially, because 

* The residence of the late Mi*s. Ilniinah More, near 
Bristol. 

t The establishment of her schools, comprising the 
children of several parishes, then in a most neglected 
and uncivilized state. 8ee the interesting account of the 
origin and progress of these schools in the Memoir of 
Mrs. More. 

t Mrs. Martha More. <s Of autographs. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



385 



Dr. Jolmson luis pronounced lliat no man is 
quulifii'il to be a poet wlio li:is never seen a 
mountain. But mountains I .sliall never see, 
unle.ss perhaps in a dream, or unless tliere 
are sueli in heaven. Nor tho;-e, uidoss I re- 
ceive twice as much mercy as ever yet was 
shown to any man. 

I am now deep in Milton, translatinij his 
Latin poems for a pompous edition, of which 
you have undoubtedly heard. This amuses 
nic for the present, and will for a year or two. 
So long, I presume, I shall be occupied in the 
several functions that belong to my present 
engagement. 

Sirs. Unwin and I are about as well as 
usual ; always mindful of you, and alw.iys 
aflcctionately so. Our united love attends 
yourself and Miss Catlett. 

Believe me, most truly yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston-Undcrwood, Dec. 5, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — Your last brouglit me 
two cordials ; for what can better deserve that 
name than the cordial approbation of two 
such readers as your brother, the bishop, and 
your good friend and neighbor, the clergy- 
man. The former I have ever esteemed and 
honored with the justcst cause, and am as 
ready to honor and esteem the latter as you 
e:ui wish me to be, and as his wishes and tal- 
ents deserve. Do I hate a parson ' Heaven 
forbid ! I love you all when you are good 
for anything, and, as to the rest, I would 
mend them if I could, and that is the worst 
of my intentions towards them. 

I heard above a month since that this first 
edition of my work was at that time nearly 
sold. It will not, therefore, I presume, be 
long before 1 must go to press again. This 
I mention merely from an earnest desire to 
avail myself of all other strictures that either 
your good neighbor, Lord Bagot, the bishop, 
or yourself, 

may happen to have made, and will be so 
good as to favor me with. Those of the 
good Evander contained in your last have 
served me well, and I have already, in three 
ditTerent |)laees referred to, accommodated 
the text to them. And this I have done in 
one instance even a little against the bias of 
my own opinion. 

iybi Sc KCv dvrds iXiOftat 

The sense I had given of these words is the 
sense in which an old scholiast has under- 
stood them, as appears in Clarke's note in 
hico. Clarke indeed prefers the other, but it 
does not appear plain to me that he does it 



with good reason against the judgment of a 
very ancient commentator and a Grecian. 
And I am the rather inclined to this per- 
suasion, because Achilles himself seems to 
have ai)prehended that Agamemnon would 
not content himself with Briseis only, when 
he says, 

But I have othku precious things on 'board, 
Of THESE take no.ne away without my leave, &c. 

It is certain that the words are ambiguous, 
and that the sense of them depends altogether 
on the punctuation. But I am always under 
the correction of so able a critic as your 
neighbor, and have altered, as 1 say, my ver- 
sion accordingly. 

As to Milton, the die is cast. I am engaged, 
have bargained with Johnson, and cannot re- 
cede. I should otherwise have been glad to 
do as you advise, to make the translation of 
his Latin and Italian part of another volume ; 
for, with such an addition, I have nearly as 
much verse in my budget as would be re- 
(|uired for the purpose. This squabble, in 
the meantime, between Fuseli and Boydell* 
does not interest me at all ; let it terminate 
as it may, I have only to perform my job, 
and leave the event to be decided by the 
combatants. 

.Suave mari magno turbantibus lequora ventis 
E terra ingcntem alterius spectare laborein. 

Adieu, my dear friend, I am most sincere- 
ly yours, VV. C. 

Why should you suppose thatldTd not ad- 
mire the poem you showed me ! I did admire 
it, and told you so, but you carried it off in 
your pocket, and so doing left me to forget 
it, and without the means of inquiry. 

J am llius nimble in answering, merely with 
a view to ensure myself the receipt of other 
remarks in time tor a new impression. 



TO THE REV. MR. HtlRDIS. 

Weston, Dec. 10, 1791. 

Dear Sir, — I am much obliged to you for 
wishing that I were employed in some origi- 
nal work rather than in translation. To tell 
tile truth, I am of your mind; and, unless I 
could lind anotlier llomer, I shall promise (I 
believe) and vow, when I have done with 
Milton, never to translate again. But mv 
veneration for our great countryman is equal 
to what I feel for the Grecian ; and conse- 
quently 1 am happy, and feel myself honor- 
ably employed whatever I do for Milton. I 
am now translating his Ejiilajihium Damo- 
nis, a pastoral in my judgment equal to any 

* Fiigoli w.TS sissncintert with Cowper's Milton, and Boy- 
dell intjTesled in Hnyley's, which produced a collitiion of 
feeling between thum. 

25 



386 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of Virgil's Bucolics, but of which Dr. John- 
son (so it pleased him) speaks, as I remem- 
ber, contemptuously. But he who never saw 
.iny beauty in a rural scene, was not likely 
to have much taste for a pastoral. In pace 
qiiiescal ! 

I was charmed with your friendly offer to 
be my advocate with the public ; should I want 
one, 1 know not where I could find a better. 
The reviewer in the Gentleman's Magazine 
grows more and more civil. Should he con- 
tinue to sweeten at this rate, as he proceeds, 
I know not what will become of all tlie little 
modesty I have left. I have availed myself 
of some of his strictures, for I wish to learn 
from everybody. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, Dec. 21, 1791. 

My dear Friend, — It grieves me, after hav- 
ing indulged a little hope that I might see you 
in the holidays, to be obliged to disappoint 
myself The occasion, too, is such as will 
ensure me your sympathy. 

On Saturday last, while I was at my desk 
near the window, and Mr.s. Unwin at the 
fireside opposite to it, I heard her suddenly 
exclaim, " Oh ! Mr. Cowper, don't let me 
fall !" I turned and saw her actually falling, 
together with her chair, and started to her 
side just in time to prevent her. She was 
seized with a violent giddiness, which lasted, 
though jv'ith some abatement, the whole day, 
and was attended too with some other very, 
very alarming symptoms. At present, how- 
ever, she is relieved from the vertigo, and 
seems in all respects better. 

She has been my fliithful and aflfeetionate 
nurse for many years, and consequently has 
a claim on all my attentions. She has them, 
and will have them as long as slie wants 
them ; whicli will probably be, at the best, a 
considerable time to come. I feel the shock, 
as you may suppose, in every nerve. God 
grant th.at there may be no repetition of it. 
Another such a stroke upon her would, I 
think, overset me completely ; but at present 
I hold up bravely. W. C. 



Few events could have afflicted the tender 
and affection.ate mind of Cowper more acutely 
than the distressing incident recorded in the 
preceding letter. Mrs. Unwin had for some 
time past experienced frequent returns of 
headache, sens.ations of bodily pain, and an 
increasing incapacity even for the common 
routine of daily duties. By an intelligent 
observer these symptoms might have been 
interpreted as the precursors of some im- 
pending dispens.ation, in the same manner as- 
the gathering clouds and the solemn stillness 



of nature announce the approaching storm 
and tempest. But the stroke is not the less 
felt because it is anticipated. Among the 
sorrows which infiict a vvoun(5 on the feeling 
heart, to see a beloved object, identified in 
character, in sentiment, and pursuit, endeared 
to us by the memory of the past, and by the 
fears and an.xieties of the present, sinking 
under the slow yet consuming incursions of 
disease ; and to be assured, as we contem- 
plate the fading form, that the moment of 
separation is drawing nigh ; this is indeed a 
trial, where the mind feels its own bitterness, 
and is awakened to the strongest emotions 
of tenderness and love. 

The cheering prospect of a happy change, 
founded on an interest in the promises of the 
gospel, can alone mitigate the mournful an- 
ticipation. It is a subject for deep thank- 
fulness when we can cherish the persuasion 
for ourselves, or, like Cow'per, feel its con- 
soling support for others; and when we arc 
enabled to e.xclaiin with the poet, 

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, 
Lets in new light thro' chinks that time has made; 
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
.\s they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
That stand upon the threshold of the new. 

Waller s Divine Poesie. 

The following letter communicates some 
further detiuls of Mrs. Unwin's severe attack, 
and of Cowper's feelings on this distressing 
occasion. 

TO MRS. KING.* 

Weston, Jan. 56, 1792. 

My dear Madam, — Silent as I have long 
been, I have had but too good a reason for 
being so. About six weeks since, Mrs. Un- 
win was seized with a sudden and most 
alarming disorder, a vertigo, which would 
have thrown her out of her chair to the 
ground, had I not been quick enough to 
catch her wdiile she was falling. For some 
moments her knees and ancles were so en- 
tirely disabled that she had no use of them; 
and it was with the exertion of all my 
strength that I replaced her in her seat. 
Many days she kept her bed, and for some 
weeks her chamber; but, at length, she has 
joined me again in the study. Her recovery 
has been extremely slow, and she is still fee- 
ble ; but, I thank God, not so feeble but that 
I hope for her perfect restoration as the 
spring advances. I am per.suaded, that with 
your feelings for your friends, you will know- 
how to imagine what I must have suffered 
on an occasion so distressing, and to pardon 
a silence owing to such a cause. 

The account you give me of the patience 
with which a lady of your acquaintance has 

* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



381 



lately endured a terrible operation, is a 
strong proof that your sex surpasses ours 
in heroic fortitude. 1 call it liy that name, 
because I verily believe, that in God's ac- 
count, there is more true heroism in suffer- 
ing his will with meek submission than in 
doing our own, or that of our fellow-mortals 
who may have a right to command us, with 
the utmost valor that was ever exhibited in 
a field of battle. Renown and glory are, in 
general, the incitements to such exertions ; 
but no laurels are to be won by sitting pa- 
tiently under the knife of a surgeon. The 
virtue is, therefore, of a less suspicious char- 
acter ; the j)rineiple of it more simple, and 
the practice more dillicult : — considerations 
that seem snthcicntly to warrant my opinion, 
that the infallible Judge of human conduct 
may possibly behold with more complacency 
a suffering than an active courage. 

I forget if I told you that I am engaged 
for a new edition of Milton's Poems. In 
fact, 1 h:ive still other engagements, and so 
various, that I hardly know to which of them 
all to give my first attentions. I have only 
time, therefore, to condole with you on the 
double loss you have lately sustained, and 
to congratulate you on being female ; be- 
cause, as such, you will, I trust, acquit your- 
self well under so severe a trial. 
I remain, my dear madam, 

Host sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER EAGOT. 

WBaton-UnOcTWOod, Feb. 11, 1700. 

My dear Friend, — It is the only advantage 
1 believe, that they who love e.ich other de- 
rive from living at a distance, that the news 
of such ills as may happen to either seldom 
Teaches the other till the cause of complaint 
is over. Had I been your next neighbor, I 
should have sufi'ered with you during the 
whole indisposition of your two children and 
your own. As it is, 1 have nothing to do 
but to rejoice in your own recovery and 
theirs, which I do sincerely, and wish only 
to learn from yourself that it is complete. 

1 thank you for suggesting the omission 
of the line due to the helmet of Achilles. 
How the omission h.appened I know not, 
whether by my fault or the printer's ; it is 
certain, however, that I had translated it, 
aud I have now given it its [)roper place. 

I pur|)ose to keep back a second edition 
till 1 have had opportunity to avail myself 
of the remarks of both friends and strangers. 
The orde.id of criticism still awaits me in the 
reviews, and probably they will all in their 
turn mark many things that maybe mended. 
Uythe Gentleman's Magazine I have already 
profited in several instances. My reviewer 
Uiere, though favorable in the main, is a 



pretty close observer, and, though not al- 
ways right, is often so. 

In the atl'iir of Jlilton I will have no hor- 
riila bi'Un if I can help it.* It is at least my 
present purpose to avoid them, if possible. 
For which reason, unless I should soon see 
occasion to alter my plan, I .shall confine 
myself merely to the business of an anno- 
tator, which is my proper province, and shall 
sift out of Warton's notes every tittle that 
relates to the private character, political or 
religious principles, of my author. These 
are properly subjects for a biographer's hand- 
ling, but by no means, as it seems to me, for 
a commentator's. 

In answer to your ([uestion, if I have had 
a correspondence with the Chancellor, I re- 
ply — yes. We exchanged three or four let- 
ters on the subject of Homer, or rather on 
the subject of my Prefice. He was doubt- 
ful whether or not my preference of blank 
verse, as affording opportunity for a closer 
version, was well founded. On this subject 
he wished to be convinced ; defended rhyme 
with much learning, and much shrewd rea- 
soning ; but at last allowed me the honor 
of the victory, expressing himself in these 
words : — " / am dearly convinced that Homer 
may be best rendered in blank verse, and you 
hare succeeded in lite passages that I hare 
looked into.'''' 

Thus it is when a wise man difl^ers in 
opinion. Such a man will be candid ; and 
conviction, not triumph, will be his object. 

Adieu ! — The hard name I gave you I 
take to myself, and am your 

£i*irayXo'raro(, 

w. c. 



We are indebted to a friend for the oppor- 
tunity of inserting nine additional letters, 
•addressed by Cowper to Thomas Park, Esq., 
known as the author of "Sonnets and Mis- 
cellaneous Poems," and subsequently as the 
editor of that splendid work, " Walpole's 
Royal and Noble Authors." 

TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Wcslon-Undorwood, Fob. m, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — Yesterday evening your parcel 
came safe to hand, containing the "Cursory 
Retnarks," "Kletclicr's Faithful Shepherd- 
esse," and your kind letter, for all which I 
am much obliged to you. 

Everything that relates to Jlilton must be 
welcome to an editor of him ; and I am so 
unconnected with the learned world, that, 
unless assistance seeks me, I am not very 
likely to find it. Fletcher's work was not in 
ray possession ; nor, indeed, was I possessed 
of any other, when I engaged in this under- 

* He alludes to Ihe dispute between Boydcll and Fiisell 
Ibe painter. 



388 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



taking, that could serve me much in the per- 
Ibrmaiiee of it. The various untoward inci- 
dents of a very singular life liave deprived 
me of a valuable collection, partly inherited 
from my father, partly Ironi my brother,* 
and partly made liy myself; so that I have 
at present fewer books than any m.an ought 
to have who writes for the public, especially 
who assumes the character of an editor.' At 
the present moment, however, I find myself 
tolerably well provided for this occasion by 
the kindness of a few friends, who have not 
been backward to pick from their shelves 
everytliiug that they thought might be use- 
ful to me. I am happy to be able to num- 
ber you among tliese friendly contributors. 

You will add a considerable oblig.ation to 
those you have already conferred, if you will 
be so good as to furnish me with such no- 
tices of your own as you offer. Parallel 
passages, or, at least, a striking similarity of 
expression, is always worthy of remark ; and 
I shall reprint, I believe, all Mr. Warton's 
notes of that kind, except such as are rather 
trivial, and some, perhaps, th.at are a little 
whimsical, and e.vcept that I shall diminish 
the nuiuber of his references, which are not 
seldom redundant. Where a word only is 
in question, and that, perhaps, not an uncom- 
mon one in the days of Milton, his use of it 
proves little or nothing ; for it is possible 
that authors writing on similar subjects may 
use the same words by mere accident. Bor- 
rowing seems to imply poverty, and of pov- 
erty 1 can rather suspect any man than Mil- 
ton. But I have as yet determined nothing 
absolutely concerning the mode of my com- 
mentary, having hitherto been altogether 
busied in the translation of his Latin poems. 
These I' have finished, and shall immediately 
proceed to a version of the Italian. They, 
being few, will not detain me long; and, 
when they are done, will leave me at full 
liberty to delilieratc on the main business, 
and to plan and methodise my operations. 

I shall be always happy in, and account 
myself honored by, your communications, 
and hope that our correspondence thus begun 
will not termin.ate in limine primn. 

I am, my dear sir, with much respect. 
Your most obliged and luimhle servant, 
W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN KEWTON.f 

Weslon, Feb. 20, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — Wlien I wrote the lines 
in question, I was, as I almost alw.ays am, so 
pressed for time, that I was obliged to put 

* The Rer. .lohn Cowper, Fellow of Bennet Colleire, 
Cambridge. 

" I had a brother once, 
Pe.icc to the memory of a mnn of worth,*' &.c. &c. 
t Private correspondence. 



them down in a great hurry.* Perhaps I 
printed them wrong. If a full stop be made 
at the end of the second line, the appearance 
of inconsistency, perhaps, will vanish ; but 
should you still tliink them liable to that ob- 
jection, they may be altered thus: — 

In vain to hve from age to age 

We modern bards endeavor ; 
But write in Patty's book one page,t 

You gain your point forever. 

Trifling enough I readily confess they are ; 
but I have always allowed myself to trifle oc- 
casionally ; and on this occasion had not, nor 
have at present, time to do more. By the 
way, should you think this amended copy 
worthy to displace the former, I must wait 
for some future opportunity to send you them 
properly transcribed for the purpose. 

Your demand of more original composition 
from me will, if I live, and it please God to 
afford me health, in all probability be sooner 
or later gratified. In the mean time, you need 
not, and, if you turn the matter in your 
thoughts a little, you will perceive that you 
need not, think me unworthily employed in 
preparing a new edition of Milton. His two 
principal poems are of a kind that call for 
an editor who believes the gospel and is well 
grounded in all evangelical doctrine. Such an 
editor they have never had yet, though only 
such a one can he qualified for the otiice. 

We mourn for the mismanagement at Bot- 
any Bay, and foresee the issue. The Romans 
were, in their origin, banditti ; and if they be- 
came in time masters of the world, it was not 
by drinking grog, and allowing themselves in 
all sorts of licentiousness. The African colo- 
nization, and the manner of conducting it, has 
long been matter to us of pleasing speculation. 
God lias highly honored Mr. Thornton ; and I 
doubt not that the subsequent history of the 
two settlements will strikingly evince the su- 
perior wisdom of his proceedings.! 

Yours, W. C. 

P. S. Lady Hesketh made the same objec- 
tion to my verses as you ; but, she being a 
lady-critic, I did not heed her. As they stand 
at present, however, they are hers ; and I be- 
lieve you will think tliem much imprm'ed. 

* Mrs. Martha More had requested Cowper to furnisli 
a contribution to her collection of autographs. The re- 
sult appears in the sequel of this letter. 

t In the present edition of the Poems the lines stand 
thus, on a farther suggestion of Lady Ilesketh's: — 
in vain to live from a?6 to a;;e, 

While modern bards endeavor, 
/ write my name in Patty's page. 
And gain my point for ever. 

W. Cowper. 
March 6, 1792. 

X This alludes to the new colony for liberated .\fricans, 
at Sierra Leone : in the origin of which Mr. Henry Thorn- 
ton and Mr. Zacliary Macauley were mainly inslrumental. 
l*'or interesting accounts of this coloiiy,see the " Mission- 
ary Uegisler of the Church Missionary Society," jiassim. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



389 



My heart bears mc witness how glad I sliall 
be to see you at the time you mention; and 
Mrs. Unwin says the same. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, Feb. 21, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — My obligations to you on 
the score of your kind and friendly remarks 
demanded from me a much more expeditious 
acknowledgment of the nuraeron!^ p.ickets 
that contained them ; but I ha\c been liindered 
bv many causes, each of which you would 
■M\m\t as a sufKcient apology, bvit none of 
which I will mention, lest I should give too 
much of my paper to the subject. Jly ac- 
knowledgments are likewise due to your fair 
sister, who has transcribed so many sheets in 
a neat hand, and with so much accuracy. 

At present I have no leisure for Homer, but 
shall certainly find leisure to examine him 
with reference to your strictures, before I send 
him a second time to the printer. This I am 
at present unwilling to do, choosing rather to 
wait, if tliat may be, till I shall have under- 
gone the discipline of all the reviewers; none 
of which have yet taken me in hand, the Gen- 
tleman's Magazine excepted. By several of 
his remarks I have benefitted, and shall no 
doubt be benefitted by the remarks of all. 

Milton at present engrosses me altogether. 
His Latin pieces I have translated, and have 
begun with the Italian. These are few, and 
will not detain me long. I shall then proceed 
immediately to deliberate upon and to settle 
the plan of my commentary, which I have 
hitherto had but little time to consider. I 
look forward to it, for this reason, with some 
anxiety. I trust at least that this anxiety will 
cease when I h.ave once satisfied myself about 
the best manner of conducting it. But, after 
all, I seem to fear more about the labor to 
which it calls me than any great ditlieulty 
with which it is likely to be attended. To the 
labors of versifying I have no objection, but 
to the labors of criticism I am new, and ap- 
prehend that I shall find them wearisome. 
Should that be the case, I shall be dull, and 
must be contented to share the censure of 
being so with almost all the commentators 
that have ever existed. 

I have expected, but not wondered that I 
have not received. Sir Thomas .More and the 
other MSS. you promised me ; because my 
silence has been such, considering how loudly 
I wa.s called upon to write, that you must 
liave concluded me either dead or dying, and 
did not choose perhaps to trust them to ex- 
ecutors. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

WestOD, March 2, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — I have this moment finished 



a comparison of your remarks with my text, 
and fi'el so sensibly my obligations to your 
great accuracy and kindness, that I cannot 
deny myself the pleasure of expressing them 
immediately. I only wish that instead of re- 
vising the two lirst books of the Iliad, you 
could have found leisure to revise the whole 
two poems, sensible how much my work 
would liave benefitted. 

I have not always adopted your lines, 
though often, perhaps, at least as good as my 
own ; because there will and must be dissimi- 
larity of manner between two so accustomed 
to the pen as we are. But I have let few 
passages go unamended which you seemed to 
think exceptionable ; and this not at all from 
complaisance ; for in such a cause I would 
not sacrifice an iota on that principle, but on 
clear conviction. 

I have as yet heard nothing from Johnson 
about the two 3ISS. you announced, but feel 
ashamed that I should want your letter to re- 
mind me of your obliging oiler to inscribe 
Sir Thomas More to me, should you resolve 
to publish him. Of my consent to such a 
measure you need not doubt. I am covetous 
of respect and honor from all such as you. 

Tame hare, at present, I have none. But, 
to make amends, I have a beautiful little 
spaniel, called Beau, to whom I will give the 
kiss your sister Sally intended for the former, 
unless she should command me to bestow it 
elsewhere ; it shall attend on her directions. 

I am going to take a last dinner with a most 
agreeable tamily, who have been my only 
neighbors ever since I have lived at Weston. 
On Monday they go to London, and in the 
suiunu'r to an estate in Oxfordshire, which is 
to be their home in future. The occasion is 
not .at .all a pleasant one to me, nor does it 
leave me spirits to add more, than that I ani, 
dear sir, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston. March 4, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — All our little world is 
going to London, the gulf that swallows most 
of our good things, and, like a b.id stomach, 
too often assimilates them to itself. Our 
neighbors at the Hall go thither to-morrow. 
Mr. and .Mrs. Throckmorton, as we lately 
called tliem, but now Sir John and my L.ady, 
are no longer inhabitants here, but henceforth 
of Bucklands, in Berkshire. 1 feel the loss of 
them, and shall feel it, .since kinder or more 
friendly treatment I never can receive at any 
hands than I h.ive always found at theirs. 
But it has long been a foreseen change, and 
was, indeed, almost daily expected long before 
it happened. The desertion of the Hall, how- 
ever, will not be total. The second brother, 
* Private c*>rrcspondence. 



390 



COWPER S WORKS. 



George, now JMr. Coiirtenay,* intends to re- 
siide there: and, with him, as with his elder 
hrotlier, I have always been on terms the 
nio:it agreeable. 

8uch is this variable scene : so variable that, 
had the reflections I sometimes make upon it 
a permanent intiuence, I should tremble at the 
thought of a new conne.xion, and, to be out of 
the reach of its mutability, lead almost the 
life of a hermit. It is well with tho.se who, 
like you, liave God for their companion. 
Death cannot deprive them of Him, and he 
changes not the place of his abode. Other 
changes, therefore, to them are all supporta- 
ble ; and what you say of your own experi- 
ence is the strongest possible proof of it. 
H.ad you lived without God, ygu could not 
have endured the loss you mention. May He 
preserve me from a similar one ; at least, till 
he shall be pleased to draw me to himself 
again? Then, if ever that day come, it will 
make me equal to any burden; but at present 
I can bear nothing well. 

I am sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MKS. KING.-]- 

Weston, March 8, 1792. 

My dear Madam, — Having just finished all 
my Miltonie translations, and not yet begun 
my comments, 1 find an interval that cannot 
be better employed than in discharging ar- 
rears due to my correspondents, of whom 1 
begin first a letter to you, though your claim 
be of less ancient standing than those of all 
the rest. 

I am extremely sorry that you have been 
so nnich indisposed, and especially that your 
indisposition has been attended with such ex- 
cessive pain. But may I be permitted to ob- 
serve, that your going to church on Christ- 
nias-d.ay, immediately after such a sharp fit 
of rheum.itism, was not according to the 
wisdom with which I believe you to be en- 
dued, nor was it acting so charitably toward 
yourself as I am persuaded you would have 
acted toward another. To another you 
would, I doubt not, have suggested that text 
— " I will have mercy and not sacrifice," as 
implying a gracious dispensation, in circum- 
stances like yours, from the practice of so 
severe and dangerous a service. 

Mrs. Unwin, I tliank God, is better, but 
still wants nnu^h of complete restoration. 
We have reached a time of life when heavy 
blows, if not fatal, are at least long felt. 

I have received many testimonies concern- 
ing my Homer, which do me much honor, and 
afford me great satisfaction ; but none from 
which I derive, or have reason to derive, more 
than that of Mr. Martyn. It is of great use 
to me, when I write, to suppose some such 

* Afterwards Sir George Throckmorton, 
t Private correspondence. 



person at my elbow, witnessing what I do ; 
and I ask myself frequently — Would this 
please him? If I think it would, it stands : 
if otherwise, I alter it. My work is thus fin- 
ished, as it were, under the eye of some of 
the best judges, and has the better chance to 
win their approbation when they actually 
see it. I 

I am, my dear madam 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, March 10, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — You will have more candor, as 
I hope and believe, than to impute my delay 
to answer your kind and friendly letter to 
inattention or want of a cordial respect for 
the writer of it. To suppose any such cause 
of my silence were injustice both to yourself 
and me. The truth is, I am a very busy man, 
and cannot gratify myself with writing to my 
friends so punctually as I wish. 

You have not in the least fallen in my es- 
teem on account of your employment,* as 
you seemed to apprehend that you might. 
It is an elegant one, and, when you speak 
modestly, as you do, of your proficiency in 
it, I am far from giving you entire credit for 
the whole assertion. I had indeed supposed 
you a person of independent fortune, who 
had nothing to do but to gratify him.se)f; 
and whose mind, being happily addicted to 
literature, was at full leisure to enjoy its in- 
nocent amusement. But it seems I was mis- 
taken, and your time is principally due to an 
art which has :i right pretty much to engross 
your attention, and which gives rather the 
air of an intrigue to your intercourse and 
familiarity with the muses than a lawful con- 
nexion. No matter : I am not prudi.sh in this 
respect, but honor you the more for a passion, 
virtuous and laudable in itself; and which 
you indulge not, I dare say, without benefit 
to yourself and your acquaintance. I, for 
one, am likely to reap the fruit of your 
amours, and ought therefore, to be one of 
the last to quarrel with them. 

You are in danger, I perceive, of thinking 
of me more highly than you ought to think. 

* Mezzotinto encrravini?. Mr. Park, in early youth, fluc- 
tuated, in the choico between the sister art's of poetry, 
music, and paintinj^, and composed the following lines to 
record the result. 

By fancy warm'd, I sciz*d the quill, 

And poetry the strain inspir'd ; 
Music improv'd it by her skill. 

Till I with both their charms was flr'd. 

Won by the graces each display'd. 

Their younser sister 1 forgot ; 
Though first to her my vows were paid, — 

Uy fate or choice it matters not. 

She, jealous of their rival powers. 

And to repay the injury done, 
CondcmaM me through life's future hours, 

All to admire, but wed with none. 

T. P. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



391 



I am not one of the literati, among whom 
you -seem disposed to place ine. Far from 
it. I told you in my last how heinously I 
am unprovided with the means of being so, 
havini,' long since sent all my books to 
market. My learning accordingly lies in a 
very narrow compass. It is school-boy learn- 
ing somewhat improved, and very little more. 
J'rom the age of twenty to twenty-three, I 
was occupied, or ought to have been, in the 
study of the law. From thirly-three to sixty 
I have spent my time in the country, where 
my reading has been only an apology for 
idleness, and where, when I had not either a 
magazine or a review in my hand, 1 was some- 
times a carpenter, at others a birdcage maker, 
or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. 
At fifty years of age I commenced an author. 
It is a whim that has served me longest and 
best, and which will probably be my last. 

Thus you see I have had viTy little oppor- 
tunity to become what is ])roperty called — 
harncd. In truth, liaving given myself so 
entirely of late to poetry, I am not sorry for 
this deficiency, since great learning, I have 
been sometimes inclined to suspect, is rather 
a hindrance to the fancy than a furtherance. 

You will do me a favor by sending me a 
copy of Thomson's monumental inscription. 
He was a poet, for whose memory, as you 
justly suppose, I have great respect; in com- 
mon, indeed, with all who have ever read him 
with taste and attention. 

Wishing you heartily success in your pres- 
ent literary undertaking and in all profes- 
sional ones, I remain. 

Dear sir, with great esteem. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

P. S. After what I have said, I will not 
blush to confess, that I am at present per- 
fectly unacquainted with the merits of Drnm- 
mond,* but shall bo happy to see him in due 
time, as I should be to see see any author 
edited by yuu. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston. Mnrch II, I7W. 
My dear Johnny, — You talk of primroses 
that you pulled on Candlemas-day ; but what 
think you of me that heard a nightingale on 
new-year"s day ? Perhaps I am the ordy man 
in England who can boast of such good for- 
tune : good indeed, for if it was at all an 
omen it could not be an unfavorable one. 
The winter, however, is now making himself 

* Drummond, an elegant ^^tti.ih poet, born in 1385. 
His works. llnMiyh not free from thu conceits ol' the 
Italian .S;liitol, are cliaracterised by much delicacy of 
taste and leelinjr. There is a peculiar melody and sweet- 
nes.s in his verse, and hid sonnets particularly have pro- 
cured for him a fame, which has survived to the present 
time. An edition of his I'oems was published in 17Ui, 
by Cowper's correspondent, Mr. Park. 



amends, and seems the more peevish for hav- 
ing been encroached on at so undue a season. 
Notliing less than a large slice out of the 
spring will s.atisfy him. 

Lady Hesketli left us yesterday. She in- 
tended to have left us four days sooner ; but 
in the evening befin-e the day fixed for her 
departure, snow enough fell to occasion just 
so much delay of it. 

We have faint hopes that in the month of 
May we shall see her again. I know that 
you have had a letter from her, and you will 
no doubt have the grace not to make her 
wait long for an answer. 

We expect Mr. Rose on Tuesday ; but he 
stays with us only till the Saturday follow- 
ing. With him I shall have some conferen- 
ces on the subject of Homer, respecting a 
new edition I mean, and some perhaps on 
the subject of Milton ; on him I have not 
yet begun to comment, or even fix the time 
when I shall. 

Forget not your promised visit ! 

W. C. 

We add the verses composed by Cowper 
on the extraordinary incident mentioned at 
the beginning of the preceding letter. 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD 

ON new-year's day, 1793. 

Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear, 

From yonder wither'd spray, 
This foremost morn of all the year, 

The melody of May ■? 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favor shown, 
Am I selected from the crowd, 

To witness it alone ? 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to mc, 

For that I also long 
Have practis'd in the groves like thee, 

Though not like thee, in song. 

Or sing'st thou rather under force 

Of some divine comiuand, 
Coinmission'd to presage a course 

Of happier days at hand ! 

Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 

And joyless year have I, 
As thou to-day. put forth my song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

But thee no wintry skies can harm. 

Who only need'st to sing, 
To make e'en January charm, 

And ev'ry season spring. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Weston, March Its 17M. 

My dear Friend, — We are now once more 
reduced to our dual state, h.aving lost our 
* Private correspondence. 



392 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



neighbors at the Hall and ouv inmate Lady 
Hesketh. Mr. Rose indeed, has spent two 
or three days here, and is still with us, but 
lie leaves us in the afternoon. There are 
those in the world wliora we love, and whom 
we are happy to see ; but we are happy like- 
wise in eaeh other, and so far independent 
of our fellow mortals as to be able to pass 
our time comfortably without them : — as com- 
fortably, at least, as Mrs., Unwin's frequent 
indispositions, and my no less frequent trou- 
bles of mind, will permit. When I am much 
distressed, any company but hers distresses 
me more, and makes me doubly sensible of 
my sutferings, though sometimes, I confess, 
it falls out otherwise ; and, by the help of 
more general conversation, I recover that 
elasticity of mind which is able to resist the 
pressure. On the whole, I believe I am situ- 
ated exactly as I should wish to be, were my 
situation to be determined by my own election ; 
and am denied no comfort that is compatible 
with the total absence of the chief of all. 
Adieu, my dear friend, 

I remain, aifectionately yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE EEV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weslon, March 23, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — I have read your play care- 
fully, and with great pleasure : it seems now 
to be a performance that cannot fail to do 
you much credit. Yet, unless my memory 
deceives me, the scene between Cecilia and 
Heron in the garden has lost something that 
pleased me mucli when I saw it first ; and I 
am not sure that you have not likewise ob- 
literated an account of Sir Thomas's execu- 
tion, that I found very pathetic. It would 
be strange if, in these two particulars, I 
should seem to miss wliat never existed ; you 
will presently know whether I am as good at 
remembering what I never saw as I am at 
forgetting what I have seen. But if I am 
right, I cannot help recommending the omit- 
ted passages to your re-consideration. If 
the play were designed for representation, I 
should be apt to think Cecilia's first speech 
rather too long, and should prefer to have it 
brolicn into dialogue, by an interposition now 
and then from one of her sisters. But, 
since it is designed, as I understand, for the 
closet only, that objection seems of no im- 
poi'tance ; at no rate, however, would I ex- 
punge it, because it is both prettily imagined 
and elegantly written. 

I have read your cursory remarks, and am 
much pleased both with the style and the 
argument. Whether the latter be new or 
not I am not competent to judge : if it be, 
you are entitled to much praise for the in- 
vention of it. Where other data are want- 
ing to ascertain the time when an author of 



many pieces wrote each in p.irticular, there 
can be no better criterion by which to de- 
termine the point than the more or less pro- 
ficiency manifested in the composition. Of 
this proficiency, where it appears, and of 
those plays in which it appears not, you seem 
to have judged well and truly, and, conse- 
quently, I approve of your arrangement. 

I attended, as you desired me, in reading 
the character of Cecilia, to the hint you gave 
me concerning your sister Sally, and give 
you joy of such a sister. This, however, not 
exclusively of the rest, for, though they may 
not all be Cecilias, I have a strong persuasion 
that they are all very amiable. W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, March 25, 1-92. 
My dearest Coz., — Jlr. Rose's longer stay 
than he at first intended was the occasion oi' 
the longer delay of my answer to your note, 
as you may both have perceived by the date 
thereof, and learned from his information. 
It was a daily trouble to me to see it lying 
in the window-seat, while I knew you were 
in expectation of its arrival. By this time I 
presume you have seen him, and have seen 
likewise Mr. Hayley's friendly letter and com- 
plimentary sonnet, as well as the letter of 
the honest Quaker; all of which, at least 
the two former, I shall be glad to receive 
again at a foir opportunity. Mr. Hayley's 
letter slept six weeks in Johnson's custody.* 
It was necessary that I should answer it 
without delay, and accordingly I answered it 
the very evening on which I received it, giv- 
ing him to understand, among other things, 
how much vexation the bookseller's folly had 
cost me, who had detained it so long : espe- 
cially on account of the distress that I knew 
it must have occasioned to him also. From his 
reply, which the return of the post brought 
me, I learn that in the long interval of my 
non-correspondence, he had suffered anxiety 
and mortification enough ; so much, that I 
dare say he made twenty vows never to haz- 
ard again either letter or compliment to an 
unknown author. What, indeed, could he 
imagine less than that I meant by such an 
obstinate silence to tell him that I valued 
neither him nor his praises, nor his prolTered 
friendship ; in short, that I considered him as 
a rival, and therefore, like a true author, 
hated and despised him ? He is now, how- 
ever, convinced that I love him, as indeed I 

* We have already stated that Hayley was engaged in 
a life of Milton, when Cowper was announced as editor 
of Johnson's projected work. With a generosity that re- 
llects the hif^hest credit on his feelings, he addressed a 
letter on this occasion to Cowper, accompanied by a com- 
plimentary sonnet, and olTering his kind aid in any way 
that mitilit prove most acceptable. The letter was en- 
trusted to the bookseller, who delayed transmitting it 
six weeks, and thereby created great anxiety in Hayley's 
mind. 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



393 



do, and I account him the chief acquisition 
that my own verse has ever procured me. 
Brute sliould I be if I did not, lor he prom- 
ises me every assistance in liis power. 

I have lilu'wise a very pleasing letter from 
Jlr. Park, which I wisli you were here to 
read ; and a very jileasing poem that came 
enclosed in it for my revisal, WTitten when lie 
was only twenty years of age, yet wonder- 
fully Weil written, though wanting some cor- 
rection. 

To Mr. Hurdis I return Sir Thomas More 
to-morrow, having revised it a second time. 
He is now a very respectable figure, and will 
do my friend, who gives him to the public 
this spring, considerable credit. W. C. 



saying all this to you, whose proper function 
is not" that of a poet, but I say it, trusting to 
yimr prudence, that you will not suffer it to 
seduce you. 

I have not the edition of Milton's juvenile 
poems which you mention, but shall be truly 
glad to see it, and thank you for the oiler. 

No possible way occurs to me of return- 
ing your MS. but by the Welliugborougli 
coach ; by that conveyance, tlierefore, I shall 
send it on Monday, and my remarks, rougli 
as I made them, shall accompany it. 

Believe me, with much sincerity, 

Yours, " W. C. 



TO THOMAS PAKK, ESQ. 

Weaton-rndiTWOoil, March 30, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — If you have indeed so favor- 
able an opinion of my judgment as you pro- 
fess, which I shall not allow myself to ques- 
tion, you will think highly and honorably of 
your poem,* for so I think of it. The view 
you give of the place that you describe is 
dear and distinct, the sentiments are just, the 
reflections touching, and the numbers uncom- 
monly h.armonious. I give you joy of having 
been able to produce, at twenty years of age, 
what would not have disgraced you at a 
much Later period ; and, if you choose to 
print it, have no doubt that it will do you 
great credit. 

You will perceive, however, when you re- 
ceive your copy again, that I have used all 
the liberty you gave me. I have proposed 
manv alterations ; but you will consider them 
as only jiroposed. My lines are by no means 
obtruded on you, but are ready to give place 
to any that you shall choose to substitute of 
your own composing. They will serve at 
least to mark the passages which seem to me 
susceptible of improvement, and the manner 
in which I think the change may be made. I 
hSive not always, seldom, indeed, given my 
reasons; but without a reason I have altered 
nothing, .ind the decision, as I say, is left 
with you in the last instance. Time failed 
me to be particular and explicit always, in 
accounting for my .strictures, and I assured 
myself that you would impute none of them 
to an arbitrary humiu-, but all to their true 
cause — a desire to discharge faithfully the 
trust committed to me. 

I camiot but ;uid, I think it a pity that you, 
who have evidently such talents for poetry, 
should be so loudly called another w.ay, and 
want leisure to cultivate them, for if such 
was the l)iul, what might we not have ex- 
pected to see in tju> full-blown Hower ! Pcr- 
liaps, liowever, I%m not quite prudent in 

• A juvpnilc ofTfriiii,' of emtitiule to tlie place where 
tlie writer hud received his educutiun. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, March 30, 1792. 
My de.ar Friend, — My mornings, ever since 
you went, have been given to my corre- 
spondents; this morning I have already writ- 
ten a long letter to Mr. Park, giving my 
opinion of his poem, which is a favorable 
one. I forget whether I showed it to you 
when you were here, and even whether I had 
then received it. He has genius and delicate 
taste ; and, if he were not an engraver, might 
be one of our first hands in poetry. 

W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

The Lodge, April 5, 1*92. 

You talk, my dear friend, as John Buny,an 
says, ''like one that has the egg-shell still 
upon his head." You talk of the mighty 
favors that you have received from me, and 
forget entirely those for which I nm indebted 
to you ; but though you forget them, I shall 
not, nor ever think th.at I have requited you, 
so long .as any opportunity presents itself of 
rendering you the smallest service; small 
indeed is all that I can ever hope to render. 

You now perceive, and sensibly, that not 
without reason I complained, as 1 use to do, 
of those tiresome rogues, the printers. Bless 
yourself that you h.ave not two thick quartos 
to bring forth, .as I had. My ve.xation was 
always much increased by this reflection — 
they are every day, and all day long, em- 
ployed in printing for somebody, and why 
not f<ir me ; This was adding mortification 
to disappointment, so that I often lost all 
patience. 

The suffrage of Dr. Robertson makes 
more than amends for the scurvy jest passed 
upon me by the wag unknown. I regard 
him not: nor, except for about two moments 
after I first heard of his doings, have I ever 
regarded him. I have somewhere a secret 
enemy ; I know not for what cause he should 
be so, but he, I imagine, supposes that he has 
a cause : it is well, however, to h.ave but 



394 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



one ; and I will take all the care I can not to 
increase the number. 

I have begun my notes, and am playing 
the commentator manfully. The worst of it 
is tliat I am anticipated in almost all my op- 
portunities to sliine by those who have gone 
before me. W. C. 



The following letter is the commencement 
of Cowper's correspondence with Hayley, 
originating in the circumstances already de- 
tailed to tiic reader. 

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, AprU 6, 1792. 
Jly dear Friend, — God grant that this 
friendship of ours may be a comfort to us 
all the rest of our days, in a world where true 
friendships are rarities, and, especially where 
suddenly formed, they arc apt soon to ter- 
minate ! But, as I said before, I feel a dis- 
position of heart toward you that I never felt 
for one whom I had never seen, and that 
shall prove itself, I trust, in the event, a pro- 
pitious omen. 

Horace says somewhere, though I may 
quote it amiss, perhaps, for I have a terrible 
memory, 

" Utrumque nostrum incredibili modo 
Consentit astrum." 

. . . Our stars consent, at least have had 
an influence somewhat similar, in another 
and more important article. . . . 

It gives me the sincerest pleasure that I 
may hope to see you at Weston ; for, as to 
any migrations of mine, they must, I fear, 
notwithstanding the joy I should feel in be- 
ing a guest of yours, be still considered in 
tlie light of impossibilities. Come, then, my 
friend, and be as welcome (as the country 
people say here) as the flowers in May ! I 
am happy, as I say, in expectation; but the 
fear, or rather the consciousness, that I shall 
not answer on a nearer view, makes it a 
trembling kind of happiness and a doubtful. 

After the privacy whicli I Iiave mentioned 
above, I went to Huntingdon ; soon after my 
arrival there, I took up my quarters at the 
house of the Rev. Mr. Unwin ; I lived witli 
him while he lived, and ever since his death 
have lived witli his widow. Her, therefore, 
vou will find mistress of the house ; and I 
judge of you amis.s, or you will find her just 
such as you would wish. To me slie has 
been often a nurse, and invariably the kind- 
est friend, through a thousand adversities 
tliat I have liad to grapple with iu the course 
of almost thirty years. I thought it better 
to introduce her to you thus, than to present 
her to you at your coming, quite a stranger. 

Bring with you any boolcs that you think 



may be useful to my commentatorship, for, 
with you for an interpreter, I shall be afraid 
of none of them. And, in truth, if you think 
th.at you shall want them, you must bring 
books for your own use also, for they are an 
article with which I am heinously unprovided : 
being much in the condition of the man whose 
library Pope describes as 

" No mighty store ! 
His own works neatly bound, and little more !" 

You shall know how this has come to pass 
hereafter. 

Tell me, my friend, are your letters in your 
own hand-writing? If so, I am in pain for 
your eyes, lest by such frequent demands 
upon them I .should hurt them. I had rather 
write you three letters for one, mucli as I 
prize your letters, than that should happen. 
And now, for the present, adieu, — I am going 
to accompany Milton into the lake of lire 
and brimstone, having just begun my an- 
notations. W. C. 



TO THE KEV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weslon, April 8, 1T92. 

My dear Sir, — Your entertaining and 
pleasiint letter, resembling in that respect all 
tliat I receive from you, deserved a more e.\- 
peditious answer, and sliould liave had what 
it so well deserved, had it not reached me at 
a time when, deeply in debt to all my corre- 
spondents, I had letters to write without 
number. Like autumnal leaves that strew 
the brooks in Vallombrosa, the unanswered 
farrago Kay before me. If I quote at all, you 
must e.\pect me henceforth to quote none but 
Milton, since for a long time to come I shall 
be occupied with him only. 

I was much pleased with the extract you 
gave me from your sister Eliza's letter ; she 
writes very elegantly, and (if I might say it 
without seeming to tiatter you) I .should say 
much in the manner of her brother. It is 
well for your sister Sally that gloomy Dis is 
already a married man, else perhaps finding 
her, as he found Proserpine, studying botany 
in the fields, he might transport her to his 
own flowerless abode, where all her hopes of 
improvement in tlmt science would be at an 
end forever. 

What letter of the 10th December is that 
which you say you have not yet answered ? 
Consider, it is April now, and I never remem- 
ber anything that I write half so long. But 
perhaps it relates to Calchas, for I do re- 
meml)er that you have not yet furnished me 
with the secret history of him and his family, 
which I demanded from y^. 

Adieu ! Yours most sincerely, 

W. C. 



I rejoice that you are so well with the 
learned Bishop of Saruin,* and well remem- 
ber how he ferreted the vermin Lauderf out 
of all his hidings, when 1 was a. boy at West- 
minster. 

I have not yet studied with your last re- 
marks before me, but hope soon to find an 
opportunity. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.^ 

Weston, April 15, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — I thank you for your re- 
mittmce ; which, to use the language of a 
song much in use when we were boys, 

" .\Jds fresh beauties to the spring, 
And makes all nature look more gay." 

What the author of the song had particularly 
in view when he thus sang, I know not ; but 
probably it was not the sum of fifty pounds : 
which, as probably, he never had the happi- 
ness to possess. It was, most probably, 
some beautiful nymph, — beautiful in his eyes, 
at least, — who lias long since become an old 
woman. 

I have heard about my wether mutton from 
various quarters. First, from a sensible little 
man, curate of a neighboring village :) then 
from Walter Bagot; then from Henry 
Cowper ; and now from you. It was a blun- 
der hardly pardonable in a man who has 
lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by 
sheep, almo.st these thirty years. I have ac- 
cordingly satirized myself in two stanzas 
which 1 composed last night, when I lay 
awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed 
with laudaimm. If you fnid them not very 
brilliant, therefore, you will know how to 
account for it. 

Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse 

If, bound in rhyming tethers, 
He had committed this abuse 

Of changing ewes for wethers ; 

But male for female is a trope. 

Or rather bold misnomer. 
That would have starlleil even Pope 

When he translated Homer. 

Having translated all the Latin and Italian 
Miltonics, I was proceeding merrily with a 
Commentary on the Paradise Lost, when 1 
was seized, a week since, with a most tor- 
menting disorder; which has qualified me, 
however, to make some very feeling obser- 
vations on that passage, when I shall come 
to it : 

'■ III fare our ancestor impure !" 

For this we may tiiank Adam ; — and you 

♦ Dr. Doiigla.s. 

t Lnuder endeavored lo depreciate Uio Dimo of MiUon 
by a clmrgc of plujiarisTii. Dr. Dougliis sucCL's.-lully vin- 
dicated tlie creal poi'l from bucIi an imputation, and 
proved Hint it wiia a srosa tiction on llic part of Lauder. 

J Private correspondunce. 

\ The Kev. Johu Buchanan. 



may thank him, too, that I am not able to fill 
my sheet, nor endure a writing posture any 
lotiger. I conclude abruptly, therefore, but 
sincerely subscribing myself, with my best 
compliments to Mrs. Hill, 

Your atTectionate, W. C. 



TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Weston, April 16, 1793. 

My dear Lady Frog, — I thank you for your 
letter, as sweet as it was short, and as sweet 
as good news could make it. You encourage 
a hope that has made me happy ever since I 
have entertained it. And if my wishes can 
hasten the event, it will not be long sus- 
pended.* As to your jealousy, I mind it not, 
or only to be pleased with it ; I shall say no 
more on the subject at present than this, that 
of all ladies living, a certain lady, whom I 
need not name, would be the lady of my 
choice for a certain gentleman, were the 
whole se.\ submitted to my election. 

What a delightful anecdote is that which 
you tell me of a young lady detected in the 
very act of stealing our Catharina's praises; 
is it possible that she can survive the shame, 
the mortification of such a discovery ! Can 
she ever see the same company again, or any 
company that she can suppose, by the re- 
motest possibility, may ha\c heard the tid- 
ings ? If she can, she must have an assur- 
ance equal to her vanity. A lady in London 
stole my song on the broken Rose, or rather 
would have stolen and have passed it for her 
own. But she too was unfortunate in her 
attempt ; for there happened to be a female 
cousin of mine in company, who knew that 
I had written it. It is very flattering to a 
poet's pride that the ladies sliould thus 
hazard everything for the sake of appropriat- 
ing his verses. 1 may say with Milton tliat 
I am fallen on evil lun^ims, and evil days, be- 
ing not only plundered of that which belongs 
to me, but being charged with that which 
does not. Thus it seems (and I have learned 
it from more quarters than one) that a report 
is, iind has been sometime, current in this 
and the neighboring counties, that, though 
I have given myself the air of declaiming 
against the Sla\e Trade in " The Task," I 
am in reality it friend to it ; and last night I 
received a letter from Joe Rye, to inform me 
that I have been much traduced and calum- 
niated on this account. Not knowing how 
I could better or more effectually refute the 
scandal, I have this morning sent a copy 
to the Northampton paper, prefaced by a 
short letter to the printer, specifying the oe- 
e;ision. The verses are in honor of Mr. 
Wilberforce, and sufficiently expressive of 

• Tlie prospect of a mnrria«e between Miss Staplelon, 
the Cath;u-ina of Cowper, and Mr. Cuurtenuy, Sir Johu 
Throckmorton's brother. 



396 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



my present sentiments on the subject. You 
are a wicked fair one for disappointing us of 
our expected visit, and therefore, out of mere 
spite, 1 will not insert them. I have been 
very ill these ten days, and for the same 
spite's sake will not tell you what has ailed 
me. But, lest you should die of a fright, I 
will have the mercy to tell you th.at I am re- 
covering. 

Jlrs. GifTord and her little ones are gone, 
but your brother is still here. He told me 
that he had some expectations of Sir John at 
Weston; if he come, I shall most heartily re- 
joice once moi'o to see him at a table so many 
years his own. W. C. 

We subjoin the verses addressed to Mr. 
Wilberforce, intended to vindicate Cowper 
from the charge of lukewarmness in such a 



TO WILLIAM WILBEBFOBCE, ESd. 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 
Hears thee by cruel men and impious, call'd 
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthralfd 
From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. 
Friend of the poor, the wronur'd, the fetter-gall'd, 
Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain ! 
Thou hast achiev'd a part, hast gain'd the ear 
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : [pause 
Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution 
And weave delay, the better hour is near, 
That shall remunerate thy toils severe 
By peace for Afric, I'enc'd with British laws. 
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth and all the blest above ! 



In detailing the incidents that occur in the 
life of Cowper, we ha\e just recorded a ma- 
levolent report, highly injurious to his integ- 
rity and honor. In order to recall the fact 
to the memory of the reader, we insert the 
statement itself, in the words of Cowper : 
" A report is, and has been some time cur- 
rent, in this and the neighboring counties, 
that, though I have given myself the air of 
declaiming against the slave trade in 'The 
Task,' I am in reality a friend to it ; and last 
night I received a letter from Joe Rye, to in- 
form me; that I have been much traduced and 
calumniated on this account." 

That the author of " The Task," a poem 
distinguished by its tone of pure and elevated 
morality, and breathing a spirit of most un- 
compromising hostility against the slave trade 
— that such a man, at that time in the very 
zenith of his tame, should be publicly accused 
of favoring the very cause which lie had so 
eloquently denounced, is one of those circum- 
stances which, for the honor of human nature, 
we could wish not to have been compelled to 
record. 

With this painful fact before us, we would 



ask, what is popularity, and what wise man 
would attach value to so fleeting a posses- 
sion 1 It is a gleam of sunshine, which em- 
bellishes for a moment the object on which it 
falls, and then vanishes away. In the course 
of a life not passed without observation, we 
h.ave had occasion to remark, in the political, 
the literary, and even in the religious world, 
tlie evanescent character of popular favor. 
Wo have seen men alternately caressed and 
deserted, praised and censured, and made to 
feel the vanity of humiiu applause and ad- 
miration. The idol of to-day is dethroned 
by the idol of to-morrow, which, in its turn, 
yields to the dominion of some more favored 
rival. 

The wisdom of God evidently designs, by 
these events, to check the thirst for human 
praise and distinction, by showing us the pre- 
carious tenure by which they are held. We 
are thus admonished to examine our motives, 
and to bo assured of the integrity of our in- 
tentions ; neither to despise public favor, nor 
yet to overvalue it; but to preserve that calm 
and equable temper of mind, and tliat full 
consciousness of the rectitude of our princi- 
jiles, that we may learn to enjoy it without 
triumph, or to lose it without dejection. 

" Henceforth 
Thy patron He whose diadem has dropp'd 
Yon gems of heaven ; eternity thy prize ; 
And leave the racers of this world their own." 

The reader will be amused in finding the 
origin of the injurious report above men- 
tioned disclosed in the following letter. 
Mr. Rye was unjustly supposed to h.ave 
aided in propagating this misconception ; but 
Cowper fully vindicates him from such a 
charge. 

TO THE REV. J. JEKTLL RYE.'" 

Weston, .4pril 16, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — I am truly sorry that you 
should have suffered any apprehensions, such 
as your letter indicates, to molest you for a 
moment. I believe you to be as honest a man 
as lives, and consequently do not believe it 
possible that you could in your letter to Mr. 
Pitts, or any otherwi.se, wilfully misrepresent 
me. In fact you did not ; my opinions on 
the subject in question were, when 1 h.nd the 
pleasure of seeing you, such as in that letter 
you stated them to be, and such they still 
continue. 

If any man concludes, because I allow ray- 
self the" use of sugar and rum, that therefore 
I am a friend to the slave triiJe, he concludes 
rashly, and does me gre.it wrong; for the man 
lives'notwho abhors it more than I do. My 
reasons for my own practice are satisfactory 
to myself, and they whose practice is contra- 
ry, are, I suppose, satisfied with theirs. So 
* Vicar of Dalington, near Nortliamplon. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



397 



fir is good. Let every man act accordinj^ to 
his own judgment and conscionee ; but if we 
condemn anotlier for not seeing with our 
eyes, we are unreasonable; and if we re- 
proai-li liim on that account, we are unchari- 
talile. which is a still greater evil. 

I had heard, before I received the favor of 
yours, that such a report of me as you men- 
tion had spread about the country. But my 
information told me that it was founded 
thus — Tiie people of Olney petitioned jjarlia- 
ment for the abolition — My name was sought 
among the subscribers, but was not found. 
A question was asked, how that happened I 
Answer was made, that I had once indeed 
been an enemy to the slave trade, but had 
changed my mind, for that, having lately read 
a history, or an account of Africa, I had seen 
it tliere asserted, that till the commencement 
of that traffic, the negroes, multiplying at a 
prodigious rate, were necessitated to devour 
each other; for which reason I had judged It 
better that tlie trade should continue, than 
that they should be again reduced to so hor- 
rid a custom. 

Now all this is a fable. I have read no 
such history; I never in my hfe read any 
sucli assertion: nor, had such an assertion 
presented itself to me, should I have drawn 
any such conclusion from it. On the contra- 
ry, bad as it were, I think it would be better 
the negroes sliould even cat one another, 
than that we should carry them to market. 
The single reason why I did not sign the 
petition was, because I was never asked to 
do it ; and the reason why I was never 
asked was, because I am not a parishioner 
of Olney. 

Thus stands the matter. You will do me 
the justice, I dare say, to speak of me as of 
a man wlio abhors the commerce, which is 
now, I hope, in a fair way to be abolislied, 
as often as you shall find occasion. And I 
beg you henceforth to do yourself the just- 
ice to believe it impossible th.at I should, for 
a moment, suspect you of duplicity or mis- 
representation. 1 have been grossly slan- 
dered, but neither by you, nor in conse- 
quence of anythmg that you have cither said 
or WTitten. I remain, therefore, still, as 
heretofore, with great respect, 7mich and tru- 
ly yours, W. C. 

Mrs. Unwiu's compliments attend you. 

Cowper, on this occasion, addressed the 
following letter to the editors of the .Vor(/i- 
nmplon 3/prc«n/, enclosing the verses on Jlr. 
Wilberforce which have just been inserted. 

TO THE PRINTERS OF THE NORTHAMPTON 
MERCURY. 
Wesloii-Underwood, April 16, 1705. 
Sir*, — Having lately learned that it is pret- 
ty geuenlly npurted, both in your county 



and in this, that my present opinion, concern- 
ing the slave trade, differs totally from that 
which I have heretofore given to the public, 
and tliat I am no longer an enemy, but ;'. 
friend to that horrid trallic ; I entreat you ti^ 
take an early ojiportunity to insert in your 
paper the fullowing lines,* written no longer 
since than this very morning, expressly for 
tlie two purposes of doing just honor to the 
gentleman with whose name tliey are in- 
scribed, and of vindicating myself from an as- 
persion so injurious. 

I am, &,c., W. Cowper. 

The last two lines in the sonnet, addressed 
to Mr. Wilberforce, were originally thus ex- 
pressed : — 

Then let them scoff", two prizes thou hast won ; 
Freedom for captives, and thy God's " Well 
done. ' 

These were subsequently altered as fol- 
low : 

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all Itic just on earth and all the lilost above. 

Cowper's version of Homer, which has 
formed so freq\ient a subject in the preced- 
ing pages, led to a public discussion, in which 
the interests of literature and the success of 
his own undertaking were deeply concerned. 
The question agitated was the relative merits 
of rhyme and blank verse, in undertaking a 
translation of that great poet. Johnson, the 
gi'eat dictator in the republic of letters, in his 
predilection for rhyme, had almost proscribed 
the use of blank verse in poetical composi- 
tion. "Poetry," he observes, in his life of 
Milton, " may subsist without rhyme ; but 
English poetry will not please, nor can rhyme 
ever be safely spared, but wdiere the subject 
is able to support itself Blank verse makes 
some approach to that which is called the 
lapidary style; h.is neither the easiness of 
prose, nor the melody of numbers; and there- 
fore tires by long continuance. Of the Italian 
writers without rliyme, whom Milton alleges 
as precedents, not one is popular. What 
rea^<on could urge in its defence, has been 
confuted by the ear." 

Johnson, however, makes an exception in 
the instance of Milton. 

" But, whatever bo the advantages of 
rhyme," he add.*, " I cannot prevail on my- 
self to wish that .Milton had been a rhymer : 
for I cannot wish his work to be other than 
it is; yet, like other heroes, he is to be ad- 
mired rather than imitated. He that thinks 
himself capable of astonishing, may write 
blank verse ; but those that hope only to 
please must condescend to rhyme." 

In his critique on the " Night Thoughts," 
he makes a similar concession. " Tliis is one 

♦ rice pnge 30G. 



398 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of the few poems in which blank verse eoukl 
not be changed for rhyme but with disad- 
vantage. The wild diffusion of the senti- 
ments, and the digressive sallies of imagina- 
tion, would have been compressed and con- 
strained by confinement to rhyme.'"* 

Cowper, it will be remembered, questions 
the correctness of Johnson's taste on this 
subject, and vindicates tlie force and majesty 
of blank verse with mucli weight of argu- 
ment. With respect, however, to the im- 
portant question, how a translation of Homer 
might be best executed, his sentiments are 
delivered so much at large in the admirable 
prefwe to liis version of the Iliad, that we 
shall lay a few extracts from it before the 
reader. 

" Wliether a translation of Homer," he re- 
marks, " may be best executed in blank verse 
or in rhyme, is a question in the decision of 
which no man can find difficulty, who has 
ever duly considered what translation ought 
to be, or who is in any degree practically 
acquainted with those very different kinds 
of versification. I will venture to assert, 
that a just translation of .any ancient poet in 
rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity 
can be equal to the task of closing every 
couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing 
at tlie same time the full sense, and only the 
full sense, of his original. The translator's 
ingenuity, indeed, in tliis case, becomes itself 
a snare : and the readier he is at invention 
and expedient, the more likely he is to be 
betrayed into the widest departure from the 
guide whom he professes to follow." 

It was this acknowledged defect in Pope, 
that led Cowper to engage in his laborious 
undertaking of producing a new version. 

We admire the candor with which lie ap- 
preciates the merits of Pope's translation, 
and yet we cannot refuse to admit the just^ 
ness of his strictures. 

" I have no contest," he observes, " with 
my predecessor. None is supposable be- 
tween performers on different instruments. 
Mr. Pope has surmounted all difficulties in 
his version of Homer that it was possible to 
surmount in rhyme. But he was fettered, 
and his fetters were his choice." " He has 
given us the Tale, nf Troy divine in smooth 
verse, generally in correct and elegant lan- 
guage, and in diction often highly poetical. 
Bnt his deviations are so many, occasioned 
chiefly by the cause already mentioned, that, 
mucli as he has done, and valuable as his 
work is on some accounts, it was yet in 
the humble province of a translator, that I 
thought it possible even for me to follow him 
with soni" advantage." 

*'Young*s testimony in favor of bl:inli verse is tlius 
forciijiy, tliough rather pompously expressed : — 

" Biault verse is verse unfalten, tincursed ; verse re- 
claimed, re-enthroned in the true language of the gods." 
See Conjectures on Original Composition. 



What the reader may expect to discover 
in the two respective versions is thus de- 
scribed : — " The matter found in me, whether 
he like it or not, is found also in Homer ; 
and the matter not found in me, how much 
soever he may admire it, is only found in Mr. 
Pope. I have omitted nothing; I have in- 
vented nothing." " Fidelity is indeed the 
very essence of translation, and the term 
itself implies it. For which reason, if we 
suppress the sense of our original, and force 
into its place our own, we may call our work 
an imitation, if we please, or perhaps a para- 
fhrase, but it is no longer the same author 
only in a different dress, and therefore it is 
not a translation." 

After dwelling upon the merits and defects 
of the free and the close translation, and ob- 
serving that the former can hardly be true to 
the original author's style and manner, and 
that the latter is apt to be servile, he thus 
declares his view of the subject: — "On the 
whole, the translation which partakes equally 
of fidelity and liberality, that is close, but 
not so close as to be servile ; free, but not 
so free as to be licentious, promises fu'rci^t; 
and my ambition will be sufficiently gratified, 
if such of my readers as are able and will 
take the pains to compare me in tliis respect 
with Homer, shall jutlge that I have in any 
measure attained a point so difficult." 

He concludes his excellent preface with 
these interesting w-ords : — 

" And now I have only to regret that my 
pleasant work is ended. To the illustrious 
Greek I owe the smooth and easy flight of 
many thousand hours. He has been my 
companion at home and abroad, in the study, 
in the garden, and in the field; and no meas- 
ure of success, let my labors succeed as tliey 
may, will ever compensate to me the loss of 
tlie innocent luxury that I have enjoyed as a 
translator of Homer." 

Having thus endeavored to do ju.stice to 
the e.xcellent preface of Cowper, we have re- 
served an interesting correspondence, which 
passed between Lord Thurlow and Cowper 
on this subject, and now introduce it to the 
notice of the reader. It is without date. 

TO THE LORD THUKLOW. 

Jly Lord, — A letter reached me yesterday 
from Henry Cowper, enclosing another from 
your lordship to himself: of which a pas- 
sage in my work formed the subject. It 
gave me the greatest pleasure : your stric- 
tures ai-e perfectly just, and here follows the 
speech of Achilles accommodated to them. 

I did not expect to find your lordship on 
the side of rhyme, remembering well with 
how much energy and interest I h.ave lieard 
you repeat passages from the "Paradise 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



399 



Lost," wliifli you could not have recited as 
yon dill, unless you had been [lerfectly sen- 
sible of their music. It comforts me, there- 
fore, to know that if you h.ive an ear for 
rhyme, you have an ear ("or blank verse also. 

It seems to me that I may justly complain 
of rhyme as an inconvenience in tr.anslation, 
even though I assert in the sequel that to 
me it has been easier to rhyme than to write 
without, because I always suppose a rhym- 
ing translator to ramble, and always obliged 
to do so. Yet I allow your lordsliip's ver- 
sion of this speech of Achilles to be very 
close, and closer much than mine. But I 
believe that, should either your lordship or I 
give them burnish or clcv.ation, your lines 
would be found, in measure as they acquired 
statelines.s, to have lost the merit of fidelity — 
in which case nothing more would be done 
than Pope has done already. 

I cannot ask your lordship to proceed in 
your strictures, though I should be happy to 
receive more of them. Perhaps it is pos- 
sible that when you retire into the country, 
yon may now and then amuse yourself with 
my translation. Should your remarks reach 
me, I promise faithfully that they shall be all 
mo.st welcome, not only as yours, but be- 
cause I am sure my work will be the better 
for them. 

With sincere and fervent wishes for your 
lordship's healtli and happiness, I remain, 
my lord, &c. W. C. 

— ^ — 

The following is Lord Thurlow's reply : — 

TO WILLIAM C»WPER, ESQ. 

Dear Cowper, — On coming to town this 
morning, I was surprised particularly at re- 
ceiving from you an answer to a scrawl I 
sent Harry, which I have forgot too much to 
resume now. But I think I could not mean 
to patronize rhyme. I have fancied that it 
was introduced to mark the measure in 
modern languages, because they are less 
numerous and metrical than the ancient, and 
the narae seems to import as much. Per- 
haps there was melody in ancient song with- 
out .straining it to musical notes, as the com- 
mon Greek pronunciation is said to have had 
the compass of live parts of an oct^ive. But 
surely that word is only figuratively applied 
to modern poetry. Euphony seems to be 
the higlu^t term it will bear. I have fancied 
also, that euphony is an impression derived 
a good deal from habit, rather than suggested 
by nature; therefore in some degree acci- 
dental, and consequently conventional. Else, 
why can't we bear a drama with rhyme, or 
the French, one without it 1 Suppose the 
" Rape of the Lock," " Windsor Forest," 
" L'Allegro," " II Penseroso," and many other 
little poems W'hich please, stripped of the 



rhyme, which might easily be done, would 
they please us as well ? It would bo unfair 
to tre.-it rondeaus, ballads, and odes in the 
same manner, because rhyme makes in some 
sort a ])art of the conceit. It was this way 
of thinking which made me suppose that 
h;d)itual prejudice would miss the rhyme; 
and that neither Dryden nor Pope would 
have dared to give their great authors in 
blank verse. 

I wondered to hear you say you thought 
rhyme easier in original compositions ; but 
yon explained it, that you could go further 
a-lield if you were pushed for w;^nt of a 
rhyme. An expression preferred for the 
sake of the rhyme looks as if it were worth 
more than you allow. But, to be sure, in 
translation, the necessity of rhyme imposes 
very heavy fetters upon those who mean 
translation, not paraphrase. Our common 
heroic metre is enough ; the pure iambic 
bearing only a sparing introduction of spon- 
dees, trochees, &c., to vary the measure. 

Mere translation I take to be impossible, 
if no metre were required. But the difl'er- 
ence of the iambic and heroic measure de- 
stroys that at once. It is also impossible to 
obtain the same sense from a dead language 
and an ancient author, which those of his 
own time and country conceived: words and 
phrases contract, from time and use, such 
strong shades of difl'erence from their origi- 
nal import. In a living language, with the 
familiarity of a whole life, it is not e.asy to 
conceive truly the actual sense of current 
expressions, much less of older authors. No 
two languages furnish equipollent words, — 
their phrases ditfer, their syntax and their 
idioms still more widely. But a translation, 
strictly so called, requires an exact conform- 
ity in all those particulars, and also in 
numbers ; therefore it is impossible. I really 
tliink at present, notwithstanding the opinion 
expressed in your preface, that a translator 
asks himself a good question, How would 
my author have expressed the sentence I am 
turning, in English, as literally and fully as 
the genius, and \ise, and character of the 
language wilUidmit of? 

In the passage before us, ami was the 
fondling expression of childhood to its pa- 
rent ; and to those who first translated the 
lines, conveyed feelinglv that amiable senti- 
ment, rioiiit expressed the reverence which 
naturally accrues to age. Am-pcpm implies 
an history. Hospitality was an article of re- 
ligion ; strausrers were supposed to be sent 
by God, and honored accordingly. Jove's 
altar was placed in (tvoloxciii'- Phoenix had 
been describing that as his situation in the 
court of Peleiis ; and his Aiorptifcs refers to it. 
But you must not translate that literally — 

Old daddy Phoenix, a God-send for us to main- 
tain. 



400 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



" Precious limbs," was at first an expression 
of great feeling, till vagabonds, draymen, &e., 
broiiglit upon it the character of coarseness 
and ridicule. 

It would run to great length, if I were to go 
tlu-ough this one speech thus — this is enough 
for an example of my idea, and to prove tlie 
necessity of farther deviation; which still is 
departing from the author, and justifiable only 
by strong necessity, such as should not be ad- 
mitted, till the sense of the original had been 
labored to the utmost and been found irre- 
ducible. 

I will end this by giving you the strictest 
translation I can invent, leaving you the dou- 
ble task of bringing it closer, and of polish- 
ing it into the style of poetry. 

Ah Phoinix, aged father, guest of Jove ! 
I relish no such honors ; for my hope 
Is to be honor'd by Jove's fated will, 
Which keeps me close beside these sable ships, 
Long as the breath shall in my bosom stay, 
Or as my precious knees retain their spring. 
Further I say — and cast it in your mind ! — 
Melt not my spirit down by weeping thus, 
And wailing only tor that great man's sake, 
Atrides : neither ought you love that man ; 
Lest I should hate the friend I love so well. 
With me united, 'tis your nobler part 
To gall his spirit who has galled mine. 
With me reign equal, hall' my honors share. 
These will report; stay you here, and repose 
On a soft bed ; and with the beaming morn 
Consult we, whether to go home or stay. 

Iliad, Book ix. 

I have thought that hero has contracted a 
dilTerent sense than it had in Homer's time, 
and is better rendered greal man ; but I am 
aware that the enclitics and other little words, 
falsely called expletives, are not introduced 
even so much as the genius of our language 
would admit. The euphony I leave entirely 
to you. Adieu ! 



TO THE LORD THURLOW. 

My Lord, — We are of one mind as to the 
agreeable eifect of rhyme, or euphony, in the 
lighter kinds of poetry. Th% pieces which 
your lordship mentions would certainly be 
spoiled by the loss of it, and so would all such. 
Tlie '■ Alma" would lose all its neatness and 
smartness, and "Hudibras" all its humor. 
But in grave poems of extreme length, I ap- 
prehend that the case is different. Long be- 
fore I thought of commencing poet myself, I 
have complained, and heard others complain, 
of the wearisomeness of such poems. Not 
that I suppose that tedium the efl'ect of rhyme 
itself, but rather of the perpetual recurrence 
of the same pause and cadence, unavoidable 
in the English couplet. I hope, I m.ay say 
truly, it was not in a spirit of presumption 
that I undertook to do what, in your lordship's 



opinion, neither Dryden nor Pope would have 
dared to do. On the contrary, I see not how 
I could have escaped that imputation, had I 
followed Pope in his own way. A closer 
translation was called for. I verily believed 
that rhyme had betrayed Pope into hix devia- 
tions. For me, therefore, to have used his 
mode of versifying, would have been to ex- 
pose myself to the same miscarriage, at the 
same time that I had not his talents to atone 
for it. 

I agree with your lordship that a transl.i- 
tion perfectly close is impossible, because time 
has sunk the original strict import of a thou- 
, sand phrases, and we have no means of re- 
covering it. But if we cannot be uniinpcacha- 
bly faithful, that is no reason why we should 
not be as faithful as we can; and if bhmk 
verse affords the fairest chance, then it claims 
the preference. 

Your lordship, I will venture to say, can 
command me nothing in which I will not 
obey with the greatest alacrity. 

El Svvajjai TE\£cat y£, Kat ci Tsre^ec^ivov Ecrt, 

But when, having made as close a translation 
as even you can invent, you enjoin me to make 
it still closer, and in rhyme too, I can only re- 
ply, as Horace to Agustus, 

" cupidum, pater optime, vires 

Deficiunt " 

I have not treacherously departed from my 
pattern that I might seem to give some proof 
of the justness of my own opinion, but have 
fairly and honestly adhered as closely to it as 
I could. Yet your lordship will not have to 
compliment me on my success, either in re- 
spect of the poetical merit of my lines, or of 
their fidelity. They have just enough of each 
to make them deficient in the other. 

Oh Phoenix, father, friend, guest sent from Jove, 
Me no such honors as they yield can move, 
For I expect my honors from above. [sense 

Here Jove has fix'd me ; and while breath and 
Have place within me, I will never hence, [ears 
Hear, too, and mark me well — haunt not mine 
With sighs, nor seek to melt me with thy tears 
For yonder chief, Icsi, urging such a plea 
Through love of him, thou hateful prove to me. 
Thy friendship lor thy friend shall brighter shine 
— Wounding his spirit, who has wounded mine. 
Divide with me the honors of my throne — 
These shall return, and make their tidings known, 
But go not thou — thy couch shall here be dress'd 
With softest fleeces for thy easy rest. 
And with the earliest blush of op'ning day 
We will consult to seek our home or stay. • 

Since I wrote these I have looked at Pope's. 
I am certainly somewhat closer to the original 
than he, but farther I say not. I shall wait 
with impatience for your lordship's conclu- 
.sions from these premises, and remain, in the 
meantime, with great truth, my lord, &c. 

W. C. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



401 



TO WILLIAM COWTEK, ESQ. 

Dear Cowper, — I have recpived your letter 
on my jounioy thronirh Loiuioii. and as the 
ohaise waits I shall be short. I did not mean it 
as a sign of any presumption that you have at- 
tempted what neither Dryden nor Pope would 
have dared: but merely as a proof of their ad- 
diction to rhyme ; for I am clearly convinced 
that Homer may he better translated than into 
rhyme, and that you have succeeded in the 
places I have looked into. But 1 have fancied 
that it miijht have been still more literal, j)re- 
scrving the ease of genuine English and melo- 
dy, and some degree of that elevation which 
Homer derives from simplicity. But I could 
not do it, or even near enough to form a 
judgment, or more than a fancy about it. 
Nor do I fancy it could be done " stans pede 
in uno." But when the mind has been fully 
impregnated with the original passage, often 
revolving it, .ind waiting for a happy moment, 
may still be necessjiry to the best trained 
mind. Adieu. Thurlow. 

TO THE LORD TIIURLOW. 

My Lord, — I haunt you with letters, but will 
trouble you now with a short line, only to tell 
your lordship how hap])y I am that any jiart 
of my work has pleased you. I have a com- 
fortable eonseionsness that the whole has 
been executed with equal industry .and atten- 
tion : and am, my lord, with many thanks to 
you for snatching such a hasty moment to 
write to me, your lordship's obliged and af- 
fectionate humble ser\ant. W. CowrER. 

These letters cannot fail to be read with 
great interest. 

Having in a former part of this work con- 
trasted the two versions of Cowper and Pope, 
we shall now elo.se the subject, by quoting 
('o\t'per'.s translation of some well-known 
and .admired passages in the original poem. 
The classical reader will thus be enabled to 
determine how far the poet has succeeded in 
the iipplicalion of his own principle, and re- 
tained the bold and lofty spirit of Homer, while 
he aims at transfusing his noble simplicity, 
and adhering strictly to his genuine meaning. 
We have selected the following specimens. 

Hector extending his arms to caress his son 
Astyanax, in his interview with Andromache: 

The hero ended, and his hands put firth 
To reach his tioy ; hut with a scream the child 
.•^tiil closer to his nurse's t)osoin clung. 
.s|itinnin;» his touch ; for dreadful in his eyes 
The hnizcn nnnor shone, and dreadful more 
The shatjixy crest that swept hi.s father's iirow, 
I!oth p;irrnts smil'd. diliirhtcd ; and the chief 
Set ilnwn the crested terror on the ground. 
Then kiss'd him, pliiy'd away his infant fears, 
And thus to Jove, and all the Pow'rs above : 
Grant O yc gods '. such eminent renown 



And might in arms, as yc have giv'n to me, 
To this my son. with strength to govern Troy. 
From light rcturn'd be this his welcome home — 
" He far excels his sire" — and niay he rear 
The crimson trophy to his mother's joy !* 

He spake, and to his lovely spouse consign'd 
The darling boy ; with mingled smiles and tears 
She wrapp'd him in her bosom's fragrant folds, 
And Hector, pantj'd with pity that she wept, 
Her dewy check strok'd sortly, and began. 
Weep not for me, my love ! no mortal arm 
Shall send me prematurely to the shades. 
Since, whether brave or dastard, at his birth 
The fates ordain'd to e£\ch his hour to die. 
Hence, then, to our abode ; there weave or spin, 
And task thy mai<lens. War to men belongs; 
To all of Troy ; and most of all to me. 

Book vi. line 524. 

The fatal conllict between Hector and 
."Vehilles : 

.So saying, his keen falchion from his side 
He drew, well tempered, ponderous, anti rush'd 
At once to combat. .-Vs the eagle darts 
Right downward through a sullen cloud to seize 
Weak lamb or tim'rous iiare, so he to fight 
Impetuous sprang, and shook his glittering blade. 
Achilles opposite, with fellest ire 
FuM-l'raught came on ; his shield with various art 
Divine portray'd, o'ersprcad his ample chest ; 
Anil on his radiant casque terrific wav'd, 
By Vulcan spun, his crest of bushy gold. 
Bright as. amoni; the stars, the star of all 
Most splendid, Hesperus, at midnight moves ; 
.So in tlie right hand of Achilles heam'd 
His brandish'd spear, while, medit.ating woe 
To Hector, he explor'd his noble form, 
.Seeking where he was vulnerable most. 
But every part, his dazzling armor, torn 
From brave Patroehis' hody, well-secur'd. 
Save where the circling key-hone I'roni the neck 
Disjoins the shoulder; there his throat appear'd. 
Whence injur'd life with swiflest flight escapes. 
Achilles, plunging in th.it part his spear, 
Impcll'd it through the yielding flesh beyond. 
The ashen beam his power of utt "ranee left 
.Still unimpair'd, hut in the dust he fell. 

Hector's prayer to Achilles : 

By thy own life, by theirs who gave thee birth. 
And by thy knees, oh let not Grecian dogs 
Rend and devour me. but in gold accept 
.And brass a ransom at my fither's hands, 
And. at thy mother's, an illustrious price; 
Send home my body, grant me burial rites 
.Among the daughters and the sons of Troy. 
Book xxii. hne 351. 

The indingant answer of Achilles to the 
prayer of Hector: 

Dog ! neither knees nor parents name to me. 
I would my fierceness of revenge were such, 
That I coulil carve and eat thee, to whose arms 
Such griefs I owe ; so true it is and sure, 
That none shall save thy carcass troai the dogs. 
No. Would they bring ten ransoms by the scale. 
Or twice ten ransoms, and still promise more; 
Would Priam buy thee with thy weight in gold, 

* For two other versirnis of tliW [»a.ssnice, sec Letters, 
dated Dec. 17, 1793, and Jan. .■>, 171)4. 
20 



402 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Not even then should she who bare thee weep 
Upon thy bier ; for dogs and rav'ning fowls 
Shall rend thy flesh, till ev'ry bone be bare. 

Hector's last dying words : 

I knew thee ; knew that I should sue in vain ; 
For in thy breast of steel no pity dwells. 
Hut oh, be cautious now, lest Heav'n perchance 
Htquite thee on that day, when, pierc'd thyself 
!5y Paris and Apollo, thou shalt fall, 
Brave as thou art, within the Seaman gate, 
lie ceas'd, and death involved him dark around. 
His spirit, from his lips dismiss'd, the house 
Of Hades sought, deploring as she went 
Youth's prime and vigor lost, disastrous doom ! 
But him, though dead, Achilles thus bespake : 
Die thou. My death shall find me at what hour 
Jove gives commandment, and the gods above. 
Ibid, line 390. 

The interview between Achilles and Priam, 
who comes to ransom the body of Hector : 

One I had. 

One, more than all my sons the strength of Troy, 

Whom standing for his country thou hast slain — 

Hector — His body to redeem 1 come, 

In Achaia's fleet, and bring, myself, 

Ransom inestimable to thy tent. 

O, fear the gods ! and for remembrance' sake 

Of thy own sire. Achilles ! pity me. 

More hapless still ; who bear what, save myself. 

None ever bore, thus lifting to my lips 

Hands dyed so deep with slaughter of my sons. 

So saying, he waken'd in his soul regret 

Of his own sire ; softly he plac'd his hand 

On Priam's hand, and push'd him gently away. 

Remembrance melted both. .Stretch'd prone 

Achilles' feet, the king his son bewail'd, [belbre 

Wide-slaughtering Hector ; and Achilles wept 

By turns his father, and by turns his friend, 

Patroclus ; sounds of sorrow flU'd the tent. 

Book xxiv. line dii. 

Without entering upon any minute analysis 
of tlie above passages, we consider thetn as 
exhibiting a happy specimen of poetic talent ; 
and that Cowper has been successful in ex- 
emplifying the rules and principles which, in 
his preface, he declares to be indispensable 
in a version of Homer. 

It may be interesting to literary curiosity 
to be presented w.ith a summary of facts, re- 
specting Cowper's two versions of Homer. 

This important undertaking commenced 
Nov. 21st, 1784, and was completed August 
25th, 1790. During eight months of this 
intervening time, he was hindered by indis- 
position, so tliat he was occupied in the work, 
on the whole, live years and one month. 
On the 8th of September, 1790, his kinsman, 
the Rev. John Johnson, conveyed the tran.s- 
lation to Johnson, the bookseller in St. Paul's 
Churchyard, with a view to its consignment 
to the press. During this period Cowper 
gave the work a second revisal, which he 
concluded March 4th, 1791. On July 1st of 
the same year the publication issued from the 
press. In 1793 there was a further revision, 



with the addition of explan-atory notes, a 
second edition having been called for. In 
1796 he engaged in a revisal of the whole 
work, which, owing to his st.ate of mind and 
declining hedth, was not finished till March 
8th, 1799. In January, 1800, he newmod- 
elled a passage in his translation of the Iliad, 
where mention is made of the very ancient 
sculpture, in which Daedalus had represented 
the Cretan dance for Ariadne. This proved 
to be the last effort of his pen.* 

We have thought it due to Cowper's ver- 
sion to enter thus largely into an examination 
of its merits, from a persuasion that an un- 
dertaking of this magnitude, executed by the 
author of "The T.aKk," claims to be consid- 
ered .as a part of our national literature. It 
remains only to be observed that the for- 
eigner whom he mentions with so much esti- 
mation, as having aided him with his critical 
taste and erudition, was Fuseli the p.ainter. 
He gratefully .acknowledges his oblig.ations 
in the following letters to Johnson the book- 
seller. 

Weston, Feb. 11, 1790. 

Dear Sir, — I .am very sensibly obliged by 
the rem.arks of Mr. Fuseli, and beg that you 
will tell him so ; they .afford me opportunities 
of improvement wliich I shall not neglect. 
When he shall see the press-copy, he will be 
convinced of this, and will be convinced like- 
wise, th.at, smart as he sometimes is, he 
spares me often, when I have no mercy on 
myself He will see almost a new transla- 
tion. ... I assure you faithfully, th.at 
whatever my faults may be, to be easily or 
hastily satisfied with what I have written is 
not one of them. 

Sept. 7, 1790. 

It grieves me that, .after .all, I am obliged 
to go into public without the whole advant- 
age of Mr. Fuseli's judicious strictures. The 
only consolation is, that I have not forfeited 
them by my own impatience. Five years 
are no small [lortion of a man's life, especially 
at the latter end of it, .and in those five years, 
being a man of almost no engagements, I 
have done more in the way of hard work, 
th.an most could have done in twice the num- 
ber. I beg you to present my compliments 
to Mr. Fuseli, with many and sincere tli.aiiks 
for the services that his own more import.mt 
occupations would allow him to render me. 

We .add one more letter in this place, ad- 
dressed to his bookseller, to show with what 
I becoming resolution he could defend his po- 
etical opinions when he considered them to 
be just. 

Some accidental reviser of the manuscript 
had taken the liberty to alter a line in a poem 

* See Dr. Johnson's sketch of the Life of Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



403 



of Cowper's r — this liberty drew from the of- 
fended poet the followinij very just and ani- 
m lied remonstrance, which we are anxious 
to preserve, because it elucidates with great 
felicity of expression his deliberate ideas on 
English versification. 

" I did not write the line that has been 
t!impered with, hastily, or without due atten- 
tion to the construction of it: and what ap- 
peared to ine its only merit is, in its present 
state, entirely annihilated. 

"I know that ears of modern verse-writers 
are delicate to an e.xcoss, and their readers 
are troubled with the same squeamishness as 
themselves. So that if a line do not run as 
smooth as quicksilver, they are oHended. A 
critic of the present day serves a poem as a 
cook serves a dead turkey, when she fastens 
the legs of it to a post, and draws out all the 
sinews. For this we may thank Pope: but 
unless we could imitate him in the closeness 
and coinpoetncss of his expression, as well as 
ill the smoothness of his numbers, we had 
better drop the imitation, whieh serves no 
other purpose th.in to emasculate and weaken 
all we write. Give me a manly rough line, 
wiLli a deal of meaning in it, rather than a 
whole poem full of musical periods, that 
have nothing but their oily smoothness to 
recommend them! 

"I have said thus much, as I hinted in the 
beginning, because I have just finished a much 
longer poem than the last, which our common 
friend will receive by the same messenger 
that lia.s the charge of this letter. In that 
poem there are many lines which an ear so 
nice as the gentleman's who made tlie above- 
mentioned alteration would undoubtedly con- 
demn, and yet (if I may be permitted to s.ay 
it) they e.iunot be made smoother without 
being the worse for it. There is a rougli- 
ncss on a plum, which nobody th.-it under- 
.stands fruit would rub off, though the plum 
would be much more polished without it. 
But, lest I tire you, I will only add, that I 
wish you to guard me from all such med- 
dling, assuring you, that I always write as 
smoothly as I can, but that I never did, never 
will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a passage 
to the sound of it." 

Cowper wa.s much affected at this time by 
a severe indisposition, to which he alludes in 
the following letter. 

TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston t'nderwood, April 27, 1792. 
Dear Sir, — I write now mei-ely to prevent 
any suspicion in your mind that I neglect 
you. I have been very ill, and for more than 
a fortnight unable to use the pen, or you 
should have hoard long ere now of the safe 
arrival of your packet I have revised the 



Elegy on Seduction,* but have not as yet 
been able to proceed farther. The best way 
of returning these which 1 have now in hand, 
will be to return them with those which you 
propose to send hereafler. I will make no 
more apologies for any liberties that it may 
seem necessary to me to take with youreopies. 
Why do you send them, but that I may exer- 
cise that freedom, of which the very act of 
sending them implies your permission? I 
will only say, therefore, that you must neither 
be impatient nor even allow yourself to think 
me tardy, since assuredly 1 will not be more 
so than I needs must be. My hands are 
pretty full. Milton must be forwarded, and 
is at present hardly begun ; and I have beside 
a numerous correspondence, which engrosses 
more of my time than I can at present well 
afford to it. I cannot decide with myself 
whether the lines in which the reviewers are 
so smartiv noticed had better be expunged 
or not. These lines are gracefully introduced 
and well written: for which reasons I should 
be loath to part with them. On the other 
hand, how far it may be prudent to irritate a 
body of critics, who certainly much influence 
the public opinion, may deserve consideration. 
It may be added too, that they are not equally 
worthy of the lash : there are among them 
men of real learning, judgment, and candor. 
I must leave it, therefore, to your own de- 
termination. 

I thank you for Thomson's Epitaph, on 
which I have only to remark (and I am sure 
that I do it not in a captious spirit) that, since 
the poet is himself the speaker, I cannot but 
question a little the propriety of the quota- 
tion subjoined. It is a prayer, and when the 
man is buried, the time of prayer is over. I 
know it may be answered, that it is placed 
there merely for the benefit of the reader ; 
but all readers iif tombstones are not wise 
enough to be trusted for such an interpre- 
tation. 

I was well pleased with your poem on 
* * and equally well pleased with your in- 
tention not to publish it. It proves two 
points of consequence to an author: — both 
that you have an exuberant fancy, and dis- 
cretion enough to know how to deal with it. 
The man is as formidable for his ludicrous 
talent, as he has made himself contemptible 
by his use of it. To despise him therefore 
is natur.al, but it is wi«e to do it in secret. 

Since the juvenile poems of Milton were 
edited by VVarton, you need not trouble 
yourself to send them. I have them of his 
edition already. 
I am, dear sir. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 

The man-iage of Miss Stapleton, the Cath- 

• Tliis Eleff>' is inwrtod in Mr. Park's vulume of 8on- 
Deta and misccllaneuus puems. 



404 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



arina of Cowper, to Sir John Throckmorton's 
brother, (now !\Ir. Courtenay,) was one of 
those events which tlie muse of Cowper 
had ventured to anticipate ; and lie had now 
the liappiness of finding his cherished wisli 
amply fultilled, and of thereby securing tlicm 
as neighbors at the Hall.* 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, May 20, I'm. 

My dearest Coz, — I rejoice as thou reason- 
ably supposest me to do, in the matrimonial 
news communicated in your last. Not that 
it was altogether news to me, for twice I had 
received broad hints of it from Lady Frog, 
by letter, and several times rka loce while 
she wa.s here. But she enjoined 7ne secrecj' 
as well as you, and you know that all secrets 
are safe with me ; safer far than the winds in 
the bags of jEolus. I know not, in fact, the 
lady whom it would give me more pleasure 
to call Mrs. Courtenay, than the lady in 
question ; partly because I know her, but es- 
pecially because I know her to be all that I 
can wish in a neighbor. 

I have often observed, that there is a reg- 
ular alternation of good and evil in the lot 
of men, so that a favorable incident may be 
considered as the harbinger of an unfavor- 
able one, and lice lersd. Dr. Madan's ex- 
perience witnesses to the truth of this obser- 
vation. One day he gets a broken head, and 
the ne.Kt a mitre to heal it. I rejoice that he 
lias met with so effectual a cure, though my 
joy is not unmingled with concern; for till 
now I had some hopes of seeing him, but 
since I live in the north, and his episcopal 
call is in the west, th.-it is a gratification, I 
sui)p(-»se, which I must no longer look for. 

My sonnet, which I sent you, was printed 
in the Northampton paper, last week, and 
this week it produced me a complimentary 
one in the same paper, which served to con- 
vince me, at least by the matter of it, that 
my own was not published without occasion, 
and that it had answered its purpose.f 

* This wish is expressed in the following lines : — 
" Willi her book, Jind her voice, and her lyre. 
To wing all her moments at home. 
And with scenes that new rapture inspire. 
As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
She will have just the life she prefers, 
With little to hope or to fear, 
.Ijid ours uould be pUftsant as hers. 
Might tcp view her evjttying it here." 

See Verses addressed to Miss Stapteton, p. 343. 
t We have succeeded in obtaining these verses, and 
think them worthy of insertion: 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ, 

OS READINO HIS SONNET OF THE SIXTEENTH INSTANT 
ADBRESSED TO MR. WILBERFORCE. 

Desert the cause of liberty ! — the cause 
Of human nature! — sacred flame that burn'd 
So late, so bright within thee !— thence descend 
The monster Slavery's unnatural friend ! 
'Twerc vile iLspersion ! justly, while it draws 
Tliy virtuous indignation, greatly spurnM. 



My correspondence with Hayley proceeds 
briskly, and is very affectionate on both sides. 
I expect him here in about a fortnight, and 
wish heartily, with Mrs. Unwin, that you 
would give him a meeting. I have promised 
him, indeed, that he shall find us alone, but 
you are one of the family. 

I wish much to print the following lines in 
one of the daily papers. Lord S.'s vindica- 
tion of the poor culprit* in the affair of Cheit 
Sing, has confirmed me in the belief tlnit he 
has been injuriously treated, and I think it an 
act merely of justice to take a little notice of 
him. 

TO W.\RREN HASTINGS, ESQ. 

BY AN OLD SCHOOL-FELLOW OP HI.S AT WEST- 
MINSTER. 

Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind 
While young, humane, conversable, and kind ; 
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, 
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men : 
But rather some suspect, who have opprcss'd 
And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 

If thou wilt take the pains to send them 
to thy news-monger, I hope thou wilt do 
well. ■ 

Adieu ! VV. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, May, 20, 1792. 
My dearest of all Johnnies, — I am not 
sorry that your ordination is postponed. A 
year's learning and wisdom, added to your 
present stock, will not be more than enough 
to satisfy the demands of your function. 
Neither am I sorry that you find it difhcult 
to fix your thoughts to the serious point at 
all times. It proves, at least, that you at- 
tempt, and wish to do it, and these are good 
symptoms. Woe to those who enter on the 
miuistry of the go.spel without having pre- 
viously asked, at least from God, a mind and 
spirit suited to their occupation, and whose 
experience never differs from itself, because 
they are always alike vain, light, .and incon- 
siderate. It is, therefore, matter of great joy 
to me to hear you complain of levity, and 
such it is to Mrs. Unwin. She is, I thank 
God, tolerably well, and loves you. As to 
the time of your journey hither, the sooner 
after June the better; till then we shall ha\c 
company. 

As soon the foes of Afric might expect 
The altar's blaze, forgetful of the law 
Of its aspiring natiu-e, should direct 
To hell its point inverted ; as to draw 
Virtue like thine, and genius, grovelling base. 
To sanction wrong, and dignify disgrace. 
Welcome dctectinn .' grateful to the Cause, 
As to its Patron, Cowper's just applause ! 

S. MK^LELLAN. 

Jlpril 25, 1792. 

* Warren Hastings, at that lime under inipeacliment, 
as Governor-general of India. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



405 



I fi)r!rct not my debts to your dear sister, 
and your aunt Balls. Greet them both with 
a brolher's kiss, and plaee it to my aecount. 
I will write to them when Milton, and a 
thousand other engairements will give me 
leave. Jlr. llayley is here on a visit. We 
have formed a friendship that I trust will 
last for life, and render us an edifying ex- 
ample to all future poets. 

Adieu 1 Lose no time in eoming after the 
time mentioned. VV. C. 

The reader is informed, by the elose of the 
last letter, that Hayley was at this time the 
guest of (^iwper. The meeting, so singu- 
larly produeed, was a source of reciprocal 
delight : and each looked cheerfully forward 
to the uneUinded enjoyment of many social 
and literary hours. 

Hayley's account of this visit is too inter- 
esting not to be recorded in his own words. 

" My host, though now in his sixty-first 
year, appeared as happily exempt from all 
the infirmities of advanced life, as friendship 
could wish him to be; and his more elderly 
companion, not materially oppressed by age, 
discovered a benevolent alertness of cliarae- 
ter that seemed to promise a continuance of 
their domestic comfort. Their reception of 
me was kindness itself: — I was enchanted to 
find that the manners and conversation of 
Cowper resembled his poetry, charming by 
unafl'ected elegance, and the graces of a be- 
nevolent spirit. I looked with aftectionate 
veneration and pleasure on the lady, who, 
having devoted her life and fortune to the 
service of this tender and sublime genius, in 
watching over liini with maternal vigilance 
through many years of the darkest calamity, 
appeared to be now enjoying a reward justly 
due to the noblest exertions of friendship, in 
contemplating the health and the renown of 
the poet, whom she had the happiness to 
preserve. 

" It seemed hardly possible to survey hu- 
man nature in a more touching and a more 
satisfactory point of view. Their tender at- 
tention to each other, their simple, devout 
gratitude for the mercies which they had ex- 
perienced together, and their constant, but 
unatTected propensity to impress on the mind 
and heart of a new friend, the deep sense 
which they incessantly felt, of their mutual 
obligations to each other, alVorded me a very 
singular gratification; which my reader will 
conceive the more forcibly, when he has pe- 
rused the following exquisite sonnet, ad- 
dressed by Cowper to Mrs. Unwin. 

" SONNET. 

" Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings : 
Such aid from Heaven, as some have fcign'd 

they drew ! 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 
Anil undebus'd by praise of meaner things ! 



That ere through age or woe I shed my wings 
I may record thy worth, with honor due, 
In verse as musical as thou art true, — 
Verse that immortalizes whom it sings ! 

But thou hast little need : There is a book, 
By sf.Taplis writ, with beams of heavenly light, 
On which the eyes of God not rarely look ; 
A chronicle of actions, just and bright ! 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare tliee 
mine. 

" The delight that I derived from a perfect 
view of the virtues, the talents, and the pres- 
ent domestic enjoyments of Cowper, was 
suddenly overcast by the darkest and most 
painful anxiety. 

"After passing our mornings in social 
study, we usually walked out together at 
noon. In returning from one of our rambles 
around the pleasant village of Weston, we 
were met by Jlr. Greatheed, an accomplished 
minister of the gospel, who resides .at New- 
port-Pagnel, and whom Cowper described to 
me in terms of cordial esteem. 

" He came forth to meet us as we drew 
near the house, and it was soon visible, from 
his countenance and manner, that he had ill 
news to imp.art. After the most tender prep- 
ar.'ition that humanity could devise, he .ac- 
quainted ('owper that Jlrs. Unwin was under 
the immediate pressure of a paralytic attack. 

"My agitated friend rushed to the sight ot 
the sufferer ; — he returned to me in a state 
that alarmed me in the highest degree for his 
faculties ; — his first speech to me was wild in 
the extreme ; — my answer would appear little 
less so; but itw.as addressed to the predom- 
inant fancy of my unhappy friend, and, with 
the blessing of lle.aven, it produeed an in- 
stantaneous calm in his troubled nn'iul. 

"From that moment he rested on my 
friendship, with such mild and cheerful con- 
fidence, that his affeelionate spirit regarded 
me as sent providentially to support him in 
a season of the severest atHietion." 

The kindness of Hayley, at this critical 
moment, reflects the highest credit on his 
hiunanity and presence of mind. By means 
of an electrical machine, which the village 
of Weston fortunately sup|)lied, he succeed- 
ed in relieving his suffering patient with the 
happiest effect. With this seasonable aid, 
seconded by a course of medicine recom- 
mended bv Dr. .Austen, an eminent London 
physician.and a friend of Ilay ley's, the violence 
of the attack was gradually nntigated.and the 
agitated mind of Cowper greatly relieved. 

The progress of her recovery, and its in- 
fluence on the tender spirit of Cowper, will 
sufficiently appear in the following letters 

TO I-AOy IIESKKTII. 

\VLSti>n, May 24, 1792. 
I wish with all my heart, my dearest Coz., 



406 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



that I haJ not ill news for the subject of the 
present letter. My friend, luy Mai-y, hns 
agjiln been attacked by the same disorder 
lliat threatened me last year with the loss 
of her, and of which you w'ere yourself a 
witness. Gregson would not allow that first 
stroke to be paralytic, but this he acknowl- 
edges to be so; and with respect to the for- 
mer, I never hnd myself any doubt that it 
was, but this has been much tlic severest. 
Her speech has been almost unintelligible 
from llu' moment that slie was struck ; it is 
with dirticulty that she opens her eyes, and 
she cannot keep them open ; the muscles 
necessary to the purpose being contracted; 
and as to self-moving powers, from place to 
place, and the use of her right hand and arm, 
she has entirely lost them. 

It has happened well, that of all men liv- 
ing, the man most qualified to assist and 
comfort me is here ; though till within these 
few days I never saw him, and a few weeks 
since had no expectation that I ever should. 
You have already guessed that I mean Hay- 
ley — Hayley, who loves me as if he had 
known me from my cradle. When ho re- 
turns to town, as he must, alas ! too soon, 
he will pay his respects to you. 

I will not conclude without adding, that 
our poor p.atient is beginning, I hope, to re- 
cover from this stroke also ; but her amend- 
ment is slow, as must be expected at her 
time of life and in such a disorder. I am as 
well myself as you have ever known me in a 
time of much trouble, and even better. 

It was not possible to prevail on Mrs. Un- 
win to let me send for Dr. Kerr, but Hayley 
has written to his friend, Dr. Austen, a re- 
presentation of her ca.se, and we expect his 
opinion and advice to-morrow. In the mean- 
time, wo have borrowed an electrical ma- 
chine from our neighbor Socket, the eflect 
of which she tried yesterday and the day be- 
fore, and we think it has been of material 
service. 

She was seized while Hayley and I were 
w'alking, and Mr. Greatheed, who called while 
we were absent, was with her. 

I forgot in my last to thank thee for the 
proposed amendments of thy friend. Who- 
ever he is, make my compliments to hinf, 
and thank him. The passages to which he 
objects have been all altered, and when he 
shall see them new dressed, I hope he will 
like them better.* W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodge, May 2C, 17M. 
My dearest Cousin, — Knowing that you 
will be .anxious to learn how we go on, I 
write a few lines to inform you that Mrs. 

* This friend was Mrs. Carter. 



Unwin daily recovers a little strength and a 
little power of utterance; but she seems 
strongest, and her speech is more distinct, 
in a morning. Hayley has been all in all to 
us on this very afflictive occasion. Love him, 
I cliarge you, dearly, for my sake. Where 
could I have found a man, except himself, 
who could have made himself so necessary 
to me in so sliort a time, that I absolutely 
know not liow to live without him. 

Adieu, my dear sweet coz. Mrs. Unwin, 
as plainly as her poor lips can speak, sends 
her best love, and Hayley threatens in a few 
days to lay close siege to your afFecfions in 
person. W. C. 

There is some hope, I find, that the chan- 
cellor may continue in office, and I shall be 
glad if he does, because we have no single 
man worthy to succeed him. 

I open my letter again to thank you, my 
dearest coz., for yours justr eceived. Though 
happy, as you well know, to see you at all 
times, we have no need, and I trust shall 
have none, to trouble you with a journey 
made on purpose ; yet once again, I am will- 
ing and desirous to believe, we shall be a 
happy trio at Weston : but unless necessity 
dictates a journey of charity, I wish all yours 
hither to be made for pleasure. Farewell I 
thou shalt know how we go on. 



The tender and grateful mind of Cowper, 
sensible of the kind and able services of Dr. 
Austen, led him to pour out the effusions of 
his heart in the following verses. 

TO DR. AUSTEN, 

OF CECII, STREET, LONDO-V. 

Austen ! accept a grateful verse from me ! 
The poet's treasure ! no inglorious fee ! 
Loved by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in a verse may find ; 
Verse oil has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, 
Immortalizing names which else had died : 
And, oh ! could I command the glittering wealth 
With which sick kings are glad to purchase 

health : 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to Uve, 
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, — 
I would not recompense his art with less, 
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 

Friend of my friend, I love Ihee, though un- 
known, 
And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 



TO IVIRS. BODHAM. 

Weston, June 4, 1793. 
My dearest Rose, — I am not such an un- 
grateful and insensible animal, as to have 
neglected you thus long without a reason. . . 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



407 



I cannot say tliat I am sorry that our dear 
Jolinny finds the pulpit-door shut against 
him at present.* He is young, and ean af- 
ford to wait another year: neither is it to be 
regretted that his time of preparation for an 
office of so nuich importajice as tliat of a 
minister of (iod's word should have been a 
litlle protracted. It is easier to direct the 
movements of a great army than to guide a 
few souls to heaven : the «ay is narrow and 
full of snares, and the guide himself has the 
most dilficnlties to encounter. But I trust 
he will do well. He is single in his views, 
honest-hearted, and desirous, by prayer and 
study of the scripture, to qualify himself for 
the service of his great Master, who will suf- 
fer no such man to fail for want of his aid 
and protection. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Wcslon, June 4, 1792. 

All's well. 

Which words I place as conspicuously as 
possible, and prefix them to my letter, to save 
you the pain, my friend and brother, of a mo- 
ment's anxious speculation. Poor Mary pro- 
ceeds in her amendment still, and improves, 
I think, even at a swifter rate than when you 
left her. The stronger she grows the faster 
she gathers strength, which is perhaps the 
natural course of recovery. Slie walked so 
well this morning, that she told me at my 
first visit she had entirely forgot her illness, 
and she spoke so distinctly, and had so much 
of her usual counten.ance, that had it been 
possible she would have made me forget 
it too. 

Returned from my walk, blown to tatters 
— found two dear things in the study, your 
letter and my Jlary I Shu is bravely well, 
and your beloved epistle does us both good. 
I found your kind pencil-note in my song- 
book as soon as I came down on the morn- 
ing of your departure, and Mary was vexed 
to the heart that the simpletons who watched 
her supposed her asleep when she was not, 
for she learned, soon after you were gone, 
th.it you wouhl have peeped at her, h.ad you 
known her to have been awake : I jierhaps 
might have h.ad a peep too, and was as vexed 
as she : but if it please God, we shall make 
ourselves large amends for all lost peeps by- 
and-bv at Earlhara. \V. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Wc3ton, June 5, 1792. 

Yesterday was a noble day with us — 
speech almost perfect — eyes open almost 
the whole day, without any efi'ort to keep 
them so ; and the step wonderfully improved. 

• Some unexpectfd difUcuHa's had occurred in obtain- 
ing a curacy, with u tule for orders. 



But the night has been almost a sleepless 
one, owing partly I believe to her having had 
as mucli sleep again as usual the night be- 
fore ; for even when she is in tolerable health 
she hardly ever sleeps well two nights to- 
gether. 1 found her accordingly a little out 
of spirits this morning, but still insisting on 
it that she is better. Indeed she always tell.-- 
me so, and will probably die with those very 
words upon her lips. They will In' true then 
at least, for then she will be best of all. Sin- 
is now (the clock has just struck eleven) en- 
deavoring, I believe, to get a little sleep, for 
which reason 1 do not yet let her know that 
1 have received your letter. 

Can I ever honor you enough for your zeal 
to serve me ? Truly I think not : 1 am how- 
ever so sensible of the love I owe you on 
this account, that I every day regret the 
aeuteness of your feelings for me, convinced 
th.at they e.vpose you to much trouble, morti- 
fication, and disappointment. I have in short 
a poor opinion of my destiny, as 1 told you 
when you were here, and, though I believe 
that if any man living can do me good you 
will, I cannot yet persuade myself, that even 
you will be successful in attempting it. But 
it is no matter; you are yourself a good, 
which I can never value enough, and, whether 
rich or poor in other respects, 1 shall always 
account myself better provided for th.an 1 de- 
serve, with such a friend at my back as you. 
Let it please God to continue to me my 
William and Mary, and I will be more rea- 
sonable than to grumble. 

I rose this morning wrapt round w-ith a 
cloud of melancholy, and with a he.art full of 
fears, but if I see Mary's amendment a little 
advanced when she rises, I shall be better. 

I have just been with her again. Except 
that she is fatigued for want of sleep, she 
seems as well as yesterday. The post 
brings me a letter from Hurdis, who is bro- 
ken-hearted for a dying sister. Had we eyes 
sharp enough, we should see the arrows of 
death flying in all directions, and account it 
a wonder that we and our friends escape 
them but a single day. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, June 7, 1792. 
Of what materials can you suppose me 
made, if after all the rapid proofs ihat you 
have given me of your friendship, I do not 
love you with all my heart, and regret your 
absence continually ? But you must permit 
me to be melancholy now and then; or if you 
will not, I must be so without your permission, 
for that sable thread is so intermixed with 
the very thread of my existence as to be in- 
separable from it, at least while I exist in the 
body. Be content, therefore ; let rac sigh and 



408 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



groan, but always be sure that I love you ! 
You will be well assured that I should not 
have indulged myself in this rliapsody about 
myself and my melancholy, had my present 
mood been of that complexion, or had not 
our poor Mary seemed still to advance in her 
recovery. So in fact she does, and has per- 
formed several little feats to-day; such as 
either she could not perform at all, or very 
feebly, while you were with us. 

I sliall be glad if you have seen Johnny as 
I call him, my Norfolk cousin ; he is a sweet 
lad, but as shy as a bird. It costs him always 
two or three days to open his mouth before a 
stranger; but when he docs, lie is sure to 
please by the innocent cheerfulness of his 
conversation. His sister too is one of my 
idols, for the resemblance she bears to my 
mother. 

Mary and you have all my thoughts; and 
how should it be otherwise ? She looks well, 
is better, and loves you dearly. 

Adieu ! my dear brother. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. 

Weston, June 10, 1792. 

I do indeed anxiously wisli that everything 
you do may prosper; and should I at last 
prosper by your means, shall taste double 
sweetness in prosperity for that reason. 

I rose this morning, as I usually do, with a 
mind all in s.ables. In this mood I presented 
myself to Mary's bedside, whom I found, 
though after many hours lying awake, yet 
cheerful, and not to be aiTected with my de- 
sponding humor. It is a great blessing to us 
botli, that, poor feeble thing as she is, she has 
a most invincible courage, and a trust in God's 
goodness, that nothing shakes. She is now 
in the study, and is certainly in some degree 
better than she was yesterday, but liow to 
measure that little I know not, except by say- 
ing that it is just perceptible. 

I am glad that you liave seen my Johnny 
of Norfolk, because I know it will be a com- 
fort to you to liave seen your successor. He 
arrived to my great joy, yesterday; and, not 
having bound himself to any particular time 
of going, will, I hope, stay long with us. You 
are now once more snug in your retreat, and 
I give you joy of your return to it, after the 
bustle in which you have lived since you left 
Weston. Weston mourns your absence, and 
will mourn it till she sees you again. Wliat is 
to become of Milton I know not ; I do nothing 
but scribble to you, and seem to have no relish 
for any other employment. I have however, 
in pursuit of your idea to compliment Darwin, 
put a few stanzas together, which I shall 
subjoin ; you will easily give them all that 
you find they want, and match the song with 
another. 

I am now going to walk with Johnny, much 



cheered since I began writing to you, and by 
Mary's looks and good spirits. W. C. 

TO DR. D.IRVVIN, 

AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN. 

Two poets (poets by report 

Not oft so well agree) 
.Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! 

Conspire to honor thee. 

They best can judge a poet's worth, 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetic birth, 
By labors of their own. 

We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy song, 
Though various, yet complete, 

Rich in embellishment as strong, 
And learn'd as it is sweet. 

No envy mingles with our praise ; 

Though, could our hearts repine, 
.■\t any poet's happier lays, 

They would, they must, at thine. 

But we. in mutual bondage knit 

Of friendship's closest tie. 
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit 

With an unjaundic'd eye : 

And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, 

And howsoever known, 
Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 

Unworthy of his own.* 

* Tlie celebrated poem of "tlie Botanic Garden," 
originated in a copy of verses, addres.sed by Miss Sewai'd 
to Dr. Darwin, complimenting him on his sequestered 
retreat near Lichtield. In this retreat there was a mossy 
fountain of the purest water ; aquatic plants bordered its 
summit, and branched from the fissures of the rock. 
There was also a brook, which he widened into small 
lakes. The whole scene formed a little paradise, and 
was embellished with various classes of plaiUs, uniting 
the Linnean science, with all the charm of landscape. 

When Miss Seward presented her verses to Dr. Darwin, 
ho was highly gratified, she observes, and said, " I shall - 
send this poem to the periodical publications ; but it 
ouglit to form the exordium of a great work. The Lin- 
nean system is imexpiored poetic ground, and a happy 
subject for the muse. It affords tine scope for poetic 
landscape; it suggests metamorphoses of the Ovidian 
kind, though reversed. Ovid made men and women 
into fiowers, plants, and trees. You should make fiow- 
er.s, plants, and trees, into men and women. I," con- 
tinued he, "will write the notes, which must be scien- 
tific, and you shall write the verse." 

Miss S. remarked, that besides her wjint of botanic 
knowledge, the imdertaking was not strictly proper for a 
female pen ; and that she felt how much more it was 
adapted to the ingenuity and vigor of his own fancy. 
After maay objections urged on the part of Dr. Darwin, 
he at length acquiesced, and ultimately produced his 
" Loves of the Plants, or Botanic (Jarden."* 

Though this poem obtained much celebrity on its first 
appear.ance, it was nevertheless severely animadverted 
upon by some critics. A writer in tlic Anti-.Iacobiu lie- 
view, {known to be the late Mr. Carniingi parodied the 
work, by producing " The Loves of the Triangles," in 
which triangles were made to fall in love with the same 
fervor of passion, as Dr. Darwin attributed to phuus. 
The style, the imagery, and the entire composition of 
" The Loves of the Plants," were most successfully imi- 
tated. We quote the following. 

" In filmy, gauzy, gossamery bnes. 
With lucid language, and most dark designs, 
In sweet tetrandryan monogynian strains. 
Pant for a pistil in botanic pains ; 
Raise lust in pinks, and with unhallowed fire. 
Bid the soft virgin violet expire." 
We do not think that the Botanic Garden ever fully 



* See Life of Dr. Darwin, by Miss Seward. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



409 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weslon.Juue 11, 17W. 

My dearest Coz., — Thou art ever in my 
tlioughts, whether I am writing to thee or not, 
anil my correspondence seems to grow npon 
me at sucli a rate tliat I am not able to address 
thee as often as 1 would. In fact, I live otdy 
to write letters. Ilayley is as you see added 
to the number, and to him I write almost as 
duly as I rise in the morning; nor is he only 
added, but his friend Carwardine also — Car- 
wardine tiie generous, the disinterested, tlie 
friendly. I seem, in short, to have .stumbled 
suddenly on a race of lieroes, men who re- 
solve to have no interests of their own till 
mine are served. 

But I will proceed to other matters, and 
that concern me more intimately, and more 
immediately, than all that can be done for me 
cither by the great or the small, or by both 
united. Since I wrote last, Jlrs. Unwin has 
been continually improving in strength, but at 
so gradual a rate that I can only mark it by 
saying that she moves about every day with 
less support than the former. Her recovery 
is most of all retarded by want of slccj). On 
the w'hole, I believe she goes on as well as 
could be e.\pected, though not quite well 
cnougli to satisfy me. And Dr. Austen, 
speaking from the reports 1 have made of her, 
says he iias no doubt of her restoration. 

During the last two month.s I seem to my- 
self to have been in a dream. It has been a 
most eventful period, and fruitful to an un- 
common degree, both in good and evil. I have 
been very ill, and suffered excruciating pain. 
I recovered, and became quite well again. I 
received within my doors a man, but lately 
an entire stranger, and who now loves me as 
a brother, and forgets himself to serve me. 
Mrs. Unwin has been seized with an illness 
that for many days threatened to deprive me 
of her, .and to east a gloom, an impenetrable 
one, on all my future prospects. She is now 
granted to me again. A few day.s since I 
should have thought tlie moon might liave 
descended into my purse as likely as any 
emolument, and now it seems not impossible. 
All this has come to pass with such rapidity 
as events move with in romance indeed, but 
not often in real life. Events of all sorts 
creep or fly exactly as God pleases, 
a To the foregoing I have to add in conclu- 
sion, the arrival of my Johnny, just when I 
wanted him most, and when only a few days 
belore I had no expectation of him. He came 
to dinner on Saturday, and I hope I shall keep 
him long. What comes next I know not, but 
shall endeavor, as you exhort me, to look for 
good, and I know I shall have your prayer 
that I may not be disappointed. 

inninl.'iiticd it** Tormor estimation, nftor tiie keen Attic 
wit ul' Mr. Ciiiiniiicr, tlmiliih Uu- conclmlin? linea of Cow- 
ptT scc'm to promirfo purpcluily lo its faoif. 



H.ayley tells me yon begin to be jealous of 
him, lest I should love him mure than I love 
you, and bids me say, '• that, shoidd I do so, 
you in revenge must love him more than I do." 
Him I know you will love, and ine, because 
you have such a habit of doing it that you 
cainiot help it. 

Allien ! My knuckles ache with letter- 
writing. With my poor patient's affectionate 
remembrances, and Jolinny's. 

I am ever thine, W. C. 



TO -WILLIAM HATLEr, ESQ. 

Weston, Jum- 19, ITSi. 

Thus have I filled a whole page 

to my dear William of Eartham, and liave not 
said a syllable yet about my Mary. A sure 
sign th.at she goes on w'ell. Be it known to 
you that we have these four days discarded 
our sedan with two elbows. Here is no more 
carrying, or being carried, but she walks up 
stairs boldly, with one hand upon the balus- 
trade, and the other under my arm, and in like 
manner she comes down in a morning. Still 
I confess she is feeble, and misses much of 
her former strength. The wcalhor too is 
sadly against her : it deprives her of many a 
good turn in the orchard, and lifty times have 
I wished, this very day, tliat Dr. Darwin's 
scheme of giving rudders and sails* to the ice 

♦ Tliftt a very perceptible clinni^e, generally apealtincr' 
has talien jilacc in llie climate uf Creat iiritain. auii that 
the sameuljservatioii applies to otlier countries, lias been 
a fn-qiient subject of remark, both with the piist and 
present ijeneratiiin. Various causes have been aj^siyned 
lor this peculiarity. It has been said that natvire isgrow- 
ini^ old, and losini; its ela.sticity and vii^or. Otliera have 
attributed the chant,'e to the vast accumulation of ice in 
the Polar regions, and its consequent influence on tlio 
teniperaturi' of the air. Dr. Darwin IiuniMrmisly sna:- 
i;csted the scheme c)f Kivini; rudders anil ^alls to Ilie lc»j 
Islands, that they miiilit be wafted by nurilieru t.':i!es, and 
thus Ite absorbed by the heat of a soiitluTn laliuide. It 
is worthy of remark that in Milton's Latin Poems, there 
is a colle'-'e thesis on this subject, viz., whether nature 
was hec*>mln[r old and inttrin. .Milton took the negative 
of this proposition, and maintained, nnturam turn pati 
.*fni«m, that uatltre was not growiD;^ old. Cowpcr, in 
his translation of this poem, thus renders some of the 
passages. 

How ?— Shall the face of nature then be plough'd 

Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 

On the gii'iit Parent Ilx a sterile curse? 

Shall even she confrss old ai,'e, and halt. 

Anil, nalsy-sinitlen. shake her starry brows? — 

Shall rime's uiisaleil maw crave and Ini^ulph 

The very liijiv'ns. that regulate his flight? — 

No. The Almighty I-'ather surer laid 

His deep foundations, and providing well 

For the event of all, the scales of Fate 

Susi)ended, In just equipoise, and bade 

His universal works, from age to age, . 

tine tenor hold, perpetual, undislurh'd. — 

Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, 

.Nor radiant le.ss the burning ca-stpie of Mars. 

Phu'bus, his vigor unimpalrM, still shows 

Th' etriilgence of his youth, nor needs the god 

A downwartl course, that he may warm the vales ; 

But, ever rich in intluence, runs his road. 

Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. 

Deautll'lll as at llrst. asi-eiids the star 

From odorlfnius Ind, w!ios<- oitice is 

To gather home betimes ih' ethereal flock, 

To nour them o'er the skies again at eve. 

Ana to discriminate tia; night and day. 



410 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



islands that spoil all our summers, were actu- 
ally put into practice. So should we have 
gentle airs instead of churlish blasts, and those 
everlasting sources of bad weather being once 
navigated into the soutliern hemisphere, my 
JIary would recover as fast again. We are 
both of your mind respecting the journey to 
Eartham, and tliink that July, if by that time 
she have strength for tlie journey, will be 
better than August. We shall have more long 
days before us, and them we shall want as 
much for our return as for our going forth. 
This liowever, nmst be left to the Giver of all 
good. If our visit to you be according to his 
will, he will smooth our way before us, and 
appoint the time of it; and I thus speak, not 
because I wish to seem a saint in your eyes, 
but because my poor Jlary actually is one, 
and would not set her foot over the threshold, 
unless she had, or thought she had, God's free 
permission. With that she would go through 
floods and tire, though without it she would 
be afraid of everything — afraid even to visit 
you, dearly as she loves, and much as she 
longs to see you. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, June 27, 1792. 

Well then — let us talk about this journey 
to Eartham. You wish me to settle the 
time of it, and I wish with all my heart to 
be able to do so, living in hopes meanwhile 
that I shall be able to do it soon. But some 
little time must necessarily intervene. Our 
Blary must be able to walk alone, to cut her 
own food, feed herself, and to wear her own 
shoes, for at present she wears mine. All 
things considered, my friend and brother, 
you will see the expediency of waiting a lit- 
tle before we set oil" to Eartham. We mean 
indeed before that day arrives to make a 
trial of the strength of her head, how far it 
may be able to bear the motion of a car- 
riage — a motion that it has not felt these 
seven years. I grieve that we are thus cir- 
cumstanced, and that we cannot gratify our- 
selves in a delightful and innocent project 
without all these precautions ; but when we 
have leaf-gold to handle we must do it ten- 
derly. 

I thank you, my brother, both for present- 
ing my authorship* to your friend Guy, and 
for the e.\cellent verses with which you have 
inscribed your present. There are none 

still Cynthui's ehangefiil hom waxes and wanes 

Alternate, and with arms extended still. 

She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. 

Nor have the elements deserted yet 

Their functions. — 

Thus, in unbrolcen series, all proceeds ; 
And shall, till, wide involving either pole 
And the immensity of yonder heav'n, 
The final flames of destiny absorb 
The world, consum'd in one enormous pyre! 
* Verses on Dr. Darwin. 



neater or better turned — with what shall I 
requite you ? I have nothing to send you 
but a gim-crack, vxhich I have prepared for 
my bride and bridegroom neighbors, who 
are expected to-morrow ! You saw in my 
book a poem entitled Catharina, which con- 
cluded with a wish that we had her for a 
neiglibor :* this therefore is called 

CATHARINA: 
( The Second Part.) 

ON HKR MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESa. 

Believe it or not, as you choose, 

The doctrine is certainly true, 
That the future is known to the muse. 

And poets are oracles too. 

I did but express a desire 

To see Catharina at home, 
At the side of my friend George's fire. 

And lo ! she is actually come. 

And sueli prophecy some may despise, 
But the wish of a poet and friend 

Perhaps is approv'd in the skies, 
And therefore attains to its end. 

'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth, 
From a bosom effectually wann'd 

With the talents, the graces, and worth. 
Of the person for whom it was form'd. 

Maria would leave us, I knew, 
To the grief and regret of us all ; 

But less to our grief could we view 
Catharina the queen of the Hall. 

And therefore I wish'd as I did, 
And therefore this union of hands, 

Not a whisper was heard to forbid. 
But all cry amen to the bands. 

Since therefore I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain, 
When making good wishes for her, 

I wdl e'en to my wishes again. 

With one I have made her wife, 
And now I will try with another, 

Which I cannot .sujipress tor my life. 
How soon I can make her a mother. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 4, 1792. 
I know not how you proceed in your life 
of Milton, but I suppose not very rapidly, 
for while you were here, and since you IctJ 
us, you have had no other theme but me. 
As for myself, except my letters to you, and 
the nuptial song I inserted iu my last, 1 
have literally done nothing since I saw you. 
Nothing, I mean, in the writing way, though 
a great deal in another ; that is to say, in 
attending my poor Mary, and endeavoring to 
nurse her up for a journey to Eartham. In 
this I have hitherto succeeded tolerably well, 
» See p. 362. 



and had rather carry this point completely 
than be the most famous editor of Milton 
that the world has ever seen or shall see. 

Your luiinoroiis descant upon my art of 
wishing made us merry, and conse(|uently 
did ijood to us both. I sent my wish to the 
Hall yesterday. They are e.veellent neii^li- 
bors, and so friendly to me that I wished to 
gratify them. When I went to p.ay my first 
visit, George flew into tlie court to meet me, 
and when I entered the parlor Catharina 
sprang into mv arms. 

W.C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Wesloil, July 15, 1792. 

The progress of the old nurse in Terence 
is very much like the progress of my poor 
patient in the road of recovery. I cannot, 
indeed, say that she moves but advances 
not, for advances are certainly made, but the 
progress of a week is hardly perceptible. I 
know not therefore, at present, what to say 
about this long-postponed journey. The 
utmost that it is safe for nic to s.ay at this 
moment is this — Yoii know th.at you are 
dear to us both : true it is that you are so, 
and equally true that the very instant we 
feel ourselves at liberty, we will fly to Earth- 
am. I have been but once within the Hall 
door since the Courtcnays came home, much 
as I have been pressed to dine there, and 
have hardly e.scajied giving a little ofTenee 
by declining it : but, though I should oftend 
all the world by my obstinacy in this in- 
stance, I would not leave my poor Mary 
alone. Johnny serves me as a represent- 
ative, and him I send without scruple. As 
to the art"air of Milton, I know not what will 
become of it. I wrote to Johnson a week 
since to tell him that, the interruption of 
Mrs. Unwin's illness still continuing, and 
being likely to continue, I knew not when I 
should be able to proceed. The translations 
(I Said) were finished, except the revisal of a 
part. 

God bless your dear little boy and poet ! 
I thank him for e.vercising his dawning gen- 
ius upon me, and shall be still happier to 
thank him in person. 

Abbot is painting rac so true. 

That (trust mc) you would stare 
And hardly know, at the first view, 

If I were here or there.* 

I have sat twice ; and the few who have 
seen ^lis copy of me are much struck with 
the resemblance. He is a sober, quiet man, 
which, considering that I must have him at 

• This portrait wis tiikcn nt the iaslunrc of Dr. John- 
son, and 18 thought most to resemble Cowper. It is now 
in the pow«p)*sion of Dr. Johnson's family, and represents 
the poet iu a sittini; posture, in an evening dress. 



least a week longer for an inmate, is a great 
comfort to me. 

My Mary sends you her best love. She 
can walk now, leaning on my arm only, and 
her speech is certainly much improved. I 
long to see you. Why cannot you and dear 
Tom spend the remainder of the simimer 
with us >. We might then all set olV for 
Eartham merrily together. But 1 retract 
this, conscious that I am unreasonable. It 
is a wretched world, and what we would is 
almost always what we cannot. 

Adieu ! Love me, and be sure of a re- 
turn. 

W.C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-lJnderwood, July 20, 1792. 

Dear Sir, — I Imve been long silent, and 
must now be short. My time since I wrote 
last has been almost wholly occupied in suf- 
fering. Either indisposition of my own, or 
of the dearest friend I have,* has so entirely 
engaged my attention, that, except the revis- 
ion of the two elegies you sent me long 
since, I have done nothing ; nor do I at pres- 
ent foresee the day when I shall be able to 
do anything. Should Jlrs. Unwin recover 
sufficiently to undertake a journey, I have 
jn-omised Mr. Hayley to close the summer 
with a visit to him at Eartham. At the 
best, therefore, I cannot e.xpect to proceed 
in my main business, till the approach of 
winter. I am thus thrown so much into ar- 
rear respecting Milton, that I already despair 
of being re.ady at the time appointed, and so 
I have told my employer. 

I need not say that the drift of this melan- 
choly preface is to apprize you that you must 
not ex|)ect despatch from me. Such expedi- 
tion as I can use I will, but I believe you 
must be very patient. 

It was only one year that I gave to draw- 
ing, for I found it an employment hurtful to 
my eyes, which have always been weak, and 
subject to inflammation. I finished my at- 
tempt in this way with three small land- 
scapes, which I presented to a lady. These 
may, perhaps, exist, but I have now no cor- 
respondence with the fair proprietor. Ex- 
cept these, there is nothing remaining to 
show that I ever aspired to such an accom- 
plishment. 

The hymns in the OIney collection marked 
(C) are all of my composition, except one, 
which bears tliat initial by a mistake of the 
printer. Not having the book at hand, I can- 
not now say which it is. 

Wishing you a pleasant time at Margate, 
and assuring you, that I shall receive, with 
great pleasure, any drawing of yours with 

• Mrs. I'nwin. 



412 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



which you may fovor me, and give it a dis- 
tinguished place in my very small collection, 
1 remain, dear sir, 

Mucli and sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 22, 1792. 
This important affair, my dear brother, is 
at last decided, and we are coming. Wednes- 
day se'nnight, if nothing oceur°to make a 
later day necessary, is the day fixed for our 
journey. Our rate of travelling must depend 
on Mary's ability to bear it. Our mode of 
travelling will occupy three days unavoida- 
bly, for we shall come in a coach. Abbot 
finishes my picture to-morrow ; on Wednes- 
day he returns to town, and is commis.sioned 
to order one down for us, with four steeds 
to draw it ; 

•' Hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, 
That cannot go but forty miles a day." 

Send us our route, for I am as ignorant of it 
ilmost as if I were in a strange country, 
hall reach St. Alban's, I suppose, the 



VV 



hrst day; say where we must finish our sec 
ond day's journey, and at wh.at inn we may 
best repose ? As to the end of the third 
day, we know where that will find us, viz., 
in the arms, and under the roof, of our be- 
loved Hayley. 

General Cowper, having heard a rumor of 
this intended migration, desires to meet me 
on the road, that we may once more see each 
other. He lives at Ham, near Kingston. 
Shall we go through Kingston or near it? 
For I would give him as little trouble as pos- 
sible, though he offers very kindly to come as 
far as Barnet for that purpose. Nor must I 
forget Carwardine, who so kindly desired to 
be informed what way we should go. On 
what point of the road will it be easiest for 
him to find us > On all these points you must 
be my oracle. My friend and brother, we 
shall overwhelm you with our numbers; this 
is all the trouble tli.at I have left. My Johnny 
of Norfolk, happy in the thought of accom- 
panying us, would be broken-hearted to be 
left behind. 

In the midst of all these solicitudes, I laugh 
to think what they are made of, and what an 
important thing it is for me to travel. Other 
men steal away from their homes silently, 
and make no disturbance, but when I move, 
houses are turned upside down, maids are 
turned out of their beds, all the counties 
through which I p.ass appear to be in an up- 
roar — Surrey greets me by the mouth of the 
General, and Esse.x by that of Carwardine. 
How strange does all this seem to a man 
who has seen no bustle, and made none for 
twenty years together ! 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO THE REV. WILLLAM BULL.* 

July 25, 1792. 

My dear Mr. Bull,— Engaged as I have 
been ever since I saw you, it was not possi- 
ble that I should write sooner ; and, bu.sy as 
I am at present, it is not without difhculty 
that I can write even now : but I prouiised 
you a letter, and must endeavor,at least, to be 
as good as my word. How do you imagine 
I have been occupied these last ten days? 
In sitting, not on cockatrice' eggs, nor yet to 
gratify a mere idle humor, nor because I was 
too sick to move; but because my cousin 
Johnson has an aunt who has a longing de- 
sire of my picture, and becau.se he \voiM, 
therefore, bring a painter from London to 
draw it. For this purpose I have been sit- 
ting, as I say, tliese ten days ; and am heart- 
ily glad th.at my sitting time is over. You 
have now, I know, a burning curiosity to 
learn two things, which I may choose whe- 
ther I will tell you or not ; First, who was 
the painter; and secondly, how he has suc- 
ceeded. The painter's n.ame is Abbot. You 
never heard of him, you say. It is very like- 
ly ; but there is, nevertheless, such a painter, 
and an excellent one he is. Multa sunt qu<c 
bonus Bernardus nee vidit, nee amlhil. To 
your second inquiry, I answer, that he has 
succeeded to admiration. The likeness is so 
strong, that when my friends enter the room 
where the picture is, they start, astonished to 
see me where they know I am not. Misera- 
ble man that you are, to be at Brighton in- 
stead of being here, to contemplate this 
prodigy of art, which, therefore, you can 
never see; for it goes to London next Mon- 
d.iy, to be suspended awhile at Abbot's ; and 
then proceeds into Norfolk, where it will he 
suspended forever. 

But the picture is not the enly prodigy I 
have to tell you of A greater belongs to 
me ; and one that you will hardly credit, even 
on my own testimony. We are on the eve 
of a journey, and a long one. On this verv 
day se'nnight we set out for Enrth.am, the 
seat of my brother bard, Mr. Hayley, on the 
other side of London, nobody knows where, 
a hundred and twenty miles off. Pr.ay for 
us, my friend, that we may have a safe going 
and return. It is a tremendous exploit, and 
I feel a thousand anxieties when I think of it. 
But a promise made to him when he was 
here, that we would go if we could, and a 
sort of persuasion that we can if we will, 
oblige us to it. The journey, and the change 
of air, together with the novelty to us of the 
scene to which we are going, may, I hope, be 
useful to us both; especially to Mrs. Unwin, 
who has most need of restor.afives. She 
sends her love to you and to Thomas, in 
which she is sincerely joined by 

Your affectionate W. C. 
* Private correspondence. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEV, ESQ. 

Wisloii, July29, ITOi. 

Through floods and flames to your retreat 

I win my dcsp'rate way. 
And when wo mitvt, if e'er wc meet, 

Will echo your huz/.a. 

You will wonder at the word desp'rate in 
the second lino, and at the if in the third : 
but could you have any conceiition of the 
fears 1 have liad to hustle with, of the dejec- 
tion of spirits that I have sull'ered eonecming' 
tliis journey, vou would wonder much more 
that 1 still courageously persevere in my reso- 
lution to undertake it. Fortunately for my 
intentions, it happens, that as the day ap- 
proaches my terrors abate: for had they con- 
tinued to be what they were a week since, I 
must, after all, have disappointed you ; and 
was actually once on the verge of doing it. 
1 have told you something of my nocturnal 
experiences, and assure you now, that tlu'V 
were hardly ever more terrific than on this oc- 
casion. Prayer has however opened my pas- 
sage at last, and obtained for me a degree of 
confidence that I trust will prove a comfort;i- 
ble viaticum to me all the way. On Wednes- 
day, therefore, we set forth. 

The terrors that I have spoken of would 
appear ridiculous to most, hut to you Ihey 
will not, for yon are a reasonable creature, 
and know well that, to whatever cause it be 
owing, (whether to constitution, or to God's 
express appointment) I am hunted by spir- 
itual hounds in the night season. I can- 
not help it. Vou will pity me, and wish it 
were otherwise ; and, though you may think 
there is much of the imaginary in it, will not 
deem it for that reason an evil less to be la- 
mented — so much for fears and distres.ses. 
Soon I hope they shall all have a joyful ter- 
mination, and I, my Mary, my Johnny, and 
my dog, be skipping with delight at Kartham ! 

Well 1 this picture is at last finished, and 
well finished, 1 can assure you. Every creii- 
ture that has seen it has been astonished at 
the resemblance. Sam's boy bowed to it, 
and Beau walked up to it, wagging his tail as 
he went, and evidently showing th.it he ac- 
knowledged its likeness to his master. It is 
a half-length, as it is technically but absurdly 
called : that is to say, it gives all bnt the 
foot and ankle. To-morrow it goes to 
town, and will hang some months at Ab- 
bot's, wlien it will be sent to its due destina- 
tion in Norfolk.* 

I hope, or rather wish, that at r'artham I 
may recover that habit of study which, invet- 
erate as it once seemed, I now seem to have 
lost — lost to such a degree that it is even 
painful to ine to lliink of what it will costmc 
to accjuire it again. 

Adieu! my dear, dear Hay ley : God give us 

* Tu Mr*. Bodham's. 



a happy meeting. Mary sends her love — she 
is in pretty good plight this morning, having 
slept well, and for her part, has no fears at 
all about the journey. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOH.N NEWTON.* 

July :W, 17!B. 

My dear Friend, — Like you, I am obliged 
to snatch short opportunities of correspond- 
ing with my friends : and to write what 1 can, 
not what I would. Your kindness in giving 
me the first letter after your return claims my 
thanks; and my tardiness to answer it would 
demand an apology, if, having been here, and 
witnessed how much my time is occupied in 
■attendance on my poor patient, you could 
possibly want one. She proceeds, I trust, in 
iier recovery : but at so slow a rate, that the 
difference made in a week is hardly percepti- 
ble to me, who am always with her. This 
last night li.as been the worst she has known 
since lu-r illness — entirely sleepless till seven 
in the morning. Such ill rest seems but an 
inditferent preparation for a long journey, 
which we purpose to undertake on VVedncs- 
day, when we set out for Eartham,on a visit 
to Mr. Hayley. The journey itself will, I 
hope, be useful to her ; and the air of the 
sea, blowing over the South Downs, to- 
gether with the novelty of the scene to us, 
will, I hope, be serviceable to us both. You 
m.ay iin.agine th.it we, who have been resident 
on one sjiot so many years, do not engage in 
such an enterprise withotit some anxiety. 
Persons accustomed to travel would make 
themselves merry with mine : it seems so 
disproportioned to the occasion. Once I 
have been on the point of determining not to 
go, and even since wc fixed the day: my 
troubles have been so insupportable. But it 
has been made a matter of much prayer, and 
at last it has pleased God to satisfy me, in 
some measure, that his will corresponds with 
our purpose, .and that He will .afford us his 
protection. You, I know, will not be un- 
mindful of us during our .absence from home; 
but will obtain for us, if your prayers can do 
it, all that we would ask for ourselves — the 
presence and favor of God, a salutary effect 
of our jourru'V, and a safe return. 

1 rejoiced, and had reason to do so, in your 
coming to Weston, for I think the Lord came 
with you. Not, indeed, to abide with me : 
not to restore me to that intercourse with 
llim which I enjoyed twenty years ago; bnt 
to awaken in me, however, more spiritual 
feeling than I have experienced, except in 
two instances, during all that time. The 
comforts that 1 h.id received j)nder your min- 
istry, in better days, all rushed upon my rec- 

» Privnlc &»rrespymlL'iic'.'. 



414 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ollection ; and, during two or three transient 
moments, seemed to be in a degree renewed. 
You will tell me that, transient as they were, 
they were yet evidences of a love that is not 
so : and I am desirous to believe it. 

With Mrs. Unwin's warm remembrances, 
and my cousin Johnson's best compliments, 
I am 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

P. S. — If I hear from you while I am 
abroad, your letter will find me at William 
Hayley's, Esq., Eartham, near Chichester. 
We propose to return in about a month. 



a paradise in which we dwell ; and our re- 
ception has been the kindest that it was pos- 
sible for friendship and hospitality to contrive. 
Our host mentions you with gresit respect, 
and bids me tell you that he esteems you 
highly. Jlrs. Unwin, who is, I think, in some 
points, already the better for her e.\cursioii, 
unites with mine her best compliments both 
to yourself and Mrs. Greatheed. I have 
much to see and enjoy before 1 can be per- 
fectly .apprized of all the delights of E.artham, 
and will therefore now subscribe myself 
Yours, my dear sir, 

With great sincerity, W. C. 



Cowper records the particulars of this visit 
in the following letters. 

TO THE REV. MR. GREATHEED. 

Eartham, Aug. 6, 1792. 

My dear Sir, — Having first thanked you 
for your affectionate and acceptable letter, I 
will proceed, as well as I can, to answer your 
equally affectionate request, that I would send 
you early news of our arrival at Eartham. 
Here we are in the most elegant mansion 
that I have ever inhabited, and surrounded 
by the most deliglitful pleasure-grounds that 
I have ever seen ; but which, dissipated as 
my powers of thought are at present, I will 
not undertake to describe. It shall suffice 
me to say, that they occupy three sides of a 
hill, which in Buckinghamshire might well 
pass for a mountain, and from the summit of 
which is beheld a most magnificent landscape 
bounded by the sea, and in one part by the 
Isle of Wight, which may also be seen plainly 
from the window of the library, in which I 
am writing. 

It pleased God to carry us both through 
the journey with far less difficulty and incon- 
venience than I expected. I began it indeed 
with a thousand fears, and when we arrived 
the first evening at Barnet, found myself 
oppressed in spirit to a degree that could 
hardly be exceeded. I saw iMrs. Unwin 
weary, as she miglit well be, and heard such 
noises, both within the house, and without, 
that I concluded she would get no rest. But 
I was mercifully disappointed. She rested, 
though not well, yet sufficiently ; and wlien 
we finished our next day's journey at Ripley, 
we were both in better condition, both of j 
body and mind, than on the day preceding. | 
At Ripley we found a quiet inn that housed, 
as it happened, that night, no company but 
ourselves. There we slept well, and rose 
perfectly refreshed ; and, except some terrors 
that I felt at p.assing over the Sussex hills 
by moonlight, nipt with little to complain of, 
till we arrived about ten o'clock at Eartham. 
Here we are as happy as it is in the power i 
of terrestrial good to m.ake us. It is almost , 



TO MRS. COURTENAY. 

Eartham, August 12, 1702. 

My dearest C.atharina, — Though I have 
travelled far, nothing did I see in my travels 
that surprised me half so agreeably as your 
kind letter; for high as my opinion of your 
good-nature is, I had no hopes of hearing 
from you till I should have written first; a 
pleasure which I intended to allow myself 
the first opportunity. 

After three days' confinement in a coach, 
and suffering as we went all that could be 
suffered from excessive heat and dust, we 
found ourselves late in the evening at the 
door of our friend Hayley. In every other 
respect the journey was extremely pleasant. 
At the Mitre, in Barnet, where we lodged 
the first evening, we found our friend Rose, 
who had walked thither from his house in 
Chancerv-lane to meet us : and at Kingston, 
where we dined the second day, I found my 
old and much-valued friend, General Cowper, 
wliom I had not seen in thirty years, and 
but for this journey should never have seen 
ao-ain. Mrs. Unwin, on whose account I had 
a thousand fears, before we set out, suft'ered 
as little from fatigue as myself, and begins, I 
hope, already to feel some beneficial eflects 
from the air of Eartham, and the exercise 
that she takes in one of the most delightful 
pleasure-grounds in the world. They oe- ' 
eupy three sides of a hill, lofty enough to 
command a view of the sea, which .skirts the 
horizon to a length of many miles, with the 
Isle of Wight at the end of it. The inland 
scene is equally beautiful, consisting of a 
large and deep valley well cultivated, and 
enclosed by nuignificent hills, all crowned 
with wood. I had, for my part, no concep- 
tion that a poet could be the owner of such 
a p.ir.adi.se ; and his house is as elegant as his 
scenes are charming.* 

But think not, my dear Catharina, that 
.amidst all these beauties 1 shall lose the re- 
membrance of the peaceful, but less splendid, 
Weston. Your precincts will be as dear to 

* Tliis residence afterwards became the property of the 
late William lluskissun, Esq. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



415 



me as ever, when I return ; though when that 
d;iy will arrive I know not, our host being 
dctermini'd, as I plainly see, to keep us as 
long as possilile. (iive my hi'st love to your 
husband. Thank bini most kindly for his at- 
tention to the old bard of (ireoce, and pardon 
me that I do not now send you an epitaph 
for Fop. I am not sufficiently recollected to 
compose even a. bagatelle at present; but in 
due time you shall receive it. 

Hayley, who will some time or other I 
hope see you at Weston, is already prepared 
to love you botii, and, being passionately 
fond of music, longs much to hear you. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL KOSE, E.SQ. 

Earlhnm, Aug. 14, ITSi 

My dear Friend, — Romney ishere: it would 
add much to my happiness if you were of the 
party; I have prepared Hayley to think highly, 
that is, justly, of you, and the time, I hope, 
will come when you will supersede all need 
of my recommendation. 

Sirs. Unwin gathers strength. I have in- 
deed great hopes, from the air and e.xercise 
which this fine season aftbrds her opportunity 
to use, that ere we return she will be herself 
again. \V. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Eartham, Avi?. 18, 1792. j 
Wishes in this world are generally vain, ', 
and in the ne.\t we shall make none. Every 
day I wish you were of the party, knowing 
how happy you would be in a place where | 
we have nothing to do but enjoy beautiful 
scenery and converse agreeably. 

Mrs. Unwin's health continues to improve : 
and even I, who was well when I came, find 
myself still better. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. COUETENAr. 

Eartham, Aug. 25, 1792. 
Without waiting for an answer to my last, 
I send my dear Catharina the epitaph she 
desired, composed as well as I could compose 
it in a place where every object, being still 
new to me, distracts my attention, and makes 
me as awkward at verse as if I had never 
dealt in it. Here it is. 

EPITAPH ON FOP; 

A DOG, BKLO.NGING TO I. IDY TIIROCK.MOBTON. 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 
Here moulders one whose Iwuos some honor 

claim ! 
No sycophant, although of spaniel race! 
And though no bound, a martyr to the chase ! 



Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets rejoice ! 
Vour haunts no longer echo to his voice. 
This record of his fate exulting view, 
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you ! 

" Yes !" the indignant shade of Fop replies, 
" And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies !" 

I am here, as I told you in my last, de- 
lightfully situ.ated, and in the enjoyment of 
all tliat the most friendly hospitality can im- 
part ; yet do 1 neither forget Weston, nor 
my friends at W'eslon: on the contrary, I 
have at length, though much and kindly 
pressed to make a longer stay, determined 
on the day of our departure — on the seven- 
teenth day of September we shall leave 
Eartham ; four days will be necessary to 
bring us honie again, for I am under a 
promise to General Cowper to dine with him 
on the way, wliich cannot be done comfort- 
ably, either to him or to ourselves, unless we 
sleep that night at Kingston. 

The air of this place has been, I believe, 
beneficial to us both. I indeed was in toler- 
able health before I set out, but have ac- 
quired since I came, both a better appetite 
and a knack of sleeping almost as mneh in a 
single night as formerly in two. Whether 
double quantities of that article will be favor- 
able to me as a poet, time must show. About 
myself, however, I care little, being made 
of materials so tough, as not to threaten me 
even now, at the end of so many tiistrmns, 
with anything like a speedy dissolution. Jly 
chief concern has been about Mrs. Unwin, 
and my chief comfort at this moment i.s, 
that she likewise has received, I hope, con- 
siderable benefit by the journey. 

Tell my dear George that I begin to long 
to behold him again, and, did it not savor of 
ingratitude to the friend under whose roof I 
am so h.ippy at present, should be impatient 
to find myself once more under yours. 

Adieu ! my dear Catharina. I have noth- 
ing to add in the way of news, except that 
Romney has drawn me in crayons, by the 
suffrage of all here, extremely like. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS.* 

Eartliani, Aug. 26, 1792. 
Jly dear Sir, — Your kind but very affect- 
ing letter found me not at Weston, to which 
place it was directed, but in a bower of inv 
friend Hayley's garden at Eartham, where I 
was sitting with Mrs. Unwin. We both 
knew the moment we .saw it from whom it 
came, and, observing a red seal, both eom- 

* This amiable .iiul much rsfecmod chamcter, and en- 
deared as one of the rrienil;* of CoW[kt, was burn at 
Hishopstone in Supeex, in 1763. lie was elected Pro- 
fe!«or of Poetry at Oxford in 1793, and died at a prema- 
ture a^e, ill IHOl. Ilifl claims as an author principally 
rest on his once popular poem of tho " Villa^^e Curat*-'.'' 
He also wrule '' A Viiidicalion <if the University of Ox- 
ford from the AHper-fions of Mr. tJibboiu" ilia worka 
are publi-^'hed in 3 vola. 



416 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



forted ourselves that all was well at Bur- 
wash : but we soon felt that we were not 
railed to rejoice, but to mourn with you ;* 
we do indeed sincerely mourn with you, and, 
if it will afford you any consolation to know- 
it, you may be assured that every eye licre 
lias testified what our hearts have suffered 
for you. Your loss is great, and your dis- 
position I perceive such as exposes you to 
i'eel the wliole weight of it : I will not add 
to your sorrow by a vain attempt to assuage 
it ; your own good sense, and the piety of 
your principles, will, of course, suggest to 
you the most powerful motives of acquies- 
cence in the will of God. You will be sure 
to recollect that the stroke, severe as it is, is 
not the stroke of an enemy, but of a father; 
and will find I trust, hereafter, Ihnt like a father 
he has done you good by it. Tiiousands 
have been able to say, and myself as loud as 
any of them, it has been good for me that I 
was afflicted ; but time is necessary to work 
us So this persuasion, and in due time it 
shall be yours. Mr. Hayley, who tenderly 
sympathizes with you, has enjoined me to 
send you as pressing an invitation as I can 
frame, to join me at this place. I have every 
motive to wish your consent; botli your 
benefit and my own, wliich, I believe, would 
be abundantly answered by your coming, 
ought to make me eloquent in such a cause. 
Here you will find silence and retirement in 
perfection, wlicn you would seek them ; and 
here such company as I have no doubt would 
suit you, all cheerful, but not noisy ; and all 
alike disposed to love you : you and I seem 
to have here a fair opportunity of meeting. 
It were a pity we should be in the same 
county and not come together. I am here 
till tlie seventeenth of September, an interval 
that will afford you time to make the neces- 
sary arrangements, and to gratify me at last 
with an interview, which I have long desired. 
Let me hear from you soon, tliat I may have 
double pleasure, the pleasure of expecting 
as well as that of seeing you. 

Jlrs. Unwin, I thank God, though still a 
sufferer by her last illness, is much better, 
and has received considerable benefit by the 
air of Eartliam. She adds to mine her affec- 
tionate compliments, and joins me and Hay- 
ley in this invitation. 

Mr. Romney is here, and a young man a 
cousin of mine. I tell you who we are, that 
you may not be afraid of us. 

Adieu ! May the Comforter of all the 
afllicted, who seek him, be yours ! God 
bless you ! W. C. 

TO LADY HESKETH. 

Eiirlham, Aug. M, 1792. 
I know not how it is, my dearest coz., but, 
* Mr Ilurdis liad just lost a fivorite sistt-r. 



in a new scene and surrounded with strange 
objects, I find my powers of thinking dissi- 
pated to a degree, that makes it difficult to me 
even to write a letter,and even a letter to you ; 
but such a letter as I can, I will, and iuive 
the fairest chance to succeed this morning, 
Hayley, Romney, Hayley's son, and Beau, 
being all gone together to the sea for bathing. 
The sea, you must know, is nine miles off', .so 
that, unless stupidity prevent, I shall liave 
opportunity to write not only to you, but to 
poor Hurdis also, who is broken-hearted for 
the loss of his favorite sister, lately dead ; 
and whose letter, giving an account of it, 
which I received yesterday, drew tears from 
the eyes of all our party. My only comfort 
respecting even yourself is, that you write 
in good spirits, and assure me that you arc 
in a state of recovery ; otherwise I should 
mourn not only for Hurdis, but for myself, 
lest a certain event should reduce me, and in 
a short time too, to a situation as distressing 
as his; for though nature designed you only 
for my cousin, you have had a sister's place 
in my affections ever since I knew you. The 
reason is, I suppose, that, having no sister, 
the daughter of my own mother, I tliought it 
proper to have one, the daugliter of yours. 
Certain it is, that I can by no means afford 
to lose you, and that, unless you will be 
upon honor with me to give me always a 
true account of yourself, at least when we 
are not together, I shall alw.ays be unhapjiy, 
because always suspicious that you deceive 
me. 

Now for ourselves. I am, without tiie 
least dissimulation, in good health ; ray spir- 
its are about .as good as you have ever seen 
them ; and if increase of appetite, and a 
double portion of sleep, be advantageous, 
such are the advantages that I have received 
from this migration. As to that gloominess 
of mind, which I Iiave had these twenty 
years, it cleaves to me even here, and, could 
I be translated to Paradise, unless I left my 
body behind me, would cleave to me even 
there also. It is my companion for life, and 
nothing will ever divorce us. So mucii for 
myself. Mrs. Unwin is evidently Die better 
lor her jaunt, tliough by no means as she 
was before this last attack; still wanting 
help when she would rise from her seat, ami 
a support in walking ; but she is able to ii.-c 
more exercise than she could at home, ami 
moves with rather a less tottering step. God 
knows wliat lie designs for me, but when I 
see tliose who are dearer to me than myself 
distempered and enfeebled, and myself as 
strong as in the days of my youth, I tremble 
for the solitude in which a few years may 
place me. I wish her and you to die before 
me, but not till I am more likely to follow 
immediately. Enough of this ! 

Roinnev has draw-n me in crayons, and, in 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



417 



the opinion of all here, with his best hand, 
and with the most exact resemblance pos- 
sible* 

The seventeenth of September is the day 
on which I intend to leave Earthani. We 
shall then have been six weeks resident 
here: a holiday time long enongh for a man 
who has much to do. And now, farewell ! 

W. C. 

P. S. Hayley, whose love for me seems 
to be truly that of a brother, has given me 
liis picture, drawn by Romney, about fifteen 
years ago ; an admirable likeness. 



TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.f 

Eiirlhain, Sept., 1792. 

Dear Madam, — Your two counsellors are 
of one mind. We both are of opinion that 
you will do well to make your second vol- 
ume a suitable companion to the first, by 
embellishing it in the same manner ; and 
have no doubt, considering the well-deserved 
popularity of your verse, that the expense 
will be amply refunded by the public. 

I would give yon, madam, not my counsel 
only, but consolation also, were I not dis- 
qualified for that delightful service by a 
great dearth of it in my own experience. I 
too often seek but cannot find it. Of this, 
however, I can assure yon, if that may at all 
comfort you, that both my friend llayley and 
myself most truly sympathize with you un- 
der all your sufferings. Neither have you, I 
am persu.ided, in any degree lost the interest 
you always had in him, or your claim to any 
service that it may l)e in his power to render 
you. Had you no other title to his esteem, 
his respect for your talents, and his feelings 
for your misfortunes, must ensure to you 
the friendship of such a man forever. I 
know, however, there are seasons when, 
look which way we will, we see the same 
dismal gloom enveloping all objects. This 
is itself an affliction; and the worse, because 
it makes us think ourselves more unhappy 
than we are : and at such a season it is, I 
doubt not, th.at you suspect a diminution of 
our friend's zeal to serve i^u. 

I was much struck by an expression in 
your letter to Hayley, where you say that 
you " will endeavor to take an interest in 
green leaves again." This seems the sound 
of my own voice reflected to me from a dis- 
tance ; I have. so often had the same thought 
and desire. A day scarcely p-asses, at this 
season of the year, when I do not contem- 
plate the trees so soon to be stript, and say, 
'• Perhaps I shall never see you clothed 
again." Every year, as it passes, makes this 
expectation more reasonable ; and the year 

* This portrail is now in tho jras^aslon of Dr. Juhnson's 
family. 
t Private correspondence. 



with me cannot be very distant, when the 
event will verify it. Well, may God grant 
us a good hope of arriving in due time 
where the leaves never fall, and all will be 
right ! 

Jlrs. Unwin, I think, is a little better than 
wlien you saw her; but still so feeble as to 
keep me in a state of continual apprehen- 
sion. I live under the point of a sword sus- 
pended by a hair. Adieu, my dear madam ; 
and believe me to remain your sincere and 
afJ'ectionate humble servant, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Eartliam, Sept. 9, 1792. 
My dearest Cousin, — I determine, if pos- 
sible, to send you one more letter, or at 
least, if possible, once more to send you 
something like one, before we leave Earth- 
am. But I am in truth so unaccountably 
local in the use of my pen, that, like the 
man in the fable, who could leap well no- 
where but at Rhodes, I seem incapable of 
writing at all, except at Weston. This is, 
as I have already told you, a delightful 
place ; more beautiful scenery I have never 
beheld, nor expect to behold ; but the ch.arms 
of it, uncommon as they are, have not in the 
least alienated my affections from Weston. 
The genius of that place suits me better, it 
has an air of snug concealment, in which a 
disposition like mine feels peculiarly grati- 
(ied ; whereas here I see from every window 
woods like forests, and hills like mountains, 
a wildness, in short, that rather increases my 
natural melancholy, and wliicli, were it not 
for the agreeables 1 find within, would soon 
convince me that mere ch.inge of place can 
avail me little. Accordingly, I have not 
looked out for a house in Sussex, nor shall. 

Tiie intended day of our departure contin- 
ues to be the seventeenth. I hope to re-con- 
duct Mrs. Unwin to the Lodge with her 
health considerably mended ; hut it is in the 
article of speech chiefly, and in her powers 
of walking, that she is sensible of much im- 
provement. Iler sight and her hand still fail 
her, so that she can neither read nor work ; 
both mortifying circumstances to her, who is 
never willingly idle. 

On the eighteenth I purpose to dine with 
the General, anil to rest that night at King- 
ston, but the pleasure I shall h.ave in the in- 
terview will hardly be greater than the pain 
I shall feel at the end of it, for we shall part, 
probably to meet no more. 

Johnny, I know, has told you that Mr. 
riurdis is here. Distressed by the lo.ss of 
his sister, he has renounced the place where 
she died forever, and is about to enter on a 
new course of life at Oxford. You would 
admire him much, he is gentle in hi« manners, 
and delicate in his person, resembling our 
•27 



418 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



poor friend, Unwin, both in face and figure, 
more than any one I have seen. But he has 
not, at least lie has not at present, his vi- 
vacity. 

I liave corresponded since I came herewith 
^Irs. Courtenay, and had yesterday a very 
kind letter from her. 

Adieu, my dear ; may God bless you. 
Write to me as soon as you can after the 
Iwontieth. I shall then be at Weston, and 
indulging myself in the hope that I shall ere 
long see you there also. W. C. 

Hayley, speaking of the manner in which 
they employed their time at Eartham, ob- 
serves, " Homer was not the immediate object 
of our attention. The morning hours that 
we could bestow upon books were chiefly 
devoted to a complete revisal and correction 
of all the translations, which my friend had 
finished, from the Latin and Italian poetry of 
Milton: and we generally amused ourselves 
after dinner in forming together a rapid met- 
rical version of Andreini's Adamo.'^ He 

* This is one of those scarce and curious books which 
is not to be procured without difficulty. It is a dramatic 
representation of the Fall, remarkable, not so much for 
any peculiar vigor, either in Ilie concepliim or execution 
of the plan, as fnr exliibitin^^ tliiit nmile of celebrating 
sacred subjects, IoimutIv kimun uiidrr the appellation 
of mysteries. A further interest is also attached to it 
from the popular persuasion that this work first sug- 
gested to Milton the design of his Paradise Lost. There 
is the same allegorical imagery, and sufficient to form 
the frame-work of that immortal poem. Johnson, in his 
Life of Milton, alludes to the report, without arriving at 
any decided conclusion on the subject, but states, that 
Milton's original intention was to have formed, not a nar- 
rative, but a dramatic work, and that he subsequently 
began to reduce it to its present form, about the year 
l(i55. Some sketches of this plan are to be seen in the 
library of Trinity college, Cambridge. Dr. Joseph War- 
ton and Hayley both incline to the opinion tliat the 
Adamo of Andreini first suggested the hint of the Para- 
dise Lost. 

That the Italians claim this honor for their countryman 
is evident from the following passage from Tiraboschi, 
which, to those of om* readers who are conversant with 
that language, will be an interesting quotation. "Cerlo 
benche I/Adamo dell Andreini sia iu confronto dell 
Paradiso Perdutocibchee il Poemadi Ennio in confronto 
a quel di Virgilio, nondimeno non pub negarsi che le 
ideegigantesche,delle quali I' autorc Inglese haabbellito 
il suo Poema, di Satana,chc entra nel Paradiso terrestre, 
e arde d' invidia al vedere la felicita dell' l^omo, del 
congresso de Demonj, della battagliadegli Angioli ccuitra 
Liicifero, e piu altre sommiglianti immagini veggunsi 
nelP Jldamo adombrate per luudo. che a me sembra molto 
credibile, che anchc il Milton dalle immondezze, sc cosi 
e lecito dire, dell' Andreini raccogliesse I'oro, di cui 
adorno il suo Poema. Per altro JJ' Adamo delP Andreini, 
benche abbia alcuni tratli di pessimo gusto, ne ha aJtri 
ancora, che si posson proporre corae niodello di exce!- 
lenle poesia." 

It is no dispara.;einr-nt to Milton to have been indebted 
to the conceptinris nf unnthcr for the origin of his great 
undertakuig. If Milton borrowed, it was to repay with 
lai'geness of interest. The only use that he made of the 
suggestion was, to stamp upon it the immortality of bis 
own creative genius, and to produce a work which is des- 
tined to smvive to the latest period of British literature. 

For farther information on this subject, we refer the 
reader to the " Inquiry into the Origin of Paradiso Lost," 
in Todd's excellent edition of Milton; and in llayley's 
Life of Milton wdl be found Cowper's and Hayley's joint 
version of the fii-st three acts of the Adamo above men- 
tioned. 

In addition to the Adamo of Andreini, Milton is said 
to have been indebted to the Dn Bartas of Sylvester, and 
to the Adamus Exul of Grotius. Hayley, in hia Life of 



also mentions the interest excited in Cow- 
per's mind by his son, a fine boy of eleven 
years, whose uncommon talents and engaging 
qualities endeared him so much to the poet, 
that he allowed and invited him to criticise 
his Homer. A specimen of this juvenile 
critic-ism will appear in the future correspond- 
ence. This interesting boy, with a young 
companion, employed themselves regularly 
twice a day in drawing Mrs. Unwin in a 
commodious garden-chair, round the airy hill 
at Eartham. "To Cowper and to me," he 
adds, " it was a very pleasing spectacle to see 
the benevolent vivacity of blooming youth 
thus continually laboring for the ease, health, 
and amusement of disabled age." 

The reader will perceive from the last 
letter, that Cowper, amused as he was with 
the scenery of Sussex, began to feel the 
powerful attraction of home. 



TO MRS. COURTENAY,* UT:STON-UNDERWOOD.f 
Eartham, Sept. 10, 1792. 

My dear Catharina, — I am not so uncour- 
teous a knight as to leave your last kind 
letter, and the last I hope that I shall receive 
for a long time to come, without an attempt, 
at least, to acknowledge and to send you 
something in the shape of an answer to it; 
but, having been obliged to dose myself last 
night with laudanum, on account of a little 
nervous fever, to which I am always subject, 
and for which I find it the best remedy, I feel 
myself this morning particularly under the in- 
fluence of Lethean vapors, and, consequently, 
in danger of being uncommonly stupid! 

You could hardly have sent me intelligence 
that would have gratified me more than that 
of my two dear friends. Sir John and Lady 
Throckmorton, having departed from Paris 
two days before the terrible 10th of August. 
I have had many anxious thoughts on their 

Milton, enumerates also a brief list of Italian writers, 
who may possibly have thrown some suggestions into 
the mind of the poet. But the boldest act of iniptisition 
ever recorded in the annals of literature, is the charge 
preferred against Milton by Lauder, who endeavored to 
prove that he was "the worst and greatest of all plagia- 
ries." He asserted that " Milton had borrowed the sub- 
stance of whole books together, and that there was 
scarcely a single thought or sentiment in his poem which 
he had not stolen from some author or other, uotwilh- 
standing his vain pretence to thhiffs iinnttcmpud yet in 
prose or rhyme.'''' In support of this charge, be was base 
enough to corrupt the text of those poets, whom he pro- 
duced as evidences against the originality of Milton, by 
interpolating several verses either of his own fabrication, 
or from tho Latin translation of Paradise Lost, by Wil- 
liam Hog. This gross libel he entitled an "Essay un 
Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns ;" and so far 
imposed on Dr. Johnson, by his representations, as to 
prevail upon him to furnish a preface to his work. Tho 
public are indebted to Dr. Douglas, the Bishop of Salis- 
bury, for first detecting this imposture, in a pamphlet tn- 
tilled " Milton vindicated from the charge of Plagiarism 
brought against him by Mr. Lauder." Thus exposed to 
infamy and contempt, he made a oublic recantation of 
his error, and soon aRer quitted England for the West 
Indies, where he died in 1771. 

* Now Dowager Lady Throckmortoo. 

t Private correspondence. 



jiccount; and am truly happy to lenm that 
they liave sought a more peaceful region, 
wliile it nas yet permitted them to do so. 
They will not, I trust, revisit those seenes of 
tumult and horror while they shall eontinue 
to merit that description. We are here all 
of one Blind respecting the cause in which 
the Parisians are engaged ; wish them a free 
people, and as happy as they can wish them- 
selves. But their conduct lias not always 
pleased us; we are shocked at their sangui- 
nary proceedings, and hegin to fear, myself 
in particulnr, that they will prove themselves 
unworthy, because incapable of enjoying it, 
of the inestimable blessing of liberty. My 
daily toast is, Sobriety and freedom to the 
French ; for they seem as destitute of the 
former as they are eager to secure the latter. 

We still hold our purpose of leaving Eartli- 
am on the seventeenth ; and again my fears 
on Mrs. Unwin's aeeount begin to trouble 
me; but they are now not quite so reason- 
able as in the first instance. If she could 
bear the fatigue of travelling then, she is 
more equ.il to it at present; and, supposing 
that nothing happens to alarm her, which is 
very probable, may l)e expected to reach 
Weston in much better condition than when 
she left it. Her improvement, however, is 
chiefly in her looks, and in the articles of 
speaking .and walking; for she can neither 
rise from her chair without help, nor walk 
without a support, nor read, nor use her 
needle. Give my love to the good doctor, 
and make him acquainted with the state of 
Ms patient, since he, of all men, seems to 
have the best right to know it. 

I am proud that yo\i are pleased with the 
Epitaph* 1 sent you, and shall be still prouder 
to see it perpetuated by the chisel. It is all 
that I have done since here I came, and all 
that I have been able to do. I wished, in- 
deed, to have requited Romney, for his well- 
drawn copy of tne, in rhyme ; and have more 
than once or twice attempted it ; but 1 find, 
like the man in the fable, who could leap 
only at Rhodes, that verse is almost impossi- 
ble to me. except at Weston. — Tell my friend 
George that I am every d.ay mindful of him, 
and always love him ; and hid him by no 
means to vex himself about the tardiness of 
.^iidrcws.f Remember inc afl'ectionately to 
William, and to Pitcairn, whom I shall hope 
to find with you at my return ; and, should 
you see Mr. Buchanan, to him also. I have 
now charged you with commissions enow, 
and having ad<!e<l Mrs. Unwin's best compli- 
ments, and told you that I long to see you 
again, will conclude myself, 
My dear Catharinji, 

Most truly yours, W. C. 

• On Fop. Lady Throcttmorton's dog. 
t A stonp-iTiru*on, who wus makiug a pedestal for an 
antique bust of llumer. 



Their departure from Eartham was a scene 

of afl'ecting interest, and a perfect contrast to 
tlie gaiety of tlicir arrival. An.xious to re- 
lieve the inind of Ilayley from any apprehen- 
sion tor llieir .s.-ifety, Cowper addressed to 
him the following letter from Kingston. 

TO VnLLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

The .«un, at Kingston, Sept. 18, 1792. 

My dear Brother, — With no sinister acci- 
dent to retard or terrify us, we find ourselves 
at a quarter before one, arrived safe at King- 
ston. I left you with a heavy heart, and 
with a heavy heart took leave of our dear 
Tom,* at the bottom of the chalk-hill. But, 
soon after this last separation, my troubles 
gushed from my eyes, and then I was better. 

We must now prepare for our visit to the 
General. I add no more, therefore, than our 
dearest remembrances and pi'ayers that God 
may bless you and yours, and rew'ard you 
an hundred-fold for all your kindness. Tell 
Tom I shall always hold him dear for his af- 
fectionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. From 
her heart the memory of him can never be 
erased. Johnny loves you all, and has his 
share in all these acknowledgnient.s. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. 21, ITiK. 
My dear Hayley, — Chaos himself, even the 
chaos of Milton, is not surrounded with more 
confusion, nor h.a.s a niind more completely 
I in a hubbub, than I experience at the present 
moment. At our first arrival, after long ab- 
1 sence, we find a hundred orders to servants 
necessary, a thousand things to be restored 
j to their proper places, and an endless variety 
I of minutia! to be adjusted; which, though 
I individually of little importance, are inomen- 
, tons in the aggregate. In these circumstan- 
I ees I find myself so indisposed to writing, 
that, save to yourself, I would on no account 
attempt it ; but to you I will give such a re- 
cital as I can of all that has p.assed since I 
sent you that short note from Kingston, 
knowing that, if it be a perplexed recital, you 
will consider the cause and pardon it. 1 will 
hegin with a remark in which I am inclined 
to think you will agree with me, that there 
is sometimes more true heroism passing in a 
corner, and on occasions that make no noise 
in the world, than has often been exercised 
by those whom that world esteems her 
greatest heroes, and on occa.sions the most 
illustrious. I hope .so at least; for all the 
heroism I have to boast, and all the oppor- 
tunities I have of displaying any, are of a 
priviite nature. After writing the note, I 
immediately began to prepare for my ap. 



420 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



pointed visit to Ham ; but tlie struggles that 
1 liad witli my own spirit, laboring as I did 
under the most dreadful dejection, are never 
to be told. I would have given the world to 
have b*n excused. I went, however, and 
carried my point against myself, vvitli a heart 
riven asunder — I have reasons for all this 
anxiety, which I cannot relate now. Tlie 
\ isit, iiowever passed off well, and we re- 
turned in the dark to Kingston ; I, with a 
lighter heart than I had known since my de- 
parture from Eartliam, and Mary too, for slie 
had suffered iiardly less tlian myself, and 
chietly on my account. Tliat night we rested 
•well in our inn, and at twenty minutes after 
eight next morning set off for London ; ex- 
actly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door ; we 
drank a dish of chocolate witli him, and pro- 
ceeded, Mr. Rose riding with us as far as St. 
Alban's. From this time we met with no 
impediment. In the dark, and in a storm, at 
eight at niglit, we found ourselves at our 
own back-door. Mrs. Unwin was very near 
slipping out of the chair in whicli she was 
taken from the chaise, but at last was landed 
safe. We all liave had a good night, and 
are all well this morning. 

God bless you, my dearest brother. 

W. C. 



TO WaLLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 2, 1792. 

My dear Haylcy, — A bad night, succeeded 
by an east wind, and a sky all in sables, have 
such an effect on my spirits, that, if I did not 
consult my own comfort more ti<jin yours, I 
should not write to-day, for I shall not enter- 
tain you much ■ yet your letter, though con- 
taining no \ery pleasant tidings, has afforded 
me some relief. It tells me, indeed, that you 
have been dispirited yourself, and that poor 
little Tom, the faithful 'squire of my Mary, 
has been seriously indisposed. All this 
grieves me : but then there is a warmth of 
heart and a kindness in it that do me good. 
I will endeavor not to repay you in notes 
of sorrow and despondence, thougli all my 
sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one 
day excepted, I have not seen the day when 
I have been cheerful since I left you. My 
spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower 
than they were ; the approach of winter is 
perhaps the cause, and if it is, I have nothing 
better to expect for a long time to come. 

Yesterday was a day of assignation w'llh 
myself, the day of which I said some days 
before it came, when that day comes I will 
begin my dissertations. Accordingly, when 
it came, I prepared to do so ; filled a letter- 
case with fresh paper, furnished myself with 
a pretty good pen, and replenished my ink- 
bottle ; but, iiarlly from one cause, and partly 
from another, chiefly, however, from distress 



and dejection, after writing and obliterating 
about six lines, in the composition of which 
I spent ne.ar an hour, I was obliged to relin- 
quish the attempt. An attempt so unsuc- 
cessful could have no other effect than to dis- 
hearten me, and it has had that effect to such 
a degree, that I know not when I shall find 
courage to make another. At present I shall 
certainly abstain, since at present I cannot 
well afford to expose myself to the danger 
of a fresh mortification. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 13, ITOS. 

I began a letter to you yesterday, my 
dearest brother, and proceeded through two 
sides of my sheet, but so much of my ner- 
vous fever found its way into it, that, looking 
over it this morning, I determined not to 
send it. 

I have risen, though not in good spirits, 
yet in better than I generally do of late, and 
therefore will not address you in the melan- 
choly tone that belongs to my worst feelings. 

I began to be restless about your portrait, 
and to say, how long shall I have to wait for 
it? I wished it here for many reasons; the 
sight of it will be a comfort to me, for I not 
only love but am proud of you, as of a con- 
quest made in my old age. Johnny goes to 
town on Monday, on purpose to call on 
Romney, to whom he shall give all proper 
information concerning its conveyance hither. 
The name of a man whom I esteem as I do 
Romney, ought not to be unmusical in my 
ears ; but his name will be so till I shall have 
paid him a debt justly due to him, by doing 
such poetical honors to it as I intend. 
Heaven knows when that intention will be 
executed, for the muse is still as obdurate 
and as coy as ever. 

Your kind postscript is just arrived, and 
gives me great pleasure. When I cannot see 
you myself, it seems some comfort, however, 
that yon have been seen by another known 
to me ; and who will tell me in a few days 
that he has seen you. Your wislies to dis- 
perse my melancholy would, I am sure, pre- 
vail, did that event depend on the warmth 
and sincerity with \\hicli you frame them ; 
but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, 
and those the most fervent that could be 
made, so many years, that the case seems 
hopeless. But no more of this at present. 

Your verses to Austen arc as sweet as the 
honey that they accompany : kind, friendly, 
witty, and elegant ! When shtiU I be able to 
do the like ? Perhaps when my Mary, like 
your Tom, shall cease to be an invalid, I 
may recover a power, at least, to do some- 
thing. I sincerely rejoice in the dear little 
man's restoration. My Mary continues, 1 
hope, to mend a little. W. C. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



421 



TO MRS. KING.* 

Oct. 14. IT.ti. 

My dear Matlara, — Your kind inquiries af- 
ter mine and Mrs. Unwin's liealtli will not 
permit me to be silent; tliougli I am and 
iLlve long been so indisposed to writing, that 
even a letter has almost overtasked me. 

Your last but one found me on the point 
of setting out for Susse.x, whither I went 
with Mrs. Unwin, on a visit to my friend, Mr. 
Hayley. We spent six weeks at Earthani, 
and returned on the nineteenth of Septem- 
ber. I h;id hopes that ehange of air and 
change of scene might be serviceable both 
to my poor invalid and me. She, I hope, 
has reeeivt.'d some beneht ; and I am not the 
worse for it myself; but, at the same time, 
must acknowledge that 1 cannot boast of 
much amendment. The time we spent there 
could not fail to pass as agreeably as her 
weakness, and my spirits, at a low ebb, 
would permit. Hayley is one of the most 
agreeable men, as well as one of the most 
cordial friends. His house is elegant ; his 
library large, and well chosen; and he is 
surrounded by the most delightful scenery. 
But I have made the experiment only to 
prove, what indeed I knew before, that crea- 
tures are physicians of little value, and that 
health and cure are from God only. Hence- 
forth, therefore, I shall wait for those bless- 
ings from Him, and expect them at no other 
hand. lu the meantime, I have tlie comfort 
to be able to tell you that Mrs. Unwin, on 
the whole, is restored beyond the most san- 
guine expectations I had when I wrote last : 
and that, as to myself, it is not much other- 
wise with me than it has been these twenty 
years ; excej)! that this season of the year is 
always unfavorable to my spirits. 

I rejoice that you have had the plea.sure of 
another interview with Mr. Martyn : and am 
glad that the triHes I have sent you afl'orded 
him any amusement. This letter has already 
given you to understand that I am .-it present 
no artificer of verse ; and that, eonsc()nently, 
I have nothing new to communicate. When 
I have, I shall do it to none more readily than 
to yourself. 

My dear madam, 

Very affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Oct. 18, I79a 

My dear Friend, — I thought that the won- 
der had been all on my side, having been 
employed in wondering at your .silence, as 
long as you at mine. Soon alter our arrival 
at Eartham, I received a letter from you, 
which I answered, if not by the return of tlie 

* Private correspondence. 



post, at least in a day or two. Not that I 
should have insisted on the ceremonial of 
letter for letter, during so long a period, 
could 1 have found leisure to double your 
debt; but while there, I had no opportunity 
for writing, except now and then a short one ; 
for we In-eakfasted early, studied Milton as 
soon as breakfast was over, and continued in 
that employment till Mrs. Unwin came forth 
from her chamber, to whom all the rest of 
my time was necessarily devoted. Our re- 
turn to Weston was on the nineteenth of 
last month, according to your information. 
You will naturally think that, in the interval, 
I must have h.id sufficient leisure to give you 
notice of our safe arrival. Hut the fact has 
been otherwise. I have neither been well 
myself, nor is Mrs. Unwin, though better, so 
much improved in her health as not still to 
require my continual assistance. Jly disorder 
has been tlie old one, to which I have been 
subject so many years, and especially about 
this season — a nervous fever; not', indeed, 
so oppressive as it has sometimes proved, 
but sufficiently alarming both to !\Ir.s. Unwin 
and myself, and such as made it neilher easy 
nor proper for me to make much use of mv 
pen while it continued. At present I am 
tolerably free from it; a blessing for which 
I believe myself partly indebted to the use 
of James's powder, in small quantities; and 
partly to a small qu.antity of laudanum, 
taken every night; but chiefly to a manifes- 
tation of (jod's presence vouchsafed to me 
a few days since ; transient, indeed, and 
dimly seen through a mist of many fears and 
troubles, but sufficient to convince me, at 
least while the Enemy's power is a little re- 
strained, that he lias not cixst me off forever. 
Our visit was a pleasant one ; as pleasant 
as .Mrs. Unwin's weakness and the state of 
my spirits, never very good, would allow. 
As to my own health, I never expected that 
it would be inucli improved by the journey : 
nor liave I found it so. Some benefit, in- 
deed, I hoped ; and, perhaps, a little more 
than I found. But the season was, after the 
first fortnight, extremely unfavorable, stormy, 
and wet; and the prospects, though grand 
and magnificent, yet rather of a melancholy 
cast, and consequently not very propitious to 
me. The cultivated appearance of W\'.ston 
suits my frame of mind far better than wild 
hills that aspire to be mountains, covered with 
vast unfr(M|uented woods, and here and there 
affording a j)eep between their summits at 
the distant ocean. Within doors all was 
hospitality and kindness, but the scenerv 
would have its efi'ect ; and, though delightful 
in the extreme to those who had spirits to 
bear it, was too gloomy for me. 
Yours, my dear friend. 

Most sincerely, 

w. c. 



422 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 19, 1792. 

Jly dearest Johnny, — You are too useful 
wIicTiyou are here not to he missed on a hun- 
dred oeeasions daily ; and too much domesti- 
cated with us not to be regretted always. I 
liope, therefore, that your month or si.\ weeks 
will not be lilie many that I have known, ea- 
p.ible of being drawn out into any length 
wlia^ever, and productive of nothing but dis- 
appointment. 

1 have done nothing since you vv'ent, ex- 
cept that I have composed the better half of 
a sonnet to Romney ; yet even this ought to 
bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunt- 
ed witli a desire to do it long before we came 
out of Sussex, and have daily attempted it 
ever since. 

it would be well for tlie reading part of 
tlie world, if the writing part were, many of 
them, as dull as I am. Yet even this small 
produce,. which my sterile intellect lias hard- 
ly yielded at last, may serve to convince you 
that in point of spirits I am not worse. 

In foct, I am a little better. The powders 
and the laudanum together have, for the 
present at least, abated the fever that con- 
sumes them ; and in measure as the fever 
abates, I acquire a less discouraging view of 
things, and with it a little power to exert 
myself. 

In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle 
to Mrs. Unwin, having no other history, and 
hope in time to be as well versed in it as his 
admirer. Sir Roger de Coverley. 

W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 22, 1709. 

My dear Johnny, — Here I am, witli I know 
not how many letters to answer, and no time 
to do it in. I exhort you, therefore, to set a 
proper value on this, as proving your priority 
in luy attentions, though in other respects 
likely to be of little value. 

You do well to sit for your picture, and 
give very sufficient reasons for doing it ; you 
will also, I doubt not, take care that when 
future generations shall look at it, some spec- 
tator or other shall say, this is the picture of 
a good man and a useful one. 

And now God bless you my dear Johnny. 
I proceed much after the old rate : rising 
cheerless and distressed in the morning, and 
brightening a little as the day goes on. 

Adieu, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 28, 1792. 

Nothing done, my dearest brother, nor 
likely to be done at" present; yet I purpose 
in a day or two to make another attempt, to 



which, however, I shall address myself with 
fear and trembling, like a man who, having 
sprained his wrist, dreads to ns5 it. I have 
not, indeed, like such a man, injured myself 
by any extraordinary exertion, but seem as 
much enfeebled as if 1 had. The conscious- 
ness that there is so much to do, and nothing 
done, is a burden I am not able to bear. 
Milton especially is my grievance, and I might 
almost as well be haunted by his ghost as 
goaded with continual reproaches for neg- 
lecting him. I will therefore begin : I will 
do my best; and if, alter all, that best prove 
good for nothing, I will even send the notes, 
worthless as they are, that I have made al- 
ready ; a measure very disjigreeable to my- 
self, and to which nothing bnt necessity shall 
compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new 
samples of your biography,* which yon give 
me to expect. 

Allons! Courage! — Here comes some- 
thing, however; produced after a gestation as 
long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the 
debt long unpaid, the compliment due to 
Romney ; and if it has your approbation, I 
will send it, or you may .send it for me. I 
must premise, however, that I intended noth- 
ing less than a sonnet when I began. I know 
not why, but I said to myself, it sliall nut be 
a sonnet; accordingly I attempted it in one 
sort of measure, then in a second, then in a 
third, till I had made the trial in half a dozen 
different kinds of shorter verse, and behold 
it is a sonnet at last. The fates would have 
it so. 

TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ, 

Romney ! expert infallibly to trace, 
On chart or canvas, not the form alone, 
And semblance, but, however faintly shov»n, 
The mind's impression too on every face, 
With strokes, that time ought never to erase : 
Thou hast so pencill'il mine, that though I own 
The subject worthless. I have never known 
The artist shining with superior grace. 

But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe, 
In thy incomparable work appear : 
Well ! I am satisfied it should be so. 
Since, on maturer thought the cause is clear; 

For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see, 
While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee? 

w. c. 



TO JOHM JOHNSON, ESQ.f 

Nov. 5, 1792. 

My dearest Johnny, — I have done nothing 
since you went, except that I have finished the 
Sonnet which I told you I had begun, and sent 
it to Hayley, who is well pleased therewith, 
and has by this time transmitted it to whom 
it most concerns. 



* Hayley's Life of Milton. 
t Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



423 



I would not give the algebraist sixpence for 
his encomiums on my Task, it" he condemns 
my Homer, which, 1 know, in point of lan- 
guage, is equal to it, and in variety of num- 
bers superior. But the character of the for- 
mer having been some ye.ars established, lie 
follows the general cry; and should Homer 
establish himself as well, and I trust he will 
hereafter, I shall have his warm suffrage for 
that also. But if not — it is no matter. 
Swift says somewhere, — There are a few- 
good judges of poetry in the world, who 
lend their taste to those who have none : 
and your man of figures is probably one of 
the borrowers. 

Adieu — in great haste. Our united love 
attends yourself and yours, whose I am most 
truly and affectionately. 

VV. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 9, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — I n ish that I were as in- 
dustrious and as much occupied as you, 
thougli in a dilferent way ; but it is not so 
with me. Sirs. Unwin's great debility (who 
is not yet able to move without assistance) 
is of itself a hindr.incc such as would etl'ect- 
ually disable me. Till she can work, and 
read, and fill up her time as usual (all which 
is at present entirely out of her power) I may 
now and then find time to write a letter, but 
I shall write nothing more. I eaimot sit 
with my pen in my hand and my books be- 
fore me, while she is in effect in solitude, si- 
lent, and looking at the fire. To this hin- 
drance that other has been added, of which 
you are already aware, a want of spirits, such 
as I liavc never known, when I was not ab- 
solutely laid by, since I commenced an author. 
How long I shall be contiiuied in these un- 
comfortable circum-stances is known only to 
Him who, as he will, disposes of us all. I 
may be yet able, perhaps, to prepare the first 
book of the Paradise Lost for the press, be- 
fore it will be wanted ; .and Johnson himself 
seems to think there will be no haste for the 
second. But poetry is my favorite employ- 
ment, and all my poetical operations are in 
the meantime suspended; for, while a work 
to which I have bound myself remains unac- 
complished, I can do nothing else. 

Johnson's plan of prefixing my phiz to the 
new edition of my poems is by no means a 
pleasant one to me. and so I told him in a 
letter I sent him from Earlham, in which I 
assured him that my objections to it would 
not be easily surmounted. But if you judge 
that it may really have an effect in .advancing 
the s.ile, 1 would not be so .squeamish as to 
suffer tlie spirit of prudery to prevail in me 
to his disadvantage. Somebody told an au- 
thor, I forget whom, that there was more 



v.anity in refusing his picture th.an in grant- 
ing it, on which he instantly complied. I do 
not ])erfectly feel all the force of the argu- 
ment, but it shall content me that he did. 

1 do most sincerely rejoice in the success 
of your publication,* and have no doubt that 
my propliecy concerning your success in 
greater matters will be fnltiUed. We are 
naturally pleased when our friends approve 
wiuit we approve ourselves; how much then 
must I be pleased, when you speak so kindly 
of Johnny ! I know him to be all that you 
think him, and love him entirely. 

Adieu ! We expect you at Christmas, and 
shall therefore rejoide when Christmas comes. 
Let nothing interfere. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f 

Nov. 11, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — I am not so insensible 
of your kindness in making me an exception 
from the number of your corres])ondcnts, to 
whom yon forbid the hope of hearing from 
you till your present Labors are ended, as to 
make you wait longer for an answer to your 
last ; which, indeed, would have had its an- 
swer before this time, biid it been possible 
for luc to write. But so many have demands 
upon me of a similar kind, and while Mrs. 
Unwin continues an invalid, my opportunities 
of writing are so few, that I .am constrained 
to incur a long arrear to some, with whom I 
would wish to be punctual. She can at pres- 
ent neither work nor read ; and, till she can 
do both, and amuse her.self as usual, my own 
amusements of the pen must be suspended. 

I, like you, have a work before me, and a 
work to which I should be glad to address 
my,self in earnest, but cannot do it at present. 
When the opportunity comes, I shall, like 
you, be under a necessity of interdicting some 
of my usual correspondents, and of shorten- 
ing my letters to the excepted few. Many 
letters and much company are incompatible 
with authorship, aiul the one as much as the 
other. It will be long, I hope, before the 
world is put in po,s,session of a publication, 
which you design should be po.slhumous. 

Oh for the day when your expect.ations of 
my complete deliverance shall be verified! 
At present it seems very remote ; so di.stant, 
indeed, that hardly the faintest streak of it is 
visible in my horizon. The glimpse, with 
which I was favored about a month since, 
has never been repeated ; and the depression 
of my spirits has. The future appears gloomy 
as ever ; and I seem to myself to be scram- 
bling always in the dark, among rocks anil 
precipices, without a guide, but with an 
enemy ever at my heels, prepared to push 

* Decisions of the Eucclisli Courts. 
t Private corruapondeuw. 



424 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me headlong. Thus I have spent twenty 
years, but tlnis I shall not spend twenty 
years more. Long ere that period arrives, 
the grand question concerning my everlast- 
ing weal or woe will be decided. 

Adieu, my dear friend. I have exhausted 
my time, though not filled my paper. 

Truly yours, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 20, I79i. 

My dearest Johnny, — I give you many 
thanks for your rhymej, and your verses 
without rhyme ; for your poetical dialogue 
between wood and stone : between Homers 
head and the head of Samuel ; kindly in- 
tended, I know very well, for my amusement, 
and tliat amused me much. 

The successor of the clerk defunct, for 
wliom I used to write, arrived here tliis morn- 
ing, with a recommendatory letter from Joe 
Rye, and an humble petition of his own, en- 
treating me to assist him as I had assisted his 
predecessor. I have undertaken the service, 
althougli with no little reluctance, being in- 
volved in many arrears on other subjects, 
and having very little dependence at jiresent 
on my ability to write at all. I proceed 
exactly as when you were here — a letter now 
and then before breakfast, and the rest of my 
time all holiday; if holiday it may be called, 
that is spent chicHy in moping and musing, 
and '^fiirecasling the fashion of uncertain 
erils." 

The fever on my spirits has harassed mc 
much, and I have never had so good a night, 
nor so quiet a rising, since you went, as on 
this very morning; a relief that I account 
particularly seasonable and propitious, be- 
cause I had, in my intentions, devoted this 
morning to you, and could not liave fulfilled 
those intentions, had I been as spiritless as I 
generally am. 

I am glad that Johnson is in no haste for 
Milton, for I seem myself not likely to ad- 
dress myself presently to that concern, with 
any prospect of success ; yet something now 
and tlien, like a secret whisper, assures and 
encourages me that it will yet be done. 

W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEV, ESQ. 

Wcsloil, Nov. 25, 1793. 

How shall I thank you enough for the in- 
terest you take in my future Miltonic labors, 
and the assistance you promise me in the 
performance of them ; I will some time or 
other, if I live, and live a poet, acknowledge 
your friend.ship in some of my best verse ; the 
most suitable return one poet can make to 
another : in the meantime, 1 love you, and am 
sensible of all your kindness. You wish me 



wflrm in my work, and I ardently wish the 
same : but when I shall be so God only 
knows. My melancholy, which seemed a 
little alleviated for a few days, has gathered 
about me again with as biack a cloud as 
ever ; the consequence is absolute incapacity 
to begin. 

I was for some years dirge-writer to tlio 
town of Northampton, being employed by 
the clerk of tlie principal parish there to fur- 
nish him with an aimual copy of verses pro- 
per to be printed at the foot of his bill of 
mortality ; but the clerk died, and, hearing 
nothing for two years from his successor, I 
well hoped that I was out of my ofiiee. The 
other morning however Sam aimounced the 
new clerk ; he came to solicit the same ser- 
vice as I had rendered his predecessor, and 
I reluctantly complied; doubtful, indeed, 
whether I was capable. I have however 
achieved that labor, and I have done nothing 
more. I am just sent for up to Mary, dear 
Mary ! Adieu ! she is as well as when I left 
you, I would 1 could say better. Remember 
us both aftcctionately to your sweet boy, and 
trust me for being 

Most truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Dec. 9, 1792. 

My dear Friend, — You need not be uneasy 
on the subject of Milton. I shall not find 
that labor too heavy for me, if I have health 
and leisure. The season of the year is un- 
favorable to me respecting the former ; and 
Mrs. Unwin's present weakness allows me 
less of the latter than the occasion seems to 
call for. But the business is in no haste. The 
artists employed to furnish the embellish- 
ments are not likely to be very expeditious ; 
and a small portion only of the work will be 
wanted from me at once : for the intention is 
to deal it out to the public piece-meal. I am, 
therefore, under no great anxiety on that ac- 
count. It is not, indeed, an employment that 
I should have chosen for myself; because 
poetry pleases and amuses me more, and 
would cost me less labor, properly so called. 
All this I felt before I engaged witli Johnson ; 
and did, in the first instance, actually decline 
the service ; but he was urgent ; and, at last, 
I sufl'ered myself to be persuaded. 

The season of the year, as I have already 
said, is particularly adverse to me : yet not in 
itself, perhaps, more adverse than any other ; 
but the approach of it always reminds me of 
the same season in the dreadful seventy-three, 
and in the more dreadful eighty-six. I can- 
not help terrifying myself with doleful mis- 
givings and apprehensions : nor is the enemy 
negligent to seize all the advantage that the 
occasion gives him. Thus, hearing mudi 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



425 



from him, and havinjj Utile or no sensible 
support from God, 1 suffer inexpressible 
things till January is over. And even then, 
whether increasinj^ years have made me more 
liable to it, or despair, the longer it lasts, 
grows naturally darker, I lind myself more 
inclined to melancholy than I was a few 
years since. God only knows where this 
will end ; but where it is likely to end, unless 
he interpose powerfully in my favor, all may 
know. 

I remain, mv dear friend, most sincerely 
yours, " W. C. 



TO JOSEPH }IILL, ESQ. 

Wi-slon, Dec. 16, mi. 

My dear Sir, — We differ .so little, that it is 
pity we should not agree. The possibility 
of restoring our diseased government is, I 
think, the only point on wliicli we are not of 
one mind. If you .are right, and it cannot be 
touched in the medical way, without danger 
of absolute ruin to the constitution, keep the 
doctors at a distance say I — and let us live 
as long as we can. But perhaps physicians 
might be found of skill sullicient for the pur- 
pose, were they but as willing as able. Who 
are they ? Not those honest blunderer.s, the 
mob, but onr governors themselves. As it 
is in the power of any individual to be honest 
if he will, any body of men are, as it seems 
to me, eiiually possessed of the same option. 
For 1 can never persuade myself to think the 
world so constituted by the Author of it, 
and human society, which is his ordinance, so 
shabby a business, that the buying and sel- 
ling of votes and consciences should be es- 
sential to its existence. As to multiplied 
representation I know not that I foresee any 
great advantage likely to arise from that. 
Provided there be but a reasonable number 
of reasonable heads laid together for the 
good of the nation, the end may as well be 
answered by five hundred as it would be by 
a thousand, and perh.ips better. But then 
they should be honest as well as wise, and, 
in order that they may be so, they should 
put it out of their own power to lie other- 
wise. This they might certainly do if they 
would ; and, would they do it, I am not con- 
vinced that any great mi.-<chief would ensue. 
You say, " somebody must have influence," 
but I see no necessity for it. Let integrity 
of intention and a due .share of ability be 
supposed, and the inlluence will be in the 
right place ; it will all centre in the zeal and 
good of the nation. That will influence their 
debates and decisions, and nothing else ought 
to do it. Vou will say, perhaps, that wise 
men, and honest men, as they are suppo.sed, 
they are yet lialjle to be split into almost as 
many dijVerences of opinion as there are in- 
dividuals; but 1 rather think not. It is ob- 



served of Prince Eugene .and the Duke of 
Marlborough, that each always approved and 
seconded the plans and views of the other ; 
and the reason given for it is that they were 
men of equal ability. The same cause that 
could make two unanimous would make 
twenty so, and would at least secure a 
majority among as many hundreds. 

As to the reformation of the church, I 
want none, unless by a belter provision for 
the inferior clergy ; and, if that could be 
brought about by emaciating a little some of 
our too corpulent dignitaries, I should be 
well contented. 

Tlie dissenters, I think. Catholics and 
others, have all a right to the privileges of 
all other Englishmen, because to deprive them 
is persecution, and persecution on any ac- 
count, but especially on a religious one, is 
an abomination. But after all, ralcal res- 
piiblka. I love my country, I love my king, 
and I wish peace and prosperity to Old 
England.* 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 17, 179-2. 

Jly dear Sir, — You are very kind in think- 
ing it worth while to intpiire after so irregu- 
lar a correspondent. When I Iiad rctd your 
Last, I persuaded myself that I h.ad answered 
your obliging letter received while I was at 
Eartham, and seemed clearly to remember it; 
but upon better recollection, am inclined to 
think myself mistaken, and tliat I have many 
pardons to ask for neglecting to do it so long. 

While I was .at Mr. Ilayley's I could hardly 
find opportunity to write to anybody. He is 
an early riser and breakfasts early, and unless 
I could rise early enough myself todesp,atch 
a letter before breakfast, I had no leisure to do 
it at all. For immediately after breakfast we 
repaired to the library, where we studied in 
concert till noon; and the rest of my time 
was so occupied l)y necessary attention to my 
poor invalid, Mrs. Unwin,and by various other 
engagements, that to write was impossible. 

* The question of a Ilrlbrm in Parlijiment wiw nt tliis 
time beginning to enu'Ji'-;e the pnlilic attention, and -Mr. 
Grey (now Earl tJrcyj iiad rccenlly announced Iiis in- 
lontion in Hie llou^t- of Conitnons of bringing forward 
that important snbjfcl in llie enaninij session of Parli.-i- 
inent. It w;ls accordingly suliinilted to the House. May 
Otii, 17il3, when Mr. (Jrey delivertKl his .sentiments at con- 
siderable lenglli, einl)odying nnmy of tlie topics now so 
funiiiiar l*i tile puljlic, but by no means pursuing the 
principle to the extent since lulopted. The debate 
la-sted (ill two o'clock in the morning, when it wiLs ad- 
journed to the following day. After a renewed discus- 
sion, which continued till four in the morning, the House 
divided, when the numbers were as follow, viz., Avea 
40, Noes •ii-i. 

It is interesting to mark this llrst commencement of the 
popular (jueslion of Ueforni (if we i-xeepi Mr. Tin's meas- 
ure, in nsi) and to contnist its slow prorre-s with the 
final issue, under the same leiuler, in the year 18:i-J. The 
minority for several successive years seld<im exceeded 
the'nmount above specilled, though the monaure was at 
length carried by so large a majority. 



426 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Since my return, I have been almost con- 
stantly afflicted with weak and inflamed eyes, 
and indued have wanted spirits as well as 
leisure. If you can, theret'ore, yon must par- 
don me ; and you will do it perhaps the rather, 
when I assure you that not you alone, but 
every person and every thing that had de- 
mands upon me has been equally neglected. 
A strange weariness that has long had domin- 
ion over me has indisposed and indeed dis- 
qualified me for all employment;* and my 
hindrances besides have been such that I am 
sadly in arrear in all quarters. A thousand 
times I have been sorry and ashamed that your 
MSS. are yet unrevised, and if you knew the 
compunction that it has cost me, you would 
pity me ; for I feel as if I were guilty in that 
particular, though my conscience tells me that 
it could not be otherwise. 

Before I received your letter written from 
Margate, I had formed a resolution never to 
be engraven, and was confirmed in it by my 
friend Hayley's example. But, learning since 
though I have not learned it from himself, 
that my bookseller has an intention to prefi.x 
a copy of Abbot's picture of mef to tlie ne.\t 
edition of my poems, at his own expense, if 

* Tills expression nlludes to the nervous fever and 
Rfeut depression of spirits Unit Cowper labored under, In 
the months of October and November, and which ha-s 
been frefluenlly mentioned In the preceding correspond- 
euci\ 

t There were Ujree portraits of Cowper, taken respect- 
ively by Sir Thomas Lawrence, Abbot, and Romney. 
The reader may be anxious to learn which is entitled to 
be considered the best resemblance. The editor is able 
to satisfy this inquiry, on the joint authority of the three 
most competent witnesses, the late Ilev. Dr. Johnson, the 
present Dowager Lady Throckmorton, and John Hi^'LCins, 
Esq., formerly of Weston. They all agree in assiLming 
the superiority to the portrait by .\bbot ; and in evidence 
of this, all have repeated the auecilote mentioned by 
Cowper, of his dog Beau going up to the picture, and 
shaking his tail, in token of recognition. It is an exact 
resemblance of his form, features, manner, and costume. 
That by Romney was said to resemble him at the moment 
it was tttken, but it was his then lotik, not his customary 
and more placid features. There is an air of wildness in 
it, expressive of a disordered mind, and which the shock, 
produced by the paralytic attack of Mrs. Unwin, was 
rapidly impressing on his countenance. This portrait 
has always been considered as awakening distressing 
emotions in the beholder. The portrait by Sir Thomas 
Lawrence is the most pleasing, but not so exact and faith- 
ful a resemblance. There is however a character of pe- 
culiar interest in it, and he is represented in the cap 
which he was accustomed to wear in a morning, pre- 
sented to him by Lady llesketh. It was on this picture 
that the following beautiful lines were composed by the 
late Rev. Dr. Randolph. 

ON SEEINO A SKETCH OF COWPER DV LAWRENCE. 

Sweet bard ! whose mind, thus pictured in thy face, 

t »\t every feature spreads a nobler grace ; 

Whose keen, but softened eye ajipears to dart 

A look of pity through the human heart ; 

To search the secrets of man's inward frame. 

To weep with sorrow o'er his guilt and shame ; 

Sweet bard ! with whom, in sympathy of choice, 

I've ofttimes left the world at Nature's voice, 

'I'o join the song that all her creatures raise. 

To carol forth their great Creator's praise ; 

Or, 'rapt in visions of immortal day. 

Have gazed on Truth in Zion's heavenly way ; 

Sweet Dai-d !— may this thine image, all I know. 

Or ever may, ofCowper's form below. 

T iieh line who views it with a Christian's love. 

To seek and tiud thee, in the realms above. 



I can be prevailed upon to consent to it ; in 
consideration of the liberality of his beha- 
vior, I have felt my determination shaken. 
This intelligence, however comes to me from 
a third person, and till it reaches me in a di- 
rect line from Johnson, I can say nothing to 
/i/m about it. Wlien he shall ojien to me his 
intentions himself, I will not be backward to 
mention to him your obliging offer, and shall 
be particularly gratified, if I must be engraved 
at last, to have that service performed for 
me by a friend. 

I thank you for the anecdote,* which could 
not tail to be very pleasant, and remain, my 
dear sir, with grtttitude and affection. 

Yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 36, 1792. 

That I may not be silent, till my silence 
alarms you, I snatch a moment to^tell you, 
that although tuujours Irislc I am not worse 
than usual, but my opportunities of writing 
are paucified, as, perhaps, Dr. Johnson would 
have dared to s;iy, and the few that I have are 
shortened by company. 

Give my love to dear Tom, and thank him 
for his very apposite extract, which I sliould 
be htippy indeed to turn to any account. How 
often do I wish, in the course of every day, 
that I could be employed once more in poetry, 
and how often, of cour.se, that this Miltonic 
trap had never cauglit me ! The year ninety- 
two shall stand clironicled in my remembrance 
as the most melancholy that I have ever 
known, except the few weeks that I spent at 
E.artham ; and such it has been principally 
because, being engaged to Jiilton, I felt my- 
self no longer free for any other engagement. 
That ill-fated work, impracticable in itself, has 
m.ide everything else impracticable. 

I am very Pindaric, and obliged to 

be so by the hurry of the hour. My friends 
are come down to breakfast. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO THOMAS FARK, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Jan. 3, 1793. 
My dear Sir, — A few lines must serve to 
introduce to you my much-valued friend Mr. 
Rose, and to thank you for your very obliging 
attention in sending me so approved a remedy 
for my disorder, it is no fault of yours, but 
it will be a disappointment to you to know, 
that I have long been in possession of that 
remedy, and have tried it without effect; or, 

* The Hon. Mrs. Boscaweu had expressed her regret 
that Cowper should employ his time and talents in trans- 
lation, instead of original composition ; accompanieii by 
a wish that he would produce another " Task," adverting 
to what Tope had made his friend exclaim, 

" Do write next winter more ' Essays on Man.' " 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



427 



to speak more truly, with an unfavorable one. 
Judg-ing by the pain it causes, I conclude 
that it is of the c.iustic kind, and may, there- 
fore, l)e sovereign in cases where Ihe eyelids 
are ulcerated ; but mine is a dry inflammation, 
which it has always increased as often as I 
have used it. I used it again, after having 
long since resolved to use it no more, that I 
might not seem, even to myself, to slight your 
kindness, but with no better eflect than in 
every former instance. 

You are very candid in crediting so readily 
the excuse I make for not having yet revised 
your JISS., and as kind in allowing me still 
longer time. I refer you for a more particu- 
lar account of the circumstances that make all 
literary pursuits at present impractic.ible to 
me, to the young gentleman who delivers this 
into your hands.* He is perfectly master of 
the subject, having just left me after having 
spent a fortnight with us. 

You asked me a long time since a question 
concerning the Olney Hymns, which I do not 
remember that I have, ever answered. Those 
marked C. are mine, one excepted, which 
though it bears that mark, was written by Mr. 
Newton. 1 have not the collection at present 
and therefore cannot tell you which it is. 

You must extend your charity still a little 
farther, and excuse a short answer to your 
two obliging letters. I do everything with 
my pen in a hurry, but will not conclude 
without entreating you to make my thanks 
and best compliments to the lady,f who was 
so good as to trouble herself for my sake to 
write a character of the medicine. 
I remain, my dear sir. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 

Your request does me honor. Johnson 
will have orders in a few days to send a copy 
of the edition just published.t 



TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Jim. a), 1793. 

My dear Brother, — Now I know that you 
are safe, I treat you, as you see, with a philo- 
sophical indifference, not acknowledging your 
kind and immediate answer to anxious inqui- 
ries, till it suits my own convenience. I have 
learned, however, from my late solicitude, 
that not only you, but yours, interest me to a 
degree, that, should anything happen to cither 
of you, would be very inconsistent with my 
peace. Sometimes I thought that you were 
extremely ill, and once or twice, that you were 
dead. As often some tragedy reached my ear 
concerning little Tom. '"Oh, vancc meiUes] 
hominum .'"' How liable are we to a thou- 
sand impositions, and how indebted to honest 

• Mr. Rose 

t Mrs. Hadcn, formerly governess to the daughters of 
Lonl ICardlev. 
t The fifth edition of Cowpcr's Poems. 



old Time, who never fails to undeceive us! 
Whatever you had in prospect, you acted 
kindly by me not to make me partaker of 
your expectations ; for I have a spirit, if not 
so sanguine as yours, yet that would have 
waited for your coming with anxious impa- 
tience, and have been dismally mortified by 
the disappointment. Had you come, and come 
without notice too, you would not have sur- 
prised us more, than (as the matter was man- 
aged) we were surprised at the arrival of your 
picture. It reached us in the evening, after 
the shutters were closed, at a time when a 
chaise might actually have brought you with- 
out giving us the least previous intimation. 
Then it was, that Samuel, with his cheerful 
countenance, appeared at the study door, and 
with a voice as cheerful as his looks, ex- 
claimed, " Mr. Ilayley is eome, madam !" We 
both started, and in the same moment cried, 
" Mr. Hayley come ! And where is he ?" The 
next moment corrected our mistake, and 
finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tremu- 
lous, 1 turned and saw her weeping. 

1 do nothing, notwithstanding all your ex- 
hortations : my idleness is proof against them 
all, or to speak more truly, my difliculties 
are so. Something indeed 1 do. I play at 
push-pin with Homer every morning before 
breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris 
did his armor. I have lately had a letter 
from Dublin on that subject, which has 
pleased me. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, .Ian. SU, nn3. 
My dearest Hayley, — I truly sympathize 
with you under your weight of sorrow for 
the loss of our good Samaritan.* But be 
not broken-hearted, my friend ! Remember 
the loss of those we love is the condition on 
which we live ourselves ; and that he who 
chooses his friends wisely from among the 
excellent of the earth, has a sure ground to 
hope concerning them when they die, that a 
merciful God has made tliem far happier 
than they could be here, and that we shall 
join them soon again. This is solid com- 
fort, could we but avail ourselves of it ; but 
I confess the diHiculty of doing so. Sorrow 
is like the deaf adder, "that hears not the 
voice of the charmer, charm he never so 
wisely :" and I feel so much myself for the 
death of Austen, that my own chief consola- 
tion is, that I h.ad never seen him. Live 
yourself, I beseech you, for I have seen so 
much of you that 1 can by no means spare 
you, and 1 will live as long as it shall please 
God to permit. 1 know you set some value 
on me, therefore let that promise comfort 

• Dr. Atislf n. who is hero alluded to, was not less dis- 
tin^ll.«hed for hi.s huin:uie and benevolent <|ualities, than 
for his professional skill and eniinence. 



428 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



you, and give us not reason to say, like Da- 
vid's servant — •' We know that it would have 
pleased thee more if all we had died, than 
tliis one, for whom thou art inconsolable." 
You liavo still Romncy, and Carwardine, 
and Guy, and me, my poor Mary, and I know 
not how many beside ; as many, I suppose, 
as ever had an opportunity of spending a 
day with you. He who has the most friends 
tiuist necessarily lose the most, and he whose 
friends are numerous as yours may the bet^ 
tcr spare a part of them. It is a clianging, 
transient scene : yet a little while, and this 
poor dream of life will be over with all of 
us. The living, and they wlio live unhappy, 
they are indeed subjects of sorrow. 
Adieu ! my beloved friend. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.* 

Jan. 31, 1793. 
lo Pecan. 
My dearest Johnny, — Even as you fore- 
told, so it came to pass. On Tuesday I re- 
ceived your letter, and on Tuesday came the 
pheasants ; for which I am indebted in many 
thanks, as well as Mrs. Unwin, botli to your 
kindness and to your kind friend Mr. Cope- 
man. 

In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell, — 
" Immortal bartls like mortal pheasants well ;" 
And when his cl-^rkship's out, I wish him herds 
or golden clients for his golden birds. 

Our friends the Courtenays have never 
dined with us since their marriage, because 
we have never asked them ; and we have 
never asked them, because poor Mrs. Unwin 
is not so equal to the task of providing for 
and entertaining company as before this last 
illness. But this is no objection to the ar- 
rival here of a bustard ; rather it is a cause 
for which we shall be particularly glad to 
see the monster. It will be a handsome 
present to them. So let the bustard come, 
as the Lord Mayor of London said of the 
hare, when he was hunting — let her come, a' 
God's name : I am not afraid of her. 

Adieu, my dear cousin and caterer. My 
eyes are terribly bad ; else, I had much more 
to say to you. 

Ever affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL EOSE, ESQ. 

VVuston, Feb. 5, 1703. 

In this last revisal of my work (the Ho- 
mer) I have made a number of small im- 
provements, and am now more convinced 
than ever, having e,\ercised a cooler judg- 
ment upon it than before I could, that the 
translation will make its way. There must 
* Private correspondence. 



be time for the conquest of vehement and 
long-rooted prejudice; but, without much 
self-partiality, I believe, that the conquest 
will be made ; and am certain that I should 
be of the same opinion, were the work 
another man's. I shall soon have finished 
the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the 
corrected copy of both to Johnson. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Feb. 10, 1793. 

My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry ; 
Neither wit, common-sense, nor ideas have 1. 

In vain has it been, that I have made several 
attempts to write, since I came from Sus- 
se.x ; indess more comfortable days arrive 
than I have confidence to look for, there is 
an end of all writing with me. I have no 
spirits : — when Rose came, I was obliged to 
prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of 
laudanum — twelve drops suflice ; but with- 
out them, I am devoured by melancholy. 

A-propos of the Rose ! His wife in heT 
political notions is the e.xact counlerpart of 
yourself — loyal in the extreme. Therefore, 
if you find her thus inclined, when you be- 
come acquainted with her, you must not 
place her resemblance of yourself to the ac- 
count of her admiration of you, for she is 
your likeness ready made. In fact, we are 
all of one mind about government matters, 
and notwithstanding your opinion, the Rose 
is himself a Whig, and I am a Whig, and 
you, mv dear, are a Tory, and all the Tories 
now-a-days call all the Whigs republicans. 
How the deuce you came to be a Tory is 
best known to yourself; you have to answer 
for this novelty to the shades of your ances- 
tors, who were always Whigs ever since we 
had any. 

Adieu. W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 17, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — I have read the critique 
of my work in the Analyltcal Reriew, and 
am happy to have fallen into the hands of a 
critic, rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar, 
and a man of sense, and who does not delib- 
erately intend me mischief I am better 
pleased indeed that he censures some things 
than I should have been with unmixed com- 
mendation, for his censure (to use the new 
diplomatic term) will accredit his praises. 
In his particular remarks he is for the most 
part right, and I shall be the better for 
them ; but in his general ones I think he as- 
serts too largely, and more than he could 
prove. With respect to inversions in p.u-- 
ticular, I know that they do not abound. 



Once tlicy did, and I liad Milton's example 
for il, not dis:ip])roved hy Addison. But on 

's reinonstnmee against tlieni, I ex- 

pnnged the most, and in my new edition 
shall have fewer still. I know that they 
give dignity, and am sorry to part with 
tliem : hut, to parody an old proverb, he 
who lives in the year ninety-three, must do 
a.s in the year ninety-three is done by others. 
The same remark I have to make on his 
censure of inharmonious lines. I know them 
to be mueli t'exver tlian he asserts, and not 
more in number than I accounted indispen- 
sably necessary to a due vari.-ition of ca- 
dence. I have, however, now, in conformity 
with modern taste, (over much delicate in 
my mind.) given to a far greater number of 
them a How as smooth as oil. A few I re- 
tain, and will, in compliment to my own 
judgment. He thinks me too faithful to 
compound epithets in the introductory lines, 
and I know his renson. lie f'ear.s lest the 
fjUglish reader should blame Homer, whom 
he idolizes, though hardly more than I, for 
such constant repetition. But them I shall 
not alter. They are necessary to a just rep- 
resentation of the original. In the affair of 
Outis,* I shall throw him Hat on his back by 
an unanswerable argument, which I shall 
give in a note, and with ^^•hich I am fur- 
nished by Mrs. Unwin. So much for hyper- 
criticism, which has run away with all my 

paper. This critic, by the way is, ;f I 

know him by infallible indications. 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. MK. Ht/RDIS. 

Wcsti.ii, Feb. 22, 1793. 

My dear Sir, — My eyes, which have long 
been inflamed, will hardly serve for Homer, 
and oblige me to make all my letters short. 
You have obliged me much, by sending mo 
so speedily the remainder of your notes. I 
have begun with them again, and tind them, 
as before, very mucli to the purpose. More 
to the purpose tliey could not have been, 
liad you been [loetry lu'ofessor already. 1 
rejoice sincerely in the prospect you have of 
that oilice, which, whatever may be your 
own thouglits of the matter, I am sure you 
will till with great sutlicieney. Would that 
my interest and power to serve you were 
greater! One string to my bow I have, and 
one only, which shall not be idle for w.ant 
of my exertions. I thank you likewise for 
your very entertaining notices and remarks 
in the natural way. The hurry in which I 
write would Tiot sutler me to send you many 
in return, had I many to send, but only two 
or three present themselves. 

Frogs will feed on worms. I saw a frog 
gathering into his gullet an earth-worm as 



* A n.ime gtvf:i li> L'lyiwiy*. 



t Malv. 



long as himself; it cost him time and labor, 
but at last he .succeeded. 

Mrs. Unwin and I, crossing a brook, saw 
from the foot-bridge somewhat at the bot- 
tom of the water which had the appearance 
of a HoVer. Observing it attentively, we 
found that it consisted of a circular assem- 
blage of minnows; their heads all met in a 
centre, and their tails, diverging at equal 
distances, and being elevated ^bove their 
heads, gave them the appearance of a flower 
half blown. One was longer than the rest, 
and as often as a straggler came in sight, he 
quitted his place to pursue him, and having 
driven him away, he returned to it again, 
and no other minnow offering to take it in 
his absence. This we saw him do several 
times. The object that had attached them 
all was a dead minnow, which they seemed 
to be devouring. 

After a very rainy day, I saw on one of the 
flower borders what seemed a long hair, but 
it had a w.-iving, twining motion. Consider- 
ing more nearly, I found it alive, and en- 
dued with spontaneity, but could not dis- 
cover at the ends of it either head or tail, or 
any distinction of parts. I carried it into 
the house, when the air of a warm room 
dried and killed it presently. 

w. c. 



TO \nLLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Feb. 24, 17D3. 

Vour letter (so full of kindness and so ex- 
actly in unison with my own feelings for you) 
should have had, as it deserved to have, an 
earlier answer, had I not been perjx'tually 
tortured with inflamed eyes, which are a sad 
hindrance to me in everything. But, to 
make amends, if I do not send you an early 
answer, I send you at least a sjieedy one, 
being obliged to write as fast as my pen can 
trot, that 1 may shorten the time of poring 
upon paper as much as possible. Homer 
too has been another hindrance, for always 
when I can see, whicli is only about two 
hours every morning, and not at all by can- 
dle-ligiit, I devote my.self to him, being in 
haste to send him a second time to the press, 
that nothing may stand in the way of Milton. 
By the way, where are my dear Tom's re- 
marks, which I long to have, and must have 
soon, or they will come too late '. 

Oh, you rogue ! what would you give to 
have such a dream about Milton as 1 had 
about a week since ? I dreamed that, being 
in a house in the city, and w-ith much com- 
pany, looking towards the lower end of the 
room from the upper end of it, I descried a 
figure which I immediately knew to be Mil- 
ton's. He was very gravely but very neatly 
attired in the fishion of his day, and had a 
countenance wliich tilled me with those feel- 



430 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



mgs that an affectionate child has for a be- 
loved fiither, — such, for instance, as Tom has 
for you. My first thought was wonder, where 
he could have been concealed so many years : 
my second, a transport of joy to find liim still 
alive; my third, another transport t(f find my- 
self in his company ; and my fourth, a resolu- 
tion to accost him. I did so, and he received 
me with a complacence in whicli I saw equal 
sweetness and dignity. I spoke of his Para- 
dise Lost as every man must who is worthy 
to speak of it at all, and told him a long story 
of the manner in which it affected me when 
I first discovered it, being at that time a 
school-boy. He answered me by a smile, 
and a gentle inclination of his head. He 
then grasped my hand affectionately, and 
with a smile- that charmed me, said, " Well, 
you for your part will do well also;" at last, 
recollecting his great age (for I understood 
him to be two hundred years old) I feared 
that I might fatigue him by too much talk- 
ing, I took my leave, and he took his with an 
air of the most perfect good-breeding. His 
person, his features, his manner, were all so 
perfectly characteristic, that I am persuaded 
an apparition of him could not represent him 
more completely. This may be said to have 
been one of the dreams of Pindus, may it 
not?* 

How truly I rejoice that you h.ave recov- 
ered Guy '. That man won my heart the 
moment I saw him : give my love to him, and 
tell him I am truly glad he is alive again. 

There is much sweetness in those lines 
from the sonneteer of Avon, and not a little 
in dear Tom's : an earnest, I trust, of good 
things to come I 

With Mary's kind love, I must now con- 
clude myself, 

My dear brother, ever yours, Lippus. 



TO THE KEV. WALTER EAGOT. 

Weston, March 4, 1793. 

My dear Frielid, — Since I received your 
last I have been much indisposed, very blind, 

* Whether this is a poetical or real dream of Cowper's' 
we presume not to decide. It boars so strunii a resem- 
blance to Milton's vision of the Bishop of VVinchester, 
(the celebrated Dr. Andrews,) as to suggest the prob- 
ability of having been borrowed from Uiat source. The 
passage is to be found in Milton's beautiful Latin elegy 
on the death of that prelate, and is thus translated by 
Cowper : 

" While I that splendor, and the mingled shade 
Of fruitful vines with wonder fixt sur*'ey'd. 
At once, with looks, that beamVI celestial grace, 
The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
His snowy vesture's hem de^^cending tow 
His golden samhils ^wep!, and pure as snow 
New-fallen slmiir the uiUre on his brow. 
Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound 
Of gladness shook the llow'ry scene around; 
Attendant angels clap their s'tarry wings, 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all Jetlier rings. 

Each chaunts his welcome, 

Then night retired, and, chas'd by dawning day. 
The visionary bliss pass'd all away : 
I mourn'd ray banish'd sleep with fond ccmcern : 
Frequent to me may dreams like this return." 



and very busy. But I have not suffered all 
these evils at one and the same time. While 
the winter lasted I was miserable with a fe- 
ver on my spirits; when the spring began to 
approach I was seized with an intiammation 
in my eyes, and ever since I have been able 
to use them, have been employed in giving 
more last touches to Homer, who is on the 
point of going to press again. 

Though you are Tory, I believe, and I am 
Whig, our sentiments concerning the mad- 
caps of France are much the same. They 
are a terrible race, and I have a horror both 
of them and their principles.* Tacitus is 
certainly living now, and the quotations you 
sent me can be nothing but extracts from 
some letters of his to yourself. 

Yours, most sincerely, W. C. 

We have already mentioned the interest 
e.xcited in Cowper's mind by a son of Hay- 
ley's, a youth of not more thtm twelve years 
of age, and of most promising talents. At 
Cowper's request he addressed to him the 
subjoined letter, containing criticisms on his 
Homer, which- do honor to his taste and 
acuteness. The poet's reply may also be 
regarded as a proof of his kind condescen- 
sion and amiable sweetness of temper. 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

Eartham, March 4, I"93. 

Honored King of Bards,— Since you deign 
to demand the observations of an humble and 
inexperienced servant of yours, on a work of 
one who is so much his superior (as he is 
ever ready to serve you with all his might), 
behold wluit you demand! But let me de- 
sire vou not to censure me for my unskilful 
and perhaps (as they will undoubtedly ap- 
pear to you) ridiculous observations ; but be 
so kind as to receive them as a mark of re- 
spectful affection from 

Your obedient servant, 

Thomas Hayley. 

Book. liinc. 
I. 184 I cannot reconcile myself to these 
195 expressions, " Ah cloth'd with 
impudence," &c., and " .Shame- 
19() less wolf," and •' Face ol'fiint." 
I. 508 " Dishonor'd foul," is, in my opin- 
ion, an uncleanly expression. 
I. CCl "Reel'd," I think makes it appear 

as if Olympus was drunk. 
I. 719 '-Kiniller of the lires of Heaven," 
I think makes Jupiter appear 
too nuich like a Uuupligliter. 
11. 317 These hncs are, in my opinion, 
to 319 belovv the elevated genius of 
Mr. Cowper. 
XVIII. 300 This appears to me to be rather 
Irish, since in line 300 you say, 
" No one sat," ami in line 301, 
" Polydamus rose." 

* Louis XVI., the unhappy King of France, had re- 
cently perished on the scafTold, Jan. 21, 17S)3. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



431 



TO MR. THOMAS HATLEY. 

WusU.n, Marcli H, 1"!)3. 

My dear little Critic, — I thank you heartily 
for your observations, on whieli 1 set a hit^her 
value, because they have instructed me as 
much, and have entertained nie more, tlian 
all the other strictures of our public judges 
in these matters. Perhaps I am not much 
more pleased with shamele:is icolf, &e., than 
you. But what is to be done, my little man ? 
Coarse as the expressions are, they are no 
more than equivalent to those of Homer. 
The invective of tlie ancients was never tem- 
pered with good manners, as your papa can 
tell you; and my business, you know, is not 
to be more polite than my author, but to re- 
present him as closely as I can. 

Dishonored foul I have wijied away, for the 
reason you give, which is a very just one, and 
the present reading is this. 

Who had dared dishonor thus 
The life itself, &c. 

Your objection to khuller (ff tite fires of 
heaven I had the good fortune to anticipate, 
and expunged the dirty ambiguity some time 
since, wondering not a little that I had ever 
admitted it. 

The fault you find with the two first verses 
of Nestor's speech discovers such a degree 
of just discernment that, but for your pajia's 
assurance to the contrary, I must have .sus- 
pected him as the author of that remark: 
much as I should have respected it, if it had 
been so, I value it, I assure you, my little 
friend, still more as yours. In the new edi- 
tion the passage will be found thus altered : 

Alas! great sorrow falls on Greece to-day! 
Priam, and Priam's sons, with all in Troy — 
Oh! how will they exult, and in tlieir hearts 
Triumph, once hearing ef this liroil lietwccn 
Tile [irime of Greece, m council and in arms ! 

Where the word reel suggests to you the 
idea of a drunken mountain, it performs the 
service to which I destined it. It is a bold 
metaplior; but justified by one of the sublim- 
est J)a.ssage3 in scripture, compared w'ith the 
sublimity of which even that of Homer suf- 
fers humiliation. 

It is God himself who, speaking, I think, 
by the prophet Isaiah, says, 

"The earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard.' • 

With equal boldness in the same scripture, 
the poetry of which \»'as never equalled, 
mountains are said to skip, to break out into 
singing, and the fields to clap tlieir hands. I 
intend, therefore, that my Olympus shall be 
still tipsy. 

The. accuracy of your last remark, in which 
you convicted mfe of a bull, delights me. A 

* Issuiilt XXIV. 30. 



fig fin- all critics but you! The blockheads 
could not find it. It shall stand thus; — 

First spake Polydamus 

IIou(er was more upon liis guard tlian to 
commit such a blunder, for he says, 

And now, my dear little censor, once more 
accept my thanks. I only regret that your 
strictures are so few, Ijeing just and sensible 
as they are. 

Tell your papa that he shall hear from me 
soon. Accept mine, and my dear invalid's 
affectionate remembrances. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weslon, Marcli 19, 1793. 

My dear Ilayley, — I am so busy every 
morning before breakfast (my only opportu- 
nity), strutting and stalking in Homeric stilts, 
that you ought to account it an instance of 
marvellous grace and favor, that I condescend 
to write even to you. Sometimes I am seri- 
ously almo.st crazed with the multiplicity of 
the matters before me, and the little or no 
time that 1 have for them ; and sometimes I 
repose myself, after the fatigue of that dis- 
traction, on the pillow of despair ; a pillow 
which has often served me in the time of 
need, and is become, by frequent use, if not 
very comfortable, at least convenient. So 
reposed, I laugh at the world, and say, " Yes, 
you may gape and expect both Homer and 
Milton from me, but 1 11 be hanged if ever 
you get them." 

In Homer you must know I am advanced 
as far as the "fitteenth book of the Iliad, leav- 
ing nothing behind me that can reasonably 
offend the most fastidious: and I design him 
for public appearance in his new dress as 
soon as possible, for a reason which any poet 
may gues-, if he will but thrust his hand into 
his pocket. 

You forbid me to tantali/.e you with an in- 
vitation to Weston, and yet you invite me to 
Eartham ! No ! no ! there is no such hap- 
piness in store for me at present. Had I 
rambled at all, I was under promise to all 
rny dear mother's kindred to go to Norfolk, 
and they are dying to .see me : but I have 
told theui tliat die they must, for I cannot 
go ; and ergo, ;is you will perceive, can go 
nowhere else. 

Thanks for Mazarin's epitaph I* It is full 

* Wo Iiiive not been nble to diiwover this opitapli, nor 
does it appi'jir that it wilh i-\er translated by Cowper. 

Cardinal Ma/arin w.-l-^ minister oC stale to Louis XUI., 
and durini; the minority of Louis XIV. TIio last mo- 
ments of this great statesman are too edifyinff not to bo 
recorded. 'I'o the ecclesiastic (Jnly) who intended him, 
ho said, " I am nor salisllcd witii my state ; I wish to feel 
a more profound sorrow for my aius- 1 urn u great sin- 



432 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of witty paradox, and is written witli a force 
and severity wliicli sutticiently bespeak tlie 
autiior. I account it an inestimable curi- 
osity, and sluili be bappy when time sliall 
serve, witb your aid, to malve a good trans- 
lation of it. But tbat will be a stubborn 
business. Adieu ! The clock strikes eight : 
and now for Homer. 

W. C. 



The two following letters bear an honor- 
able testimony to his bookseller, Johnson, 
whom he had commissioned his friend, Mr. 
Rose, to consult respecting a second and re- 
vised edition of his Homeric version. 

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weslon, March 27, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — I must send you a line 
of congratulation on the event of your trans- 
action «itli Johnson, since you, I know, par- 
take with me in the pleasure I receive from 
it. Few of my concerns have been so hap- 
pily concluded. I am now satisfied with my 
bookseller, as I have substantial cause to be, 
and account myself in good hands ; a circum- 
stance as pleasant to me as any other part of 
my business ; for I love dearly to be able to 
confide, with all my heart, in those with whom 
I am connected, of what kind soever the con- 
nexion may be. 

The question of printing or not printing 
the alterations seems dillicult to decide. If 
they are not printed, I shall perhaps disoblige 
some purchasers of the first edition, and if 
they are, many others of them, perhaps a 
great majority, will never care about them. 
As far as I have gone, I ha\'e made a fair 
copy ; and when I have finished the whole, 
will send tliem to Johnson, together with the 
interleaved volumes. He will see in a few 
minutes what it will be best to do, and by his 
judgment I shall be determined. The opin- 
ion to which I most incline is, tliat they ought 
to be printed separately, for they are many 
of them rather long, here and there a whole 
speech, or a whole simile, and the verbal 

ner. I have un hopp but in the mercy of God." (Je suis 
uii grand criminel, je n'ai d'esperance quVn la raiseri- 
curde divine.) At another lime he besought his coiifes- 
soT to treat him like the lowest subject in the realm, 
being convinced, he said, that there was but one gospel 
for the great, as well as for tlic little. (Ciu'il n'y avail 
(ju'un Evangile pour Ics grands, et pour les petits.) 

His sutTerinis were very acut(\ " You see," he observed 
tn tliosc around him, "what inlitlnities and wretchedness 
the fortunes and dii^niilies of tliis worltl^ come to." He 
repeated many titnes the Miserere, (Ps. li.) stretching 
forth his hands, tlien clasping them, and lifting up his 
eyes to heaven, with all the marks of the most sincere 
devotion. 

At midnight he exclaimed, "lam dying— ray mind 
grows indistinct, i trust in Jesus Christ." (Je vais 
bienl6t mourir, mon jugement se trouble, j'espere en 
Jesus Christ.) Afterwards, frequently repeating the 
sacred name of Jesus, he e.\pireu. (So raettant en de- 
voir de rep6ter aussi fr6quemmenl le tres-saiut nom dc 
Jtfsus, it expira.) 

Histoire tlu Card. Mamrin^ par M. Aultery. 



and lineal variations are so numerous, th.at, 
altogether, I apprehend, they will give a 
new air to the work, and I hope a much im- 
jiroved one. 

I forgot to say in the proper place, that 
some notes, although but very few, I have 
added already; and may perhaps see here and 
there opportunity for a few more. But, notes 
being little wanted, especially by people at 
all conversant with classical literature, as 
most readers of Homer are, I am persutided 
that were they numerous, they would be 
deemed an incumbrance. I shall write to 
Johnson soon, perhaps to-morrow, and then 
shall say the same thing to him. 

In point of health, we continue much the 
same. Our united love, and many thanks 
for your pi'osperous negotkations, attend your- 
self and whole family, and especially my lit- 
tle namesake. Adieu I 

W. C. • 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Weston, March 29, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — Your tidings concerning 
the slender pittance yet to come, are, as you 
observe, of the melancholy cast. Not being 
gifted by nature with the means of acquiring 
much, it is well, however, th.at she has given 
nie a disposition to be contented with little. 
I have now been so many years habituated 
to small matters that I should probably find 
myself incommoded by greater ; and may I 
but be enabled to shift, as I have been hit"!!- 
erto, unsatisfied wishes will never trouble me 
much. My pen has helped me somewhat : 
and, after some years' toil, I begin to reap the 
benefit. Had I begun sooner, perhaps I 
should ha\c known fewer pecuniary distress- 
es ; or, who can say 1 — it is possible that I 
might not have succeeded so well. Fruit 
ripens only a short time before it rots ; and 
man, in general, arrives not at maturity of 
mental powers at a much earlier period. I 
am now busied in preparing Homer for his 
second appearance. An author should con- 
sider himself as bound not to please himself, 
but the public ; and as far as the good pleas- 
ure of the public may be learned from the 
critics, I design to accommodate myself to it. 
The Latinisms, though employed by Milton, 
iind numbered by Addison among the arts and 
expedients by which he has given dignify to 
his style, I shall render into plain English ; 
the rougher lines, though my reason for using 
them has never been proved a bad one, so fiir 
as I know, I shall make perfeclly smooth ; 
and shall give body and substance to all that 
is in any degree feeble and fiiinsy. And 
when I have done all thi.s, and more, if the 
critics still grumlile. I shall say the very deuce 
is in them. Yet, that they will grumble I 
* Private correspondence. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



433 



make no doubt ; for, unreasonable as it is to 
do so, they all require sometliing better than 
Homer, and that something they will certainly 
never ijet from me. 

As to the canal that is to be my neighbor, 
I hear little about it. The Courtenays of 
Weston have nothing to do with it, and 1 
have no intercourse with Tyriiigham. Wlien 
it is finished, the people of these parts will 
have to carry tlieir coals seven miles only, 
which now they bring from Northampton or 
Bedford, both at the distance of fifteen. But, 
as Balaam says, wlio shall live when these 
things are done ? It is not for me, a sexage- 
narian already, to expect that I shall. The 
chief objection to canals in general seems to 
be, that, multiplying as they do, they are likely 
to swallow the coasting trade. 

I cannot tell you the joy I feel at the dis- 
appointment of the French: pitiful mimics of 
Spartan and Roman virtue, without a grain 
of it in their whole cluiracter. 

Ever yours, VV. C. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Weston, April 11, 1793. 
My dearest Johnny, — The long muster-roll 
of my great and small ancestors I signed and 
dated, and sent up to Mr. Blue-mantle, on 
Monday, according to your desire. Sik'Ii a 
pompous affair, drawn out for my sake, re- 
# minds me of the old fable of the mountain in 
parturition, and a mouse the produce. Rest 
undisturbed, say I, their lordly, ducal, and 
royal dust ! Had they left me somi'thing 
hanlsome, I should have respected them 
more. But perhaps they did not know that 
such a one as I should have the honor to be 
numbered among their descendants.* Well ! 
I have a little bookseller that makes me some 
amends for their deficiency. He has made 
me a present ; an act of liberality which I take 
every opportunity to blazon, as it well de- 
serves. But yon", I suppose, have learned it 
alrendy from Mr. Rose. 

Feai- not, my man. You will accjuit your- 
self very well, I dare say, both in standing 
for your degree, and when you have gained 
it. A little tremor and a little shame-faced- 
ness in a stripling like you, are recommend- 
ations rather than otherwise: and so they 
ou^ht to be, being symptoms of an ingenu- 

• Cowper, according In his kinsman, was dcscendtHl, 
by tiw inatonial lim-, ihroilurlt th(^ families of Hippc^Iey 
of Tliroiig:liley, in Sussex, and PfllL-t. of BoUu-y. in Iho 
(cime county.' from the several noble house-* of West, 
Knollys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, and Mowbray : and so 
by foiir dilTerenl lines from Henry the Third, king i>f 
Rnsfland. He jus'.ly adds. "Distinction of this nature can 
shed no additional liislreoti the memory of Cowpor; but 
genius, however exalted, disdains lutt, while it boasts not, 
the splendor of ancestr>- ; and royalty itself may be flat- 
terer!, and perhaps Vjeni'llted, by discovering its kindred 
to such piety, such purity, such talents as his.'' — Sec 
SHrlch of the r.ije of' ( oirprr. In/ />r, Mivson. 



oits mind, rather unfrequent in this age of 
brass. 

What you say of your determined purpose, 
with God's help, to take up the cross and de- 
spise the shame, gives us both real pleasure. 
In our pedigree is found one, at least, who did 
it before you.* Do you the like ; and yon 
will meet him in heaven, as sure as the scrip- 
ture is the word of God.f 

The quarrel that the world has with evan- 
gelic men and doctrines, they would have 
with a host of angels in the human form. 
For it is the quarrel of owls with sunshine : 
of ignorance with divine illumination. 

Adieu, my dear Johnny ! We shall expect 
you with earnest desire of your coming, and 
receive you with much delight. 

W. C. 



TO WTLLIAIM IIAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, April SB, 1793. 

My dear Friend and Brother, — Better late 
th.an never, and better a little than none at 
all 1 Had I been at liberty to consult my 
inclinations, I would have answered your 
truly kind and aft'eclionate letter immediately. 
But 1 am the busiest man alive, and, when 
this epistle is despatched, you will be the only 
one of my eorrespondcnts to whom I shtill 
not be indebted. While I write this, my 
poor Mary sils mute: which I cannot well 
bear, and vi'hich, together with want of time 
to write much, will have a curtailing cfl'ect 
on my epistle. 

My only studying time is still given to 
Homer, not to correction and amendment of 
him (for that is all over) but to writing notes. 
Johnson has expressed a wish for some, that 
the (inlearncd may be a little illuminated 
concerning classical story and the mytholo- 
gy of the ancients ; and his behavior to me 
has been so liberal, that I can refuse him 
nothing. Poking into the old Greek com- 
menfators blinds me. But if is no matter. 
I am the more like Homer. 

Ever vours, my de.arest Havley, 

W. C 



TO TItF. REV. JOHN NEWTON.J 

April 25, 1793. 
My dear Friend. — Had it not been stipu- 
lated between ns that, being both at present 
pretty much engrossed by business, we should 
write when opportunity offers, I should be 
frighted at tlie dale of your last; but you 
will not judge me, I know, by the uiifre- 
qnency of my letters : nor suppose that my 
thoughts about you are equally unfrequent. 

* Dr. Donne, formerly Dean of St. Paul's. 
t " Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne, 

Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone." 
X Private correspondence. 

•28 



434 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In truth, they are not. No day passes in 
which you are e.xcluded from them. I am 
.so busy that I do not e.\peet even now to fill 
my paper. While I write, my poor invalid, 
who is still unable to muse herself either 
with book or needle, sits silent at my side ; 
which makes me, in all my letters, hasten to 
a conclusion. My only time for study is 
now before breakfast; and I lengthen it as 
much as I can, by rising early. 

1 know not that, with respect to our health, 
wo are either better or worse than when you 
saw us. Mrs. Unvvin, perhaps, has gained a 
little strength ; and the advancing spring, I 
hope, will add to it. As to myself, 1 am, in 
body, soul, and spirit, semper idem. Prayer, 
I know, is made for me, and sometimes with 
great enlargement of heart, by those who 
offer it ; and in this circumstance consists 
the only evidence I can find, that God is still 
favorably mindful of me, and has not cast nie 
ofi" for ever. 

A long time since, I received a parcel from 
Dr. Cogshall, of New York ; and, looking on 
the reverse of the packing-paper, s.aw there 
an address to you. I conclude, therefore, 
that you received it first, and at his desire 
transmitted it to me ; consequently you are 
acquainted with him, and, probably, apprised 
of the nature of our correspondence. About 
three years ago I had his first letter to me, 
which came accompanied by half a dozen 
American publications. He proposed an ex- 
change of books on religious subjects, as 
likely to be useful on both sides of the water. 
Most of those he sent, however, I had seen 
before. I sent him, in return, such as I 
could get; but felt myself indifferently qual- 
ified for such a negotiation. I am now called 
upon to contribute my quota again ; and 
shall be obliged to you if, in your ne.xt, you 
will mention the titles of half a dozen that 
may be procured at little cost, that are likely 
to be new in that country and useful. 

About two itionfhs since, I had a letter from 
Mr. Jeremiah Waring, of Alton in Hamp- 
shire. Do you know such a m.an ? I think 
I have seen his name in adverlksements of 
mathematical works. He is, however, or 
seems to be, a very pious man. 

I was a little surprised lately, seeing in 
the last Gentleman's Magazine a letter from 
somebody at Winchester, in which is a copy 
of the epitaph of our poor friend Unwin : an 
Engli.sh, not a Latin one. It has been pleas- 
ant to me sometimes to think, that Ins dust 
lay under an inscription of my writing ; 
which I had no reason to doubt, because the 
Latin one, which I composed at the request 
of the executors, was, as I understood from 
Mr. IL Thornton, accepted by them and ap- 
proved. If they thought, after all, that an 
English one, as more intelligible, would 
therefore be preferable, I believe they judged 



wksely ; but, having never heard th.at they 
had changed their mind about it, I was at a 
loss to account for the alteration. 

So now, my dear friend, adieu ! — When I 
have thanked you for a barrel of oysters, and 
added our united kind remembrances to your- 
self and Miss Catlett, I shall have exhausted 
the last moment that I can spare at present. 
I remain sincerely yours, 

W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, May 4, 179J, 

My dear Friend, — While your sorrow for 
our common loss was fresh in your mind, I 
would not write, lest a letter on so distress- 
ing a subject should be too painful both to 
you and me ; and now that I seem to have 
reached a proper time for doing it, the mul- 
tiplicity of my literary business will hardly 
afford me leisure. Both you and I have 
this comfort when deprived of those we love 
— .at our time of life we have every reason to 
believe that the deprivation cannot be long. 
Our sun is setting too, and when the hour 
of rest arrives we shall rejoin your brother, 
and m.any whom we have tendcily loved, our 
forerunners into a bettter country. 

I will say no more on a theme which it 
will be better perhaps to treat with brevity; 
and because the introduction of any other 
might seem a transition too violent, I will 
only add that Mrs. Unwin and I are about as 
well as we at any time have been within the 
last year. 

Truly yours, W. C. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

l\Iay 5, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — My deLay to answer 
your last kind letter, to which likewise you 
desired a speedy reply, must have seemed 
rather difficult to explain on any other sup- 
position than thnt of illness ; but illness has 
not been the cause, although, to say the truth, 
I cannot boast of having been lately very well. 
Yet has not this been the cause of my silence, 
but your own advice, very proper and ear- 
nestly given to me, to proceed in the revisal 
of Homer. To this it is owing, that, instead 
of giving an hour or two before breakfast to 
my correspondents, I allot that time entirely 
to my studies. I have nearly given the last 
touches to the poetry, and am now busied 
far more laboriously in writing notes at the 
request of my honest bookseller, transmitted 
to me in the first instance by you, and after- 
ward repeated by himself I am therefore, 
deep in the old Scholia, and have advanced 
to the latter part of Iliad nine, explaining, as 
I go, such passages as may be difficult to un- 
learned readers, and such only ; for notes of 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



435 



that kind are the notes that Johnson desired. 
I find it a more laborious tasU than the trans- 
lalion was, and shall be lieartily glad when it 
is over. In the meantime, all the letters I 
receive remain unanswered, or, if they receive 
an answer, it is always a short one. Such 
this must be. Johnny is here, having flown 
over Ix»ndon. 

Homer, I believe, will make a much more 
respeetiible appearance than before. John- 
son now thinks it will be rif,'ht to make a 
separate impression oi' the amendments. 

vv. c. 

I breakfast every morning on seven or 
eight pages of the Greek commentators. 
For so much I am obliged to read in order 
to select perluips three or four .short notes 
for the readers of ray translation. 

Homer is indeed a tie upon me, th.it must 
not on any account be broken, lill all his de- 
mauds are s.itislied; though 1 have fancied, 
while the revLsal of the Odyssey was at a 
distance, that it would ask less labor in the 
finishing, it is not unlikely, that, when I take 
it actually in hand, I may find myself mis- 
taken. Of this :it least I am sure, that un- 
even verse abounds much more in it than it 
once did in the Iliad ; yet to the latter the 
critics objected on that account, though to 
the former never; perhaps because they had 
not read it. Hereafter they shall not qu.arrel 
with me on that score. The Iliad is now all 
smooth turnpike, and I will take equal care, 
that there shall he no jolts in the Odyssey. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

The Lodjc, Msy 7, 17M. 

My dearest Coz., — You h.ave thought me 
long silent, and so have many others. In 
factil have not for many months written 
punctually to any but yourself and Ilayley. 
-My time, the little I have, is so engrossed by 
Homer, that I have at this moment a bundle 
of unanswered letters by me, and letters 
likely to be so. Thou knowcst, I dare say, 
what it is to have a head weary with think- 
ing. Mine is so fatigued by breakfiist time, 
three diys outof four, I am utterly incapable 
of sitting down to my desk again for any 
purpose whatever. 

I am glad I have convinced thee at last 
that thou art a Tory. Your friend's defini- 
tion of VV'hig and Tory must be just, for 
aught I know, as far as the latter are con- 
cerned; but respecting the former, I think 
him mistaken. There is no trce Wliig who 
wishes all power in the hands of his own 
party. The division of it which the lawyers 
call tripartite is exactly what he desires : and 
he would have neither king, lords, nor com- 
mons unequaJly trusted, or in the smallest 



degree predominant. Such a Whig am I, 
and such Whigs are the true friends of the 
constitution. 

Adieu ! my dear ; I am dead with weari- 
ness. W. C. 



TO THOMAS I'ARK, ESQ. 

May 17, 1793. 

De.ar Sir, — It h.as not been without fre- 
quent self-repro;ich that I have so long omit- 
ted to answer your last very kind and most 
obliging letter. I am by habit and inclina- 
tion extremely punctual in the discharge of 
such arrears, and it is only through necessity, 
and under constraint of various indispensable 
engagements of a different kind, that I am 
become of late much otherwise. 

I have never seen Chapman's tran.slation 
of Homer, and will not refuse your ofi'er of 
it, unless, by ac^cepting it, I shall deprive you 
of a curiosity that you cannot easily replace.* 
The line or two which you quote from him, 
except that the expression of " a well-written 
soul" has the quaintness of his times in it, 
do him credit. He cannot surely be the s,ame 
Ch;ipinan who wrote a poem, I think, on the 
battle of Hochstadt, in which, when I was a 
very young man, 1 remember to have seen 
the following lines: 

"Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, 
And each man mounted on his capering beast. 
Into the Danube they were push'd liy shoals," &c. 

These are lines that could not fail to im- 
press the memory, though not altogether in 
the Homerican style of battle. 

I am, as you say, a hermit, and probably 
an irreclaimable one, having a horror of Lon- 
don that I cannot express, nor indeed very 
easily account for. Neither am I much less 
disinclined to migration in general. I did no 
little violence to my love of home last sum- 
mer, when I paid .Mr. Ilayley a visit, and in 
truth was principally induced to the journey 
by a hope that it might be useful to Mrs. 
IJnwin; who, however, derived so little ben- 
efit from it, that I purpose for the future to 
avail myself of the privilege my years may 
reasonably claim, by compelling my younger 
friends to visit me. But even this is a point 
which I cannot well compass at present, both 
becau.se 1 am too busy, and because poor 
.Mrs. Unwin is not able to bear the fatigue of 
company. Should better days arrive, days 

* Chniimaii cliiiins llie lionnr of beine thi' first tmns- 
Infor (if Ihn whole of the wurtt* of Homer. He Wii-* l)orn 
in l.">.'>7, and wiw the contemporary of Sh:tk^|iiMri-. Spen- 
^er, Joniion, &c. His version of the Ili:i(l wsis di'dicjiled 
to Henry, Prince of Wjile-t. He alito tr;insl;it4'ti .Mui^iens 
nnd He!4io<l, and w;!-* the author of many otlier works. 
Ho died in lfiH4, aiied seventy-s»!ven. Ilis version of 
Homer is niiw oltsolele, and rendenHl te<lions Ijy Ihe pro- 
tracted mi'!isure of fourteen svtialtles; tiioualj occasion- 
ally it exhibits much npirit. NValler, aecorcltnl? to Dry- 
ileti, could never read Ilia version without emotion, and 
PofK! found it worthy of hia particular utlentloo. 



436 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



of more leisure to me, and of some health to 
lier, I shall not fail to give you notice of the 
change, and shall then hope for the pleasure 
of seeing you at Weston. 

Tlie epitaph you saw is on the tomb of the 
same Mr. Unwin to whom the "Tirocinium" 
is inscribed ; the son of tiie lady above men- 
tioned. By the desire of his e.xecutors I 
wrote a Latin one, which they approved, but 
it was not approved by a relation of the de- 
ceased, and tlierefore was not used. He ob- 
jected to the mention I had made in it of his 
niotlier having devoted him to the service of 
God in liis infancy. Slie did it, however, and 
not in vain, as I wrote in my epitaph. Who 
wrote the English one I know not. 

The poem c.iUed the " Slave" is not mine, 
nor have I ever seen it. I wrote two on the 
subject — one entitled "The Negro's Com- 
plaint," and tlie other "The IMorning Dream." 
With thanks for all your kindness, and the 
patience yon liave with me, 
I remain, dear sir. 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, May 31, 1793. 

My dear Brother, — You must either think 
me extremely idle, or e.vtremely busy, that I 
have made your last very kind letter wait so 
very long for an answer. Tlie truth how- 
ever is, that I am neither ; but have liad time 
enough to have scribbled to you, had I been 
able to scribble at all. To explain this riddle 
I must give you a short account of my pro- 
ceedings. 

I rise at six every morning and lag till 
near eleven, when I breakfast. The conse- 
(pience is, that I am so exhausted as not to 
lie able to write when the opportunity offers. 
You will say — " Breakfast before yoji work, 
and then your work will not fatigue you." I 
answer — "Perhaps I might, and your counsel 
would probably prove beneficial ; but I can- 
not spare a moment for eating in the early 
j)art of the nnirning, having no other time 
for study." This uneasiness of which I com- 
))Iain is a proof that I am somewhat stricken 
in years: and there is no other cause by 
which I can account for it, since I go early 
to bed, always between ten and eleven, and 
seldom fail to sleep well. Certain it is, ten 
years ago I could have done as much, and 
sixteen years ago did actually much more, 
without suffering fatigue or any inconve- 
nience from my labors. How insensibly old 
age steals on, and how often is it actually 
arrived befori' we suspect it ! Accident alone, 
some occurrence that suggests a comparison 
of our former with our jjivseut selves, affords 
the discovery. Well! it is always good to 
he undeceived, especially on an article of 
such importance. 



There has been a book lately published, 
entitled " Man as he is." I have heard a 
high character of it, as admirably written, 
and am informed, that for that reason, and 
because it inculcates Whig principles, it is 
by many imputed to you. I contradict this 
report, assuring my informant, that had it 
been yours, I must liave known it, for tliat 
you have bound yourself to make me your 
father-confessor on all such wicked occasions, 
and not to conce.il from me even a murder, 
should you happen to commit one.* 

I will not trouble you, at present, to send 
me any more books with a view to my notes 
on Homer. I am not without hopes that Sir 
John Throckmorton, who is expected here 
from Venice in a short time, may bring me 
Villoison's edition of the Odyssey. He cer- 
tainly will, if he found it published, and ihat 
alone will be itjstar omniiiin. 

Adieu, my dearest brother ! Give my love 
to Tom, and thank him for his book, of 
which I believe I need not have deprived him, 
intending that my readers shall detect the 
occult instruction contained in Homer's sto- 
ries for themselves. W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weslon,June 1, 1703. 

My dearest Cousin, — You will not (you 
say) come to us now ; and you tell us not 
when you will. These assignations, sine die, 
are such shadowy things that I can neither 
grasp nor get any comfort from them. Know 
you not tliat hope is the next best thing to 
enjoyment? Give us then a hope, and a de- 
terminate time for that hope to fi.x on, and 
we will endeavor to be satisfied. 

Johnny is gone to Cambridge, called thither 
to take his degree, and is much missed by me. 
He is such an active little fellow in m}^er- 
vice, that he cannot be otherwise. In ffiree 
weeks, however, I shall hope to have him 
again for a fortnight. I have had a letter 
from him, containing an incident which ha3 
given birth to the following. 

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.t 

ON HIS .4RR1VAL AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO 
RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. 

It' GiJi-on's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 

found, 
While moisture none refreshed the hrrbs around, 
Miijht fitly represent the Church, cnilow'd, 
With heavenly gifts, to lieathcns not allow'd ; 
In pledge, periiaps, of favors from on high, 
Thy locks were wet whrn other locks were dry. 
Heav'n grant us halt" the omen ! may we see, 
Not drought on others, hut much dew on thee ! 

These are spick and span. Jolmny him- 

* The rea! author was Robert Bage. 
t The poet's liilismnn. 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



437 



self has not yet seen them. By the way, he 
has filled your book completely : and I will 
^ive thee a ifiiinea if tliou wilt search thy old 
book for a couple of songs and two or three 
other pieces, of which I know thou niadcst 
copies at the vicarage, and which 1 have lost. 
The songs I know are pretty good, and I 
would fain recover them. W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. 

Weston, June G, 179X 

My dear Sir, — I seize a passing moment 
merely to say that I feel for your distresses, 
and sincerely pity you, and I shall be happy 
to learn from your ne.xt, that your sister's 
amendment has superseded the necessity you 
feared of a journey to London. Vour candid 
account of the eflect tliat your afflictions 
have both on your spirits and temper 1 can 
perfectly understand, having labored much 
in that fire myself, and perhaps more than 
any man. It is in such a school, however, 
that we must learn if we ever truly learn 
it, the natural depravity of the human heart, 
and of our own in particular; together with 
tlic consequence that necessarily follows such 
wretched premises; our indispensable need of 
tlie atonement, and our inexpressible obliga- 
tions to Hira who made it. This reflection 
cannot escape a thinking mind, looking back 
to those ebullitions of fretfulness and impa- 
tience to which it has yielded in a season of 
great affliction. 

Having lately had company, who left us 
only on the Ith, I have done nothing — noth- 
ing indeed, since my return from Susie.x, ex- 
cept a trille or two, which it was incumbent 
upon me to write. Milton hangs in doubt: 
neither spirits nor opportunity suffice me for 
that labor. I regret contiiuially that I ever 
suffered myself to be persuaded to undertake 
it. The most that I hope to effect is a com- 
plete revisal of my own Homer. Johnson 
told my friend, who has just left me, that it 
will begin to be reviewed in the ne.xt Avn- 
lylical, and he hoped the review of it would 
not offend me. By this I understand, that if 
I am not offended it will be owing more to 
my own equanimity than to the mildness of 
tlie critic. So be it ! He will put an oppor- 
tunity of victory over myself into my hands, 
and I will endeavor not to lose it. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

June 1-2, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — You promise to be con- 
tented with a short line, and a short one you 
must have, hurried over in the little interval I 
have happened to find between the conclusion 
* Private correspondence. 



of my morning task and breakfast. Study 
has this good effect, at least : it makes nie an 
early riser, who might otherwise, perhaps, be 
as nuicli given to dozing as my readers. 

The scanty opportunity I have, I shall em- 
ploy in telling you what you principally wish 
to be told — the present state of mine and 
Mrs. Unwin's health. In her 1 cannot per- 
ceive any alteration for the better ; and must 
be satisfied, I believe, as indeed I have great 
reason to be, if she does not alter for the 
worse. She uses the orchard-walk daily, but 
always supported between two, anil is still 
unable to employ herself as formerly. But 
she is cheerful, seldom in much pain, and has 
always strong confidence in the mercy and 
faithfulness of God- 
As to myself, I have always the same song 
to sing — Well in body, but sick in spirit; 
sick, nigh unto death. 

•Seasons return, but not to me returns 
God, or the sweet approach ot' heavenly day, 
Or sight o^ cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, 
Or joy, or hope, or Jcsus's face divine ; 
But cloud, &c. 

I could easily set my complaint to Milton's 
tone, and accompany him through the whole 
passage,* on the subject of a blindness more 
deplorable than his ; but time fails me. 

I feel great desire to see your intended 
publication ; a desire which the manner in 
which Mr. Bull speaks of it, who called here 
lately, has no tendency to allay. I believe 
I forgot to thank you for your last poetical 
present : not because I was not much pleased 
with it, but I write always in a hurry, and in 
a hurry must now conclude myself, with our 
united love. 

Yours, my dear friend. 

Most sincerely, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, iane 29, 1793. 
Dear architect of fine chateal'-v in air 
Worthier to stand tbrever if they couM, 
Than many built of stone, or yet of wood, 
For back of royal elephant to hear ! 

Oh for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to my own. though Htlle to thy good, 
With tliee (not subject to the jealous mood I) 

A partnershii) of literary ware. 

But I am bankrupt now ; anddoom'd henceforth 
To drudge, in descant iiry,t on others' lays; 

Bards, I acknowledge, of uncquall'd worth ! 
But what is commentator's happiest prulse ] 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes. 
Which they who need them use, and then despise. 

What remains for me to say on this subject, 
my dear brother bard, I will say in prose. 

• Paradi.se lost. Book III. 

t He alludes to his notes on Homer. 



438 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



There are otlier impediments whieli I could not 
comprise uitlun tiie bounds of a sonnet. 

BIy poor Mary's infirm condition makes it 
impossible for me, at present, to engage in a 
M'ork such as you propose. My thoughts are 
not sutliciently free, nor have 1, nor can I, by 
any means, find opportunity; added to it 
comes a difiiculty whicli, though you are not at 
all aware of it, presents itself to me under a 
most forbidding appearance. Can you guess 
it? No, not you ; neither perhaps will you 
be able to imagine that such a difficulty can 
possibly subsist. If your hair begins to bris- 
tle, stroke it down again, for there is no need 
why it should erect itself. It concerns me, 
riot you. I know mysejf too well not to 
kilow that I a?n nobody in verse, unless in a 
corner, and alone, and unconnected in my 
operations. This is not owing to want of 
love for you, my brother, or the most consum- 
mate confidence in you ; for I have both in a 
degree that inis not been exceeded in the ex- 
perience of any friend you have, or ever had. 
But I am so made up — I will not enter into a 
metaphysical analysis of my strange compo- 
sition, in order to detect the true cause of 
this evil ; but on a general view of the matter, 
I suspect that it proceeds from tlmt shyness 
which lias been my effectual and almost fatal 
hindrance on many other important occasions, 
and which I should feel, I well know, on this, 
to a degree that would perfectly cripple me. 
No ! I shall neither do, nor attempt anything 
of consequence more, unless my poor Mary 
get better ; nor even then, unless it should 
please God to give me another nature, in con- 
cert with any man — I could not, even with my 
own father or brother, were they now alive. 
Small game must serve me at present, and till 
I have done with Homer and Milton, a sonnet, 
or some such matter, must content me. The 
utmost that I aspire to, and Heaven knows 
with how feeble a hope, is to write at some 
better opportunity, and when my hands are 
free, " The Four Ages." Thus I have opened 
my heart unto thee.* W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 7, 1793. 
My dearest Hayley, — If the excessive heat 
of this day, which forbids me to do anything 
else, will permit me to scribble to you, I shall 
rejoice. To do this is a pleasure to me at all 
times, but to do it now, a double one ; be- 
cause I am in haste to tell you how much I 
am delighted with your projected quadruple 
alliance, and to assure you, th.at if it please 
God to afford me health, spirits, ability, and 
leisure, I will not fail to devote them all to 

* What the proposed literary partnership was, which 
Hayley suggested, we know not; it is evident that itwjts 
not the poem of '' The Four Ages," which forms the sut>- 
Ject of the following letter, and in which Cowper ac- 
quiesced. 



the production of my quota of " The Four 
Ages."* 

Von are ver)' kind to humor me as you do, 
and had need be a little touched yourself with 
all my oddities, that you may know how to ad- 
minister to mine. All whom I love do so, and 
I believe it to be impossible to love heartily 
those who do not. People must not do rae 
good in their way, but in my ou-n, and then 
they do me good indeed. My pride, my am- 
bition, and my friendship for you, and the in- 
terest I take in my own dear self, will all be 
consulted and gratified by an arm-in-arm ap- 
pearance with you in public ; and I shall 
work witli more zeal and assiduity at Homer, 
and, when Homer is finished at Milton, with 
the prospect of such a coalition before me. 
But what sliall I do with a multitude of small 
pieces, from which I intended to select the 
best, and adding them to " The Four Ages," to 
have made a volume ? Will there be room for 
them upon your plant I have re-touched 
them, and will re-touch them again. Some of 
them will suggest pretty devices to designer : 
and, in short, 1 have a desire not to lose them. 

I am at this moment, with all the impru- 
dence natural to poets, expending nobody 
knows what, in embellishing my premises, or 
rather the premises of my neighbor Courte- 
nav, whicli is more poetical still. I have built 
one summer-house already, with the boards 
of my old study, and am building another, 
spick and sptui, as they say. I have also a 
stone-cutter now at work, setting a bust of 
my dear old Grecian on a pedestal : and be- 
sides all this I meditate still more that is to be 
done in the autumn. Your project therefore 
is most opportune, as any project must needs 
be that has so direct a tendency to put money 
into the pocket of one so likely to want it. 

Ah brother poet ! send me of your shade, 
And bid the zephyrs hasten to my aid ! 
Or, like a worm unearth'd at noon, I go, 
Despatch'd by sunshine, to the shades below. 

My poor Mary is as well as the heat will 
allow her to be : and whether it be cold or 
sultry, is always affectionately mindful of you 
and yours. W. C. 



It is due to the memory of my reverend 
friend and brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. John- 
son, to state that Cowper was indebted to his 
ever-watchful and atfectionate kindness foi 
what he here calls his " dear old Grecian." 

* Hayley made a second proposition to unite with Cow- 
per in the projecle<l poem of " Tlie Four Ages," and to 
engage the aid of two distinguished artists, who were to 
emliellish the worli with a|>propriate designs. We be- 
lieve that Lawrence and I'laxman were the persons to 
whom Hayley refers. We cannot sufficiently nnrrel thr 
failureof this plan, which would have enrielied lilerature 
and art with so happy a specimen of poetical uud pro- 
fession talent. But the period was luihappily approach- 
ing which was to suspend the fine powere of Cowper's 
mind, and to shroud them in the ved of darkness. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



439 



With that amiable solicitude which formed so 
prominent a feature in his character, and which 
was always seeking how to please and to con- 
fer a favor, he had contrived to procure an an- 
tique hust of Homer, to ijratify Cowper's 
partiality for his favorite bard. No i)resenl 
could possibly have been more acceptable or 
appropriate. We cannot avoid remarkinff. on 
this occasion, that, to anticipate a want and to 
supply it, to know how to minister to the 
gratification of another, and to enhance the 
gift by the grace of bestowing it, is one of 
the great .irts of social and domestic life. It 
is uot the amount, nor the intrinsic value of 
the favor, for the power of giving must in that 
case be restricted to the few. To give royally 
requires not only an enlarged heart, but ample 
and enlarged means. t is tlie appropriate- 
ness of the time and the occasion, the grace 
of the manner, and the unobtrusiveness of its 
character, that constitutes the value of the 
gift and endears the giver. 

Cowper recorded liis gratitude by the fol- 
lowing poetical tribute, which has always 
been justly admired : — 

Kinsman belov'd, and as a son by me ! 
When I behold this fruit of thy regard, 
Tile sculptur'd Ibrm of ray old t'av rite bard ! 
I rev'rence feci for him, and love lor thee. 
Joy loo, and grief! much joy that there sliouUI be 
Wise men. and iearn'd who grudge not to reward 
With some applause my bold attempt and hard. 
Which others scorn : critics by courtesy ! 

The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, 
1 lose my precious years, now soon to tail ! 
Handlijig his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
Proves dross when l)alane'dinthe Christian scale ! 
Be wiser lliou ! — like our foret'ather Donne, 
Seek heavenly wealth, and work lor God alone ! 



TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. 

W. U., July J5, 1703. 
Dear Sir, — Within these few days I have 
received, by favor of Jliss Knapps, your ac- 
ceptable present of Chapman's translation of 
the Iliad. I know not whether the book be a 
rarity, but a curiosity it certainly is. I have 
as yet seen but little of it; enough, however, 
to make nie wonder that any man, with so 
little taste for Homer, or apprehension of his 
manner, should tinnk it worth while to under- 
take the laborious task of translating him: 
the hope of pecuniary advantage may perhaps 
account for it.* His information I fear, was 

• Chapman's version is Urns described by Wnrton : lie 
"fteqileiltly retronclies or inil)overif,lie3 wliat he could 
not iVfl und expri'ss,'' and yet is "not always without 
slfL-nirlh and sitiril." By Anton, in his Pbitusophical S.it- 
irc?, publishcu in 161G, he is characterised us 

*' Greeke-thund'rin-.,' Chapman, beaten to llie ago. 
With a dei-pt- furie and a sudden ru;fe." 

The testimony of Bishctp Percy is tlalteriutl. *' Had Chnp- 
nian," he observes, '• translated the Iliad into lilank verse, 
it had beeu one of our chief cla.ssic perfortuanccs.'* 



not much better than his verse, for I have con- 
sulted him in one p.a.ssage of some difficulty, 
and llnd him giving a sense of his own, not at 
all warranted by the word^ of Homer. I'opt! 
sometunes does this, and sometimes omits the 
(lilficult part entirely. 1 can boast of having 
done neither, though it has cost me infinite 
pains to exempt myself from the necessity. 

1 have seen a translation by Hobbes, which 
I prefer for its greater clumsiness. Many 
years have passed since I saw it, but it made 
me laugh immoderately. Poetry that is not 
good can only make amends for that defi- i 
ciency by being ridiculous ; and, because the ; 
translation of Hobbes has at least this recom- 
mendation, I shtUl be obliged to you, sliould 
it happen to fall in your way, if you would 
be so kind as to procure it for me. The only 
edition of it I ever saw (and perhaps there 
never was another*), was a very tliick Idmo., 
both print and paper bad ; a sort of book that 
would be sought in vain, perhaps, anywhere 
but on a stall. 

When you saw Lady Hesketh, you saw 
the relation of mine with whom I have been 
more intimate, even from childhood, than any 
other. She has seen much of the world, un- 
derstands it well, and, having great natural 
vivacity, is of course one of the most agreea- 
ble companions. 

I have now arrived almost at a close of my 
labors on the Iliad, and have left nothing be- 
hind me, I believe, which I shall wish to alter 
on any future occasion. In about a fortnight 
or three weeks I shall begin to do the same 
for the Odyssey, and hope to be able to per- 
form it while the Ili.id is in printing. Then 
Milton will demand all my attention, and 
when I shall find opportunity either to re- 
vise your MSS., or to write a poem of my 
own,f which I have in contemplation, I can • 
hardly say. Certainly not till both these 
tasks are .accomplished. 
I remain, dear sir. 

With many thanks for your kind present. 
Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 

Weston, July 23, 1793. 
My dear Madam, — JIany reasons concurred 
to make me impatient for tlie .arrival of your 
most acceptable present,| and among them 
was the fear lest you should perhaps suspect 
me of tardiness in acknowledging so great a 
favor; a fear, that, as often as it prevailed, 
distressed me ccceedingly. At length I have 
received it, and my little bookseller assures 

• Cowper is mistaken in this supposition. Wood, in 
his Atlienie. records an edition of the Iliad in IGT.'i; and 
of the odyssL-y in H367,and there was a re-iiupreasion of 
both in lOnti. 

t The Four Arcs. 

t The poem of Iho Emigrants, which was dedicated to 
Cowper. 



440 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



me, that he sent it the very day he got it ; by 
some mistake, however, the wagon brought 
it instead of the coach, which occasioned the 
delay. 

It came this morning, about an liour ago : 
consequently I have not had time to peruse 
the poem, tliough you may be sure 1 liave 
found enough for the perusal of the dedica- 
tion. I have, in foct, given it three readings, 
and in each have found increasing pleasure. 

1 am a wliimsical creature : when I write 
for the public, I write of course with a de- 
sire to please; in other words, to acquire 
fame, and I labor accordingly, but when I 
tind that I have succeeded, feel myself 
alarmed, and ready to shrink from the acqui- 
sition. 

This I have felt more than once ; and when 
I saw my name at the head of your dedica- 
tion, I felt it again : but tlie consummate deli- 
cacy of your praise soon convinced me that 
I might spare my blushes, and that the de- 
mand was less upon my modesty than my 
gratitude. Of that be assured, dear madam, 
and of the truest esteem and respect of your 
most obliged and affectionate humble ser- 
vant, W. C. 

P. S. I should have been much grieved to 
have let slip this opportunity of thanking 
you for your charming sonnets, and my two 
rao.st agreeable old friends, Monimia and 
Orlando.* 



TO THE KEV. MR. GREATHEED. 

Weslon, July 27, 1703. 
I was not without some expectation of a 
line from you, my dear sir,- though you did 
pot promise nie one at your departure, and 
am happy not to have been disappointed; 
still happier to learn that you and Jlrs. Great- 
heed are well, and so delightfully situated. 
Your kind offer to us of sharing with you 
the house which you at present inhabit, added 
to the short, but lively, description of the scen- 
ery that surrounds it, wants nothing to win 
our acceptance, should it please God to give 
Mrs. Unwin a little more strength, and should 
I ever be master of my time so as to be able 
to gratify myself with what would please me 
most. But many have claims upon us, and 
some who cannot absolutely be said to have 
any would yet comiilain and think themselves 
sliglited, should we prefer rocks and caves to 
them. In short, we are called so many ways^ 

* Mrs. Charlotte Smith is well known as an authoress, 
and particularly fur her beautiful sonnets. She was for- 
merly a great eulogist of the French Revolution, but the 
horrors which di.^linguished that political era led to a 
chan;j:e in her sentiments which she publicly avowed in 
her '* Banished Man." There is a great plaintivencss of 
feeling in all her writings, arising from the unfortunate 
incideutsof her chequered life. We remember this lady, 
with her family, formerly resident at 0.\ford, where she 
excited much interest by her talents and misfortunes. 



that these numerous demands are likely to 

operate as a re.mora, and to keep us fixed at 
home. Here we can occasionally have the 
pleasure of yours and Mrs. Greathced's com- 
pany, and to have it here must I believe con- 
tent us. Hayley in his last letter gives me 
reason to expect the pleasure of seeing him 
and Ills dear boy Tom, in the autumn. He 
will use all his eloquence to draw us to 
Eartham again. My cousin Johnny, of Nor- 
folk, holds me under promise to make my 
first trip thither, and the very same promise 
I have hastily made to visit Sir John and 
Lady Throckmorton, at Bucklands. How to 
reconcile such clashing promises, and give 
satisfaction to all, would puzzle me, had I 
nothing else to do ; and therefore, as I say, 
the result will probably be, that we shall 
find ourselves obliged to go nowhere, since 
we cannot everywhere. 

Wishing you both safe at home again, and 
to see you as soon as mtiy be here, 
I remain. 

Affectionately yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAVLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, July 27, 1793. 
I have been vexed with myself, my dearest 
brother, and with everything about me, not 
excepting even Homer himself, that I have 
been obliged so long to delay an answer to 
your last kind letter. If I listen any longer 
to calls another w.ay, I shall hardly be able 
to tell you how happy we are in the hope of 
seeing you in the autumn, and before tlie 
autumn will have arrived. Thrice welcome 
will you and your dear boy be to us, and the 
longer you will afford us your company, the 
more welcome. I have set up the head of 
Homer on a famous fine pedestal, and a very 
majestic appearance he makes. I .am now 
puzzled about a motto, and wish you to de- 
cide for me between two, one of which I 
have composed myself, a Greek one, as fol- 
lows : 

Eu'iva n? TaVTr]v ; kXmtov nvepo^ ovvofi* oXio^cv' 
OofOfia 6 ovToi acijf) ai^Qiror aitv t^^i. 

The other is my own translation of a pas- 
sage in the Odyssey, the original of which I 
have seen used as a motto to an engraved 
head of Homer many a time. 

The present edition of the lines stands 
thus : 

Him partially the muse 
And dearly loved, yet gave him good and ill : 
She quench'd his sight, and gave him strains 
divine. 

Tell me, by the way, (if you ever had any 
speculations on the subject,) what is it you 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



441 



suppose Homer to have meant in particular, 
when he ascribed his blindness to the muse, 
for that he speaks of himself under the name 
of Dcmodoeus, in the elijhth book, 1 believe 
is by all admitted. How could the old bard 
study himself blind, when books were either 
so few or none at all 't And did he write his 
poems ' If neither were the cause, as seems 
reasonable to iniaijine, how could he incur 
his blindness by such means as could be 
justly imputable to the muse ? Would mere 
thinking blind him? I want to know: 

" Call up some spirit from the vasty deep!" 

I said to my Sam* , '• Sam, build me 

a shed in the garden, with anything that you 
can find, and make it rude and rough, like 

one of those at Eartham."' " Yes, Sir," 

says Sam, and straightway laying his own 
noddle, and the carpenter's noddle together, 
has built me a thing fit for Stow Gardens. Is 

not this vexatious .' 1 threaten to inscribe 

it thus : 

Beware oC building ! I intended 

Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended. 

But my Mary says, I shall break Sam's 
heart and the carpenter's too, and will not 
con.sent to it. Poor Mary sleeps but ill. 
How have you lived who cannot bear a sun- 
beaui ? Adieu ! 

My dearest Hayley, W. C. 

The following seasonable and edifying 
letter, addressed by Cowper to his beloved 
kinsman, on the occasion of hig ordination, 
will be read with interest. 

TO THE REV. JOHN JOH.N'SON.f 

Augual S, 1793. 

My dearest Johnny, — ^The bishop of Nor- 
wich has won my heart by his kind and lib- 
eral behavior to you; and, if I knew him, I 
would tell him so. 

I am glad tliat your auditors find your 
voice strong and your utterance distinct : 
glad, too, that your doctrine has hitherto 
made you no enemies. You have a gracious 
Master, who, it seems, will not suffer you to 
see war in the beginning. It will be a won- 
der, however, if you do not, sooner or later, 
find out that sore place in every heart, which 
can ill endure the touch of apostolic doctrine. 
Somebody will smart in his conscience, and 
you will hear of it. I say not this, my dear 
Johnny, to terrify, but to prepare you for 
that which is likely to happen, and which, 
troublesome as it may prove, is yet devoutly 
to be wished ; for, in general, there is little 
good done by preachers till the world begins 
to abuse th( m. But underst:md nie aright. 

* Samuel Uobf rU. Iii.«« raillifiil serront. 
t Prlvalo currcspoiideua.*. 



I do not mean that you should give them un- 
necessary provocation, by scolding and railing 
at them, as some, more zealous than wise, are 
apt to do. That were to deserve their anger. 
\i> : there is no need of it. The self-abasing 
doctrines of the gospel will, of themselves, 
create you enenn'es; but remember this, for 
your comfort — they will also, in due lime, 
transform them into friends, and make Ihem 
love you, as if they were your own children. 
God give you many such: as, if you arc 
faithful to his cause, I trust he will I 

Sir John and Lady Tiirockmorton have 
lately arrived in England, and are now at 
the Hall. They have brought me from 
Rome a set of engravings on Odyssey sub- 
jects, by Fla.\man, whom you have heard 
Hayley celebrate. They are very fine, very 
much in the antique style, and a present 
from the Dowager Lady Spencer. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

Weston, Aug. 11, 1793. 

Jly dearest Cousin, — I am glad that my 
poor and hasty attempts to express some lit- 
tle civility to Miss Fanshaw and tlie amiable 
Count,* have your and her approljation. The 
lines addressed to her were not what I 
would have made them, but lack of time, a 
lack which always presses me, would not 
sutler me to improve them. Many thanks 
for her letter, which, were my merits less 
the subject of it, I should without scruple 
say is an e.vcellent one. She writes with 
the force and accuracy of a person skilled in 
more hmguages than are spoken in the pres- 
ent day, as 1 doubt not that she is. 1 per- 
fectly approve the theme she recommends to 
me, but am at present so totally absorbed in 
Homer, that all I do beside is ill done, being 
hurried over: and I would not e.\ecute ill a 
subject of her rec(uumending. 

I shall watch the walnuts with more at- 
tention than they who eat them, which 1 do 
in .some Impc, though you do not e.vpressly 
say so, that when their threshing time ar- 
rives, we shall see you here. I am now go- 
ing to i)aper my new study, and in a short 
time it will be fit to inhabit. 

Lady Spencer has sent me a present from 
Rome, by the hands of Sir John Throck- 
morton, engravings of Odyssey subjects, af- 
ter figures by Fla,\man,f a st;ituary at pres- 
ent resident there, of high repute, and much 
a friend of Hayley 's. 

Thou livest. my dear, I acknowledge, in a 
very fine country, but they h:ive spoiled it 
by building London in it. 

Adieu, W. C. 

• Count firavina, the Spanish Admiral. 

t ThesL' iIln!<tralioiis an* executed in outline, and form 
one of the must Ufiititiful a-j 1 LlL-jram specimens of pro- 
fessional art. 



442 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



That the allusion in the former part of the 
letter may be better understood, it is neces- 
sary to state, that Lady Hesketh had lent a 
manuscript poem of Covvpcr's to her friend 
Jliss Fansliaw, with an injunction that she 
should neither sliow it nor take a copy. 
This promise was violated, and the reason 
assigned is expressed by the young lady in 
tlic following verses. 

What wonder ! if my wavering hand 

Had dared to disobey. 
When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 

And Cowper led astray 1 
Then take this tempting gitl of thine, 

By pen uncopied yet ; 
But, canst tliou memory confine, 

Or teach me to lorget 1 
More lasting than the touch of art 

The characters remain, 
When written by a feeling heart 

On tablets of the brain, 

COWPER^S REPLY. 

To be remembered thus is fame. 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few like her the seune, 

The press might rest for me. 

So Homer, in the memory stored 

Of many a Grecian belle, 
Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 

But never lodged so well. 

We add the verses addressed to Count 
Gravina, whom Cowper calls "the amiable 
Count," and who had translated tlie well- 
known stanzas on tlie Rose* into Italian 
verse. 

My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew. 

And, steep'd not now in rain, 
But in Castalian streams by you. 
Will never fade again. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Aug. 15, 1793. 
Instead of a pound or t%vo spending a mint 
Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint, 
That building, and building, a man may be driven 
At last out of doors, and have no house to live in. 

Besides, my dearest brother, they have not 
only built for nie wliat I did not want, but 
have ruined a notable tetrastic by doing so. 
I had written one which I designed for a 
hermitage, and it will by no means suit the 
fine and pompous affair wliich they have 
made instead of one. So that, as a poet, I 
am every way afflicted ; made poorer than I 
need have been, and robbed of my verses: 
what case can be more deplorable ?f 

* ' The rose hfid been washed, just washed in ashower,'&c. 
t Tlie line.'i here alluded to are entitled, " Inscription 
for an Herniitaire ;" and are as follow : — 

This cabin, Mary, in my siffht appears, 

Huill as it lias Ijei'n in our wanuig years, 

A rest afforded to our weary feel, 

rreliininary to— the last retreat. 



You must not suppose me ignorant of 
what Fla.xnian has done, or that I have not 
seen it, or that I am not actually in posses- 
sion of it, at least of the engravings which 
you mention. In fact, I have had them more 
than a fortnight. Lady Dowager Spencer, 
to whom I inscribed my Odyssey, and who 
was at Rome when Sir John Throckmorton 
was there, charged him vvitli them as a pres- 
ent to me, and arriving here lately he exe- 
cuted his commission. Romney, I doubt 
not, is right in his judgment of them ; he is 
an artist himself, and cannot easily be mis- 
taken; and I take his opinion as an oracle, 
the rather because it coincides exactly witli 
my own. The figures are highly classical, 
antique, and elegant; especially that of Pe- 
nelope, who, whether she wakes or sleeps, 
must necessarily charm all beholders. 

Your scheme of embellishing my Odyssey 
with these plates is a kind one, and the fruit 
of your benevolence to me ; but Johnson, I 
fear, will liardly stake so much money as 
the cost would amount to, on a work, the 
fate of which is at present uncertain. Nor 
could we adorn the Odyssey in this splendid 
manner, unless we had similar ornaments to 
bestow on the Iliad. Such, I presume, are 
not ready, and much time must elapse even 
if Flaxman should accede to the plan, before 
he could possibly prejiare them. Happy in- 
deed should I be to see a work of mine so 
nobly accompanied, but, sluuild that good 
fortune ever attend ine, it cannot take phice 
till the third or fourth edition shall atldrd 
the occasion. This I regret, and I regret 
too that yoti will have seen them before I 
can have an opportunity to show them to 
you. Here is si.xpence for you if you will 
abstain from the sight of them while you are 
in London. 

The sculptor f — nameless, though once dear to 

fame : 
But this man bears an everlasting name.* 

So I purpose it shall stand ; and on the 
pedestal, when you come, in that form you 
will find it. The added line from the Odys- 
sey is charming, but the assumption of son- 
ship to Homer seems too daring ; suppose it 
stood thus: 

^f r^i Trajs (.1 Trarpt, KUt oVTTarc Xrjaofnii avTov. 

I am not sure that this would be clear of the 
same objection, and it departs from the te.vl 
still more. 

With my poor Jlary's best love and our 
united wishes to see you here, 
I remain, my dearest brother, 

Ever yours, W. C. 



* A translation of Cowper's Greek verses on his bust 
of Homer. 



TO MRS. COUKTENAT. 

Wcalon. Aug. 20, 1793. 

My dearest Catharina is too reasonable, I 
know, to e.ypect news from nie, who live on 
the outside of the world, and know nothing 
that passes within it. The best news is, 
that, though yuu are gone, you are not gone 
forever, as once I supposed you were, and 
said that we should probably meet no more. 
Some news however we have ; but then I 
conclude that you have already received it 
from the Doctor, and that thought almost 
deprives me of all courage to relate it. On 
the evening of the feast, Bob Archer's house 
affording, I suppose, the best room for the 
purpose, all the lads and lasses who felt 
themselves disposed to dance, assembled 
there. Long time they danced, at least long 
time they did something a little like it, when 
at last the company having retired, the fid- 
dler asked Bob for a lodging; Bob replied — 
" that his beds were all full of his own fami- 
ly, but if lie chose it he would show him a 
hay-cock, wliere he raiglit sleep as sound as 
in any bed whatever." — So forth they went 
together, and when they reached the place, 
the fiddler knocked down Bob, and demand- 
ed his money. But, happily for Bob, though 
he might be knocked down, and actually was 
so, yet he could not possibly be robbed, 
having nothing. The fiddler, therefore, having 
amused himself, with kicking him and beat- 
ing him, as he lay, as long as he saw good, 
left him, and has never been heard of since, 
nor inquired after indeed, being no doubt 
the last man in the world whom Bob wishes 
to sec again. 

By a letter from Hayley, to-day, I learn, 
that Fla.\man, to whom we are indebted for 
those Odyssey figures which Lady Frog 
brought over, has almost finished a set for 
the Iliad also. I should be glad to embel- 
lish my Homer with them, but neither my 
bookseller, nor I, shall probably choose to 
risk so expensive an ornament on a work, 
whose reception with the public is at present 
doubtful. 

-•Vdieu, my dearest Catharina. Give my 
best love to your husband. Come home as 
soon as you can, and accept our united very 
best wishes. W. C. 



TO s-iivrtjEL rose:, esq. 

Weston, Aug. 22, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you have 
had so pleasant an excursion, and havo be- 
held so m.iny beautiful scenes. Except the 
delightful Mpway, I have seen them all. I 
have lived much at Southampton, have slept 
and caught a sore throat at Lyndhurst, and 
have swum in the bay of Weymouth. It will 
give us great pleasure to see you here, should 
your business give you an opportunity to fin- 



ish your excursions of this season with one 
to Weston. 

As for my going on, it is much as usual. 
I rise at six ; an industrious and wholesome 
practice from which 1 have never swerved 
since JMarch. I breakfast generally about 
eleven — have given the intermediate time to 
my old delightful bard. Villoisson no longer 
keeps me company ; I therefore now jog 
along with Clarke and Barnes at my elbow, 
and from the excellent annolalions of the 
former, select such as I think likely to be 
useful, or that recommend themselves by the 
amusement they may afford: of which sorts 
there are not a t'vw. Barnes also affords me 
some of both kinds, but not so many, his notes 
being chiefly paraphrastical or grammatical, 
my only fear is, lest between them both I 
should make my work too voluminous. 

W. C. 



TO W^LLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weslon, Aug. 27, 1793. 

I thank you, my dear brother, for consult- 
ing the Gibbonian oracle on the question con- 
cerning Homer's muse and his blindness. I 
proposed it likewise to my little neighbor Bu- 
chanan, who gave me precisely the same an- 
swer. I felt an insatiable thirst to learn 
something new concerning him, and, despair- 
ing of information from others, was willing 
to hope, that I had stumbled on matter un- 
noticed by the commentator.s, and might, per- 
haps, acquire a little intelligence from him- 
self. But the great and the little oracle to- 
gether have extinguished that hope, and I 
despair now of making any curious discover- 
ies about him. 

Since Flaxman (which I did not know till 
your letter told me so) has been at work for 
the Iliad, as well as the Odyssey, it seems a 
great pity that the engravings should not be 
bound up with some Homer or other; and, as 
I said before, I should have been too proud 
to have bound them up in mine. But there 
is an objection, at least such it seems to me, 
that threatens to disqualify them for such a 
use, namely, the shape and size of them, 
which are such, that no book of the usual 
form could possibly receive them, save in a 
folded state, which, I apprehend, would be to 
murder them. 

The monument of Lord Jlansfield, for 
which yon say he is engaged, will (I dare 
say) prove a noble effort of genius.* Statu- 
aries, as I have heard an eminent one say. do 
not much trouble themselves about a like- 
ness: else I would give much to be able to 
communicate to Flaxman the perfect idea 
that 1 have of the subject, such as he was 
forty ye.-irs jigo. He was at that time won- 
derfully handsome, and would expound the 

* The ct'lcbr.ited munuracril iu Wcatrninsler Abbey. 



most mysterious intricacies of the law, or 
recapitulate botli matter and evidence of a 
cause, as long as from hence to Eartham, 
with an intelligent smile on his features, that 
bespoke plainly the perfect ease with which 
he did it. The most abstruse studies (I be- 
lieve) never cost him any labor. 

You say nothing lately of your intended 
journey our way ; yet the year is waning and 
the shorter days give you a hint to lose no 
time unnecessarily. Lately we had the whole 
family at the Hall, and now we liave nobody. 
The Tlu-ockmortons are gone into Berkshire, 
and the Courtenays into Yorkshire. They 
are so pleasant a family, that I heartily wish 
you to see them ; and at the same time wish 
to see you before they return, which will not 
be sooner than October. How shall I recon- 
cile these wishes seemingly opposite ? Why, 
by wishing that you may come soon and stay 
long. I know no other way of doing it. 

My poor Mary is much as usual. I have 
set up Homer's head, and inscribed the pe- 
destal ; my own Greek at the top, with your 
translation under it, and 



S2s<!, 



'£ Traif 01 Trarpt 



&c. 



It makes altogether a very smart and 
learned appearance.* W. C. 



TO LADY HESKETH. 

August 29, 1793. 

Your question, at what time your coming 
to us will be most agreeable, is a knotty one, 
and such as, had I the wisdom of Solomon, I 
should be puzzled to answer. I will there- 
fore leave it still a question, and refer the 
time of your journey Weston-ward entirely 
to your own election: adding this one limita^ 
tion, however, that I do not wish to see you 
exactly at present, on account of the unfin- 
ished state of my study, the wainscot of 
which still smells of paint, and which is not 
yet papered. But to return : as I have insinu- 
ated, thy pleasant company is the thing which 
I always wish, and as much at one time as at 
another. I believe, if I e.xamine my.self mi- 
nutely, since I despair of ever having it in 
the height of summer, wliich for your sake I 
should desire most, the depth of the winter 
is the season which would be most eligible 
to me. For then it is, that in general I have 
most need of a cordial, and particularly in the 
month of .January. I am sorry, however, 
that 1 departed so far from my first purpose, 
and am answering a question, which I de- 
clared myself unable to answer. Choose 
thy own time, secure of this, that, whatever 
time that be, it will always to us be a wel- 
come, one. 

* This bust and pedestal were afterwards removed to 
Sir George Throckmorton's grounds, and placed in tlie 
Bhrubbery. 



I thank you for your pleasant extract of 
Miss Fanshaw's letter. 

Her pen drops eloquence as sweet 
As any muse's tongue can speak ; 
Nor need a scribe, like her, regret 
Her want of Latin or of Greek.* 

And now, my dear, adieu ! I have done 
more than I expected, and begin to feel my- 
self exhausted with so much scribbling at the 
end of four hours' close application to study. 

W. C. 



TO THE KEV. MK. JOHNSON. 

Weston, Sept. 4, 1793. 

My dearest Johnny, — To do a kind thing, 
and in a kind manner, is a double kindness, 
and no man is more addicted to both than 
you, or more skilful in contriving tliem. 
Your plan to surprise me agieeably succeed- 
ed to admiration. It was only the day Ijcfore 
yesterday, that, while we walked after dinner 
in the orchard, Mrs. Unwin between 8am and 
me, liearing the Hall clock, I observed a great 
difference between that and ours, and began 
immediately to lament, as I had often done, 
that there was not a sun-dial in all Weston 
to ascertain the true time for us. My com- 
plaint was long, and lasted till, having turned 
into the grass-walk, we reached the new- 
building at the end of it; where we s.at 
awhile and reposed ourselves. In a few 
minutes we returned by the way we came, 
when what think you was my astonishment 
to see what I had not seen before, though I 
had passed close by it, a smart sun-dial 
mounted on a smart stone pedestal ! I as- 
sure you it seemed the effect of conjuration. 
I stopped short, and exclaimed — " Why, here 
is a sun-dial, and upon our ground ! How is 
this? Tell me, Sam, how it came here? Do 
you know anything about it?" At first I 
really thouglit (that is to say, as soon as I 
could think at all) that this foc-totum of mine, 
Sam Roberts, having often heard me deplore 
the want of one, had given orders for the 
supply of that want himself, without my 
knowledge, and was half pleased and half 
offended. But he soon exculpated himself by 
imputing the fact to you. It was brought up 
to Weston (it seems) about noon: but An- 
drews stopped the cart at the blacksmith's, 
whence he sent to inquire if I was gone for 
my walk. As it happened, I walked not till 
two o'clock. So there it stood waiting till I 
should go forth, and was introduced before 
my return. Fortunately, too, I went out at 
the church end of the village, and consequent- 
ly saw nothing of it. How I could po.ssibly 
pass it without seeing it, when it stood in the 
walk, I know not, but certain it is that I did. 

* Miss Faushaw was an intimate friend of Lady llcs- 
kelh's, and frequently residing with her. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



445 



And where I shall fix it now, I know as IKtle. 
It eannot stand between tlie two pfates, the 
plaec of your ehoiee, as I understand from 
Samuel, beeause the hay-cart must pass that 
way in the season. But we are now busy in 
winding the walk all round the orehard, and, 
in doing so, shall doubtless stumble at last 
upon some open spot that will suit it. 

There it shall stand while I live, a constant 
moiuiment of your kindness. 

I have this moment finished the twelfth 
book of the Odyssey ; and I read the Iliad to 
Mrs. Unwin every evening. 

The eftect of this reading is, that I still 
spy blemishes, something at least that I can 
mend; so that, after all, the transcript of 
alterations which you and George have made 
will not be a perfect one. It would be fool- 
ish to forego an opportunity of imi)rovement 
for such a reason: neither will I. It is ten 
o'clock, and I must breakfiist. Adieu, thcr«- 
fore, my dear Johnny ! Remember your ap- 
pointment to see us in October. 

Ever yours, W. C. 



TO WILLIAM IIAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Sept. P, 1793. 

.Von sum quod simuln, my dearest brother ! 
I am cheerful upon paper sometimes, when I 
ajn absolutely the most dejected of all crea- 
tures. Desirous, however, to gain something 
myself by my own letter,s, unprofitable as 
they may and must be to iny friends, I keep 
melancholy out of them as much as I can, 
that I may, if possible, by assuming a less 
gloomy air, deceive myself, and, by feigning 
with a continuance, improve the fiction into 
reality. 

So you have seen Fla.\man'.s figures, which 
I intended you .should noth.ave seen till I had 
spread them before you. How did you dare 
to look at them? You should have covered 
your eyes with both hands: lam charmed 
with Flaxman's Penelope, and though you 
don't deserve that I should, will send you a 
few lines, such as they are, W'ith which she 
inspired me the other day while I was taking 
my noon-day walk. 

Tlic suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
\Vhoin all this elegance might well seduce ; 
Nor can our censure on the husband fall. 
Who, for a wife so lovely slew thcni all. 

I know not that you will meet anybody 
here, wdien we see you in Octolicr, unless 
perhaps my Johnny should happen to be with 
us. If Tom is charmed with the thoughts of 
coming to Weston, we are equ.ally so with 
the thoughts of seeing him here. At his 
ye:\rs I should hardly hope to make his 
visit agreeable to him, did I not know that 
he is of a temper and ilisposition that must 
mike him happv evervwhcre. Give our 



love to him. If Roinncy can come with 
you, we have both room to receive hiin and 
hearts to make him most welcome. 

W. C. 



TO MRS. COURTENAY. 
• Wuston, Sf|)l, n, 170:!. 

A thousand thanks, my dearest Catharina, 
for your pleasant letter; one of the pleas- 
antest that I have received since your dep:n't- 
ure. You are very good to apcdogize for 
your delay, but I had not fiattered myself 
with thi^ hopes of a .speedier answer. Know- 
ing full well your talents for entertaining 
your friends who are present, I was sure you 
would u ith difficulty find half an hour that 
you could devote to an absent one. 

I am glad that you think of your return. 
Poor Weston is a desol.ation without you. 
In the meantime I amuse myself as well as 1 
can, thruruniiiig old Homer's Ivre, and turn- 
ing the premises upside down. Upside down 
indeed, for so it is literally that I have been 
dealing with the orchard, almost ever since 
you went, digging and delving it around to 
make a new walk, which now begins to as- 
sume the shape of one, and to look as if some 
time or other it may servo in that cap:icity. 
Taking my usual exercise there the otlier 
day with Mrs. Unwin, a wide disagreement 
between your clock and ours occasioned me 
to complain much, .as I have often done, of 
the want of a dial. Guess my surpri.se. when 
at the close of my eomphiint 1 saw one — saw 
one close at my side ; a smart one, glittering 
in the sun, ;md mounted on a pedestal of 
stone. I was astonished. "This," I ex- 
claimed, "is absolute conjuration!" — It w:is 
a most mysterious aft'air, but the mystery 
was at last explained. 

This scribble I presume will find you just 
arrived at Bucklands. I would with all my 
heart that since dials can be thus suddenly 
conjured from one place to another, I could 
be so too, and eould start up before your 
eyes in the middle of some walk or lawn, 
where you and Lady Frog are wandering. 

While Piteairne whistles for his fimily es- 
t.ite in Fifeshire, he will do well if he' will 
sound a few notes for me. I am originally 
of the same shire, and a fnnily of my name 
is still there, to whom perhaps he m:iv 
whistle on my behalf not altogether in vain. 
.So shall his fife excel all my poetical elTorts, 
which have not yet, and I dare say never 
will, eflVctually charm one acre of ground 
into my possession. 

Remember me to Sir John, Lady Frog, 
and your husband — tell them I love them all. 
She told me once site was jealous, now in- 
deed she seems to have some reason, since 
to her I hive not written, and have writ'en 
twice to vol. I5ut bid her be of good cour 



446 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



age, in due time I will give her proof of my 
constancy. W. C. 

— ^ — 

TO THE REV. MK. JOHNSON. 

Weston, ficpl. 39, 1793. 

My dear Johnny, — You have done well to 
leave off visiting and being visited. Visits 
are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only 
for those who, if they did not that, would do 
nothing. The worst consequence of such 
departures from common practice is to be 
termed a singular sort of a fellow, or an odd 
fish ; a sort of reproach that a man might be 
wise enough to contemn who had not half 
your understanding. 

I look forward with pleasure to October 
the 1 1th, the dny which I e.xpect will be aJbo 
notandus lapilln, on account of your arrival 
here. 

Here you will meet Mr. Rose, who comes 
on the 8th, and brings with him Mr. Law- 
rence, the painter, you may guess for what 
purpose. Lawrence returns when he has 
made his copy of me, but Mr. Rose will re- 
main perhaps as long as you will. Hayley 
on the contrary will come, I suppose, just in 
time not to see you. Him we expect on the 
20th. I trust, however, that thou wilt so 
order thy pastoral matters as to make thy 
stay here as long as possible. 

Lady Hesketh, in her last letter, inquires 
very kindly after you, asks me for your ad- 
dress, and purposes soon to write to you. 
We hope to see her in November — so that, 
after a summer without company, we are 
likely to have an autumn and a winter socia- 
ble enough. W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 5, 1793. 

My good intentions towards you, my dear- 
est brother, are continually frustrated ; and, 
which is most provoking, not by such en- 
gagements and avocations as have a right to 
my attention, such as those to my Mary and 
tlie old bard of Greece, but by mere imper- 
tinences, such as calls of civility from per- 
sons not very interesting to me, and letters 
from a distance still less interesting, because 
the writers of them are strangers. A man 
sent me a long copy of verses, which I could 
do no less than acknowledge. They w-ere 
silly enough, and cost me eighteenpence, 
which was seventeenpence half-penny farth- 
ing more than they were worth. Another 
sent me at the same time a plan, rec|uesting 
my opinion of it, and that I would lend him 
my name as editor, a request with which I 
shall not comply, but I am obliged to tell 
him so, and one letter is all that I have time 
to despatch in a day, sometimes half a one, 
and sometimes I am not able to write at all. | 



Thus it is that my time perishes, and I can 
neither give so much of it as I would to you 
or to any otlier valuable purpose. 

On Tuesday we expect company — Mr. 
Rose, and Lawrence the painter. Yet once 
more is my patience to be exercised, and 
once more I am made to wi,-h that my face 
had been moveable, to put on and take oil' at 
pleasure, so as to be portable in a band-box, 
and sent to the artist. These however will 
be gone, as I believe I told you, before you 
arrive, at which time I know not that any- 
body will be here, except my Johnny, whose 
presence will not at all interfere with our 
readings — you will not, I believe, find me a 
very slashing critic — I hardly indeed expect 
to find anything in your Life of Milton 
that I shall sentence to ainput.ation. How 
should it be too long? A well-written work, 
sensible and spirited, such as yours was, 
when I saw it, is never so. But, however, 
we shall see. I promise to spare nothing 
that I think may be lopped off with ad- 
vantage. 

I began this letter yesterday, but could not 
finish it till now. I have risen this morning 
like an infernal frog out of Acheron, covered 
with the ooze and mud of melancholy. For 
this reason I am not sorry to find myself at 
the bottom of my p.-iper, for had I more room 
perhaps I might fill it all with croaking, and 
make an heart-ache at Eartham, which I wish 
to be always cheerful. Adieu. My poor 
sympathising Slary is of course sad, but 
always mindful of you. 

W. C. 



TO \VTLLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Oct. 18, 1793. 

My dear Brother, — I have not at present 
much that is necessary to say here, because 
I shall have the happiness of seeing you so 
soon; my time, according to custom, is a 
mere scrap, for which reason such must be 
my letter also. 

You will find here more than I h.ave hither- 
to given you reason to expect, but none who 
will not be happy to see you. These, how- 
ever, stay with us but a short time, and will 
leave us in full possession of Weston on 
Wednesday next. 

I look forward with joy to your coming, 
heartily wishing you a pleasant journey, in 
which my poor Mary joins me. Give our 
best love to Tom ; without whom, after 
having been taught to look for him, we 
should feel our pleasure in the interview 
much diminished. 

Lsti expectamus te pueruraque tuum. 

W. c. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



447 



TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* 

Wesloil, Ocl. 22, 179:). 

^[y dc.ir Friend. — You are very kind to 
apologize for a short letter, instead of re- 
proaeliing me with having been so long en- 
tirely silent. I persuaded myself, however, 
that while you were on your journey you 
would miss me less as a correspondent than 
you do when you are at home, and therefore 
allowed myself to pursue my literary labors 
only, but still purposing to write as soon as I 
should have reason to judge you returned to 
London. Hindrances, however, to the execu- 
tion even of that purpose, have interposed ; 
and at this moment I write in the utmost 
haste, as indeed, I always do, partly because I 
never begin a letter till I am already fatigued 
wiih study, and partly through fear of inter- 
ruption before I can possibly iini.sh it. 

I rejoice that you have travelled so much 
to your satisfaction. As to me, my travel- 
ling days, I believe, are over. Our journey 
of last year was less beneficial, both to Mrs. 
Unwin's health and my spirits, than I hoped 
it might be : and we are hardly rich enough 
to migrate in quest of pleasure merely. 

I thank you much for your last publication, 
which I am reading, as fast as I can snatch 
opportunity, to Mrs. Unwin. We h.ave found 
it, as far as we have gone, both interesting 
and amusing; and I never cease to wonder 
at the fertility of your invention, that, shut 
up as you were in your vessel, and disunited 
from the rest of mankind, could yet furnish 
you with such variety, and with the means, 
likewise, of saying the same thing in so many 
difterent ways.f 

Sincerely yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. J. JEKYLL RYE. 

Wcslon. Nov. 3, 1703. 

My dear Sir, — Sensible .as I am of your 
kindness In taking such a journey, at no very 
pleasant season, merely to serve a friend oi' 
iHine. I cannot allow my thanks to sleep till 
I may hijve the pleasure of seeing you. I 
hope never to show myself unmindful of so 
great a favor. Two lines which I received 
yesterday from Mr. Ilurdis, written h.astily 
on the day of decision, informed me that it 
was made in his favor, and by a majority of 
twenty. f I have great satisfaction in the 
event, and conse((uently hold ravself indebted 
to all who at my insUmce have contributed 
to it. 

You may depend on me for due attention 
to the honest clerk's request When he 

* Privat** f orrf ^pontlonpp. 

t Thu pulilicatiHn ;illuil*il lo is entitled. *• Letters to a 
Wife: written diiriii',' tluTi- voyages to Alrica, from 1750 
lo I7.'>4. By llie imlhor of Cardiplionia.^' 

J He was ajtpuiuled Professor of Poclrj'iii the Univer- 
sity uf Oxfura. 



c:illed, it was not possible that I should an- 
.swer your obliging letter, for he arrived here 
very early, and if [ suHered ;niything to in- 
terfere with my morning studies I should 
never accomplish my labors. Your hint 
concerning the subject for this year's copy is 
a very good one, and shall not be neglected. 
I remain, sincerely yours, W. C. 

Hayley's second visit to Weston took 
place very soon after the date of tlie last lel> 
ter. He found Cowper enlivened by the so- 
ciety of his young kinsman from Norfolk, 
and another of his favorite friends, "Sir. Rose. 
The hitter came recently from the seat of 
Lord Spencer, in Northamptonshire, com- 
missioned to invite Cowper, and his guests, 
to Althorpe, where Gibbon, the historian, 
was making a visit of some continuance. 

Cowper was strongly urged to accept this 
flattering invitation from a nobleman whom 
he cordially respected, and whose library 
alone might be regarded as a magnet of 
very powerful attraction. But the constitu- 
tional shyness of the poet, and the inlirm 
state of Mrs. Unwin's health, conspired to 
prevent the meeting. It would have been 
curious to have contemplated the Poet of 
Christianity and the author of the celebrated 
si.vteenth chapter in " The Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire" placed in juxtapo- 
sition with each other. The reflection would 
not have escaped a pious observer how much 
happier, in the eye of wisdom, was the state of 
Cowper, clouded as it was by depression .and 
sorrow, than that of the unbelieving philoso- 
pher, though in the zenith of his fame. We 
know it has been asserted that men are not 
.answerable for their creed. Why then are 
the Jews a scattered people, the living wit- 
nesses of the truth of a divine Revelation 
.and of the .avenging justice of God? But 
scepticism can never justly be said to origi- 
nate in want of I'vidence. Men doubt be- 
cause they search after truth with the pride 
of the inlellect, instead of seeking it with 
the simplicity of a little child, and that hu- 
mility of spirit, by which only it is to be 
found. 

TO MRS. COURTENAY. 

Weston, Nov. 4, 1793. 

I seldom rejoice in a day of soaking rain 
like this, but in this, my dearest Calharina, I 
do rejoici^ sincerely, because it afl"ords me an 
opportunity of writing to you, which, if fair 
weather had invited us into the orchard-walk 
at the usual hour, I should not easily have 
found. I am a most busy man, busy to a 
degree that sometimes half distracts me; 
but, if complete distr.aetion be occasioned by 
ii.aving the thoughts too much and too long 
alt;iched lo a single point, I am in no danger 
of it, with such a perpetual whirl are mine 



448 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



whisked about from one subject to another. 
When two poets meet, there are fine doings 
I e;in assure you. My Homer finds work 
for Hayley, .and his Life of Milton work for 
nie, so that we are neither of us one moment 
idle. Poor Mrs. Unwin in the meantime sits 
quiet in her corner, occasionally laughing at 
ns both, and not seldom interrupting us with 
some question or remark, for which she is 
constantly rewarded by me with a " Hush — 
hold your peace." Bless yourself, my de.ar 
Catliarina, that you ai'e not connected with a 
poet, especially that you have not two to 
deal with : ladies who have, may be bidden 
indeed to hold their peace, but very little 
peace have they. How should they in fact 
have any, continually enjoined as they are to 
be silent. 

The same fever that has been so epidemic 
there, h.as been severely felt here likewise ; 
some have died, and a multitude have been 
in danger. Two under our own roof have 
lieen infected with it, and I am not sure that 
1 have perfectly escaped myself, but I am 
uow well again. 

I have persuaded Hayley to stay a week 
longer, and again my hopes revive, that he 
may yet have an opportunity to know my 
friends before he returns into Sussex. I write 
amidst a chaos of interruptions : H.ayley on 
one hand spouts Greek, and on the other 
hand Mrs. Unwin continues talking, some- 
times to us, and sometimes, because we are 
both too busy to attend to her, she liolds a 
dialogue with herself Query, is not this a 
bull — and ought I not instead of dialogue to 
have .said soliloquy ? 

Adieu ! With our united love to all your 
party, and with ardent wishes soon to see 
you all at Weston, I remain, my dearest 
Catharina, 

Ever yours, W. C. 

Though Cowper writes with apparent 
cheerfulness, yet Hayley, refeiring to tliis 
visit, remarks, " My fears for him, in every 
l>oiut of view, were alarmed by his present 
very singular condition. He possessed com- 
))letely, at this period, all the admirable fac- 
ulties of his mind, and all the native tender- 
ness of his heart ; but there was something 
indescribable in his appearance, which led 
mo to apprehend that, without some sigiud 
event in his favor, to re-animate his spirits, 
they would gradually sink into hopeless de- 
jection. The state of his aged infirm com- 
panion aflibrded additional ground for in- 
creasing solicitude. Her cheerful .nnd bene- 
ficent spirit could hardly resist her own 
accumulated maladies, so far as to preserve 
ability sufficient to watch over the tender 
health of him, whom she had w.atched and 
guarded so long." 



Under these circum.stances, Hayley, with 
an ardor of zeal and a regard for Cowper's 
welfare, th.it reflect the highest honor upon 
his character, determined on his return to 
London to interest his more powerful friends 
in his behalf, and thus secure, if possible, a 
timely provision against future difficulties. 
The necessity for this act of kindness will 
soon appear to be painfully urgent. In the 
meantime he cheered Cowper's mind, har- 
assed by hisMiltonic engagement, with intel- 
ligence th.at h.ad a tendency to relieve him 
from much of his present embarrassmcjit 
and dejection. 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 5, ITIIH. 
My dear Friend, — In a letter from Lady 
Hesketh, which I received not long since, 
she informed me how very pleasantly she 
had spent some time at Wargrave. We 
now begin to expect her here, where our 
charms of situ.ation are perhaps not equal to 
yours, yet by no means contemptible. She 
told me she had spoken to you in very 
handsome terms of the country round about 
us, but not so of our house and the view 
before it. The hou.se itself, however, is not 
unworthy some commendation ; small as it 
is. it is neat, and neater than she is aware 
of; for my study and the room over it lune 
been repaired and beautified tins summer, 
.and little more was wanting to make it an 
abode sufticiently commodious for a man of 
my moderate desires. As to the prospect 
from it, that she misrepresented strangely. 
as I hope soon to h.ave an opportunity to 
convince her by ocular demonstration. She 
told you, I know, of certain cottages oppo- 
site to us, or rather she described them as 
poor houses and hovels, that effectually 
l)lind our windows. But none such exist. 
On the contrary, the opposite object and the 
only one, is an orchard so v.'ell planted, and 
with trees of sudi growth, that we seem to 
look into a wood, or rather to be surrounded 
by one. Thus, pl.iced as we are in the midst 
of a village, we have none of those di.sagree- 
.ables that belong to such a po.sitiou, and the 
village itself is one of the prettiest I know ; 
terminated at one end by the church tower, 
seen through the trees, and at the other by 
a very handsome gateway, opening into a 
fine grove of elms, belonging to our neigh- 
bor Courtenay. How liappy should I be to 
show it instead of describing it to you ! 

Adieu, my dear friend, W. C. 



TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. 

Weston, Nov. 10, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — You are very kind to 
consider my literary engagements, and 



to 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



449 



make tlicin a reason for not interrupting' me 
more frequently with a letter: but tlionijh I 
am indeed as busy as an author or an editor 
can well be, and am not apt to be overjoyed 
at the arrival of letters from uninteresting 
quarters, I shall always, I hope, have leisure 
both to peruse and to answer those of ray 
real friends, and to do both with pleasure. 

I have to thank you mueh for your benev- 
olent aid in the affair of ray friend Ilurdis. 
You have doubtless learned, ere now, that 
he lias succeeded, and carried tlie prize by a 
majority of twenty. He is well qualihed for 
the post he has gained. So much the better 
for the honor of the O.^conian laurel, and so 
nuich the more for the credit of those who 
have tavored him with their suffrages. 

I am entirely of your mind respecting this 
conflagration by which all Europe suffers at 
present,* and is likely to suffer for a long 
time to come. The same mistake seems to 
have prevailed as in the American business. 
We then flattered ourselves that the colo- 
nies would prove an easy conquest, and, 
when all the neighbor nations armed them- 
selves against France, we iraagined, I be- 
lieve, that she too would be presently van- 
quished. But we begin already to be unde- 
ceived, and God only knows to what a 
degree we may find we have eiTcd at the 
conclusion. Such, however, is the state of 
things all around us, as reminds me continu- 
ally of the Psalmist's expression — '• He shall 
break Ihem in jtieces like a potter's vessel." 
And I rather wish than hope, in some of my 
melancholy moods, that England herself 
may escape a fracture. 

I remain, truly yours, W. C. 



TO THE REV. MR. KVRDIS. 

Weston, Nov. 24, 1703. 
Jfy dear Sir, — Though my eongratul.if ions 
lia\e been delayed, you have no friend, nu- 
merous as your friends are, who has more 
sincerely rejoiced in your success than I. It 
was no small mortification to rae, to find 
that three out of the six whom I had en- 
gaged were not qualified to vote. You have 
prevailed, however, and by a considerable 
majority : there is therefore no room left 
for regret. When your short note arrived, 
which gave me the agreeable news of your 
victory, our friend of Eartham was with me, 
and shared largely in the joy that 1 felt on 
the occasion. He left me but a few days 
since, having spent sonicwhat more than a 
fortnight here; during which time ive em- 
ployed all our leisure hours in the revisal of 
his Life of Hilton. It is now finished, and a 
very finished work it is ; and one that will 
do great honor, I am persuaded, to the biog- 
rapher, and t!ie excellent m.an of injured 
• TIic cRVxi** of lti'.i TV(.';u;li U'jvoliition. 



memory who is the subject of it. As to my 
own concern with the works of this first of 
jjoets, which has been long a matter of bur- 
thensouu' contcinplation, I have the happi- 
ness to find at last that I am at liberty to 
postpone my labors. While I expected that 
my commentary would be called for in the 
ensuing spring, I looked forward to the un- 
dertaking with dismay, not seeing a shadow 
of probability that I should be ready to an- 
swer the demand ; for this ultimate revisal 
of my Homer, together with the notes, occu- 
pies completely at present (and will for 
some time longer) all the little leisure that I 
have for study — leisure which I gain at this 
season of the year by rising long before 
daylight. 

You are now become a nearer neighbor, 
and as your professorship, I hope, will not 
engross you wholly, will find an opportunity 
to give me your company at Weston. Let 
me hear from you soon : tell me how you like 
your new office, and whether you perform 
the duties of it with pleasure to yourself 
With much pleasure to others you will, I 
doubt not, and with equal advantage. 

w. c. 



TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. 

Weston, Nov. 29, 1793. 

My dear Friend, — I Tiavc risen, while the 
owls are still hooting, to pursue my accus- 
tomed labors in the mine of Homer; but be- 
fore I enter upon them, shall give the first 
moment of daylight to the purpose of thank- 
ing you for your last letter, containing many 
pleasant articles of intelligence, with nothing 
to abate tlie pleasantness of them, except the 
single circumstance that we are not likely to 
see you here so soon as I expected. My 
hope was, that the first frost would bring j-ou 
and the amiable painter with you.* If, how 
ever, you are prevented by the business oi 
your respective prof(;ssions, you are well pre- 
vented, and I will endeavor to be patient. 
When the latter was here, he mentioned one 
day the sultject of Diomede's horses, driven 
under the axle of his chariot by the thunder- 
bolt which fell at their feet, as a subject for 
his pencil.f it is certainly a noble one, and 
therefore worthy of his study and attention. 
It occured to me at the moraent, but I know 
not what it was that made me forgot it again 
the next moment, that the horses of Achilles 
flying over the foss, with Patroclus and 
Automedon in the cliariot, would be a good 
companion for it.| Should you happen to 

* I.nwrencc. 

t He. thiin<lcrini; d(kwnw.iril liurlM liis caiident bolt 
To the horse-feel of Dioinede: dire fura'd 
Tlii^ lliirninp: sulpliur, and boll) horses drove 
I'lider Ihe nxlu. — Couiprr^s frrjdon, book viii. 

I Riiiht o'or Iho liollow foss the coursers leap'd. 
By tlie iinmortal gods to IVIeiis t;iven.— 

CAttrprr^n l-'ersiim, book xvi, 

29 



460 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



recollect this, when you next see him, you 
may submit it, if you ple:ise, to his consider- 
ation. I stumbled yesterday on another sub- 
ject, which reminded me of said excellent 
artist, as liliely to aftord a fine opportunity 
to the expression that he could give it. It is 
found in the shooting match in the twenty- 
third book of the Iliad, between Meriones 
and Teucer. The former cuts the string 
with which the dove is tied to the mast-head, 
and sets her at liberty ; the latter, standing at 
his side, in all the eagerness of emulation, 
points an arrow at the mark with his right 
li.'ind, while with his left he snatches the bow 
from his competitor; he is a fine poetical 
figure, but I\Ir. Lawrence himself must judge 
whether or not he promises as well for the 
canvas.* 

He does great honor to my physiognomy 
by his intention to get it engraved ; and, 
though I think I foresee tliat this private pub- 
lication will grow in time into a publication 
of absolute publicity, 1 find it impossible 
to be dissatisfied with anything that seems 
eligible both to him and you. To say the 
truth, when a man has once turned his mind 
in.side out for the inspection of all who 
choose to inspect if, to make a secret of his 
face seems but little better than a self-con- 
tradiction. At the same time, however, I 
shall be best pleased if it be kept, according 
to your intentions, as a rarity. 

I have lost Hayley, and begin to be uneasy 
at not hearing from him ; tell me about him 
when you write. 

I should be happy to have a work of mine 
embellished by Lawrence, and made a com- 
panion for a work of Ilaylcy's. It is an 
event to wliich I look forward with the ut- 
most complacence. I cannot tell you wh.at 
a relief I feel it not to be pressed for Milton. 

W. C. 



TO SAMITEL ROSE, ESQ. 

VVeslon, Dec. S, 1793. 
My dear Friend, — In my last I forgot to 
thank you for the box of books, containing 
also the pamphlets. We h.ive read, th.at is 
to say, my cousin has, who reads to us in 
the evening, the history of Jonathan Wild.f 
and found it highly entertaining. The satire 

* Cowper here inverts the order of the names, and at- 
tnbutes to Teucer, what in the original is ascribed to 
Meriones. 

At once Meriones withdrew the bow 

From Teucer's hand, but held the shaft the while, 

Already aim'd 

He ey'd the dove aloft beneath a cloud. 
And struck her circling high in air ; the shaft 
Piiss'd Ihroutrh her, and returning pierc'd the soil 
Before the fool of brave Meriones. 
She, perching on the ini;sl again, her head 
ReciinM, and hung her wide-unfolded wing; 
But, soon expiring, dropp'd and fell remote. 
The concluding linesof this passage convey a beautiful 
and atfecting imiigc. 
t A production of Fielding^s. 



on great men is witty, and I believe perfectly 
just : we have no censure to pass on it, un- 
less that we think the character of Mrs. 
Heartfree not well sustained ; not quite deli- 
cate in the latter part of it ; and that the 
constant effect of her charms upon every 
man who sees her, has a sameness in it that 
is tiresome, and betrays either much careless- 
ness, or idleness, or lack of invention. It is 
possible, indeed, that the author might in- 
tend by this circumstance a satirical glance 
at novelists, whose heroines are generally all 
bewitching ; but it is a fault that he had bet> 
ter have noticed in another manner, and not 
have exemplified in his own. 

The first volume of Man as He is has lain 
unread in my study-window this twelve- 
month, and would have been returned un- 
read to its owner, had not my cousin come 
in good time to save it from that disgrace. 
We are now reading it, and find it excellent; 
.abotmding with wit and just sentiment, and 
knowledge both of books and men. 

Adieu, W. C. 



TO ^VTLLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 8, 1793. 

I h.ave waited and waited impatiently, for a 
line from you, and am at last determined to 
send you one, to inquire what has become of 
you, and why you are silent so much longer 
than usual. 

I want to know many things, which only 
you can tell me, but especially I want to know 
what has been the issue of your conference 
with Niehol : has he seen your work ?* I 
am impatient for the appearance of it, be- 
cause imp.atient to have the spotless credit 
of the great poet's character, as a man and a 
citizen, vindicated, as it ought to be, and as 
it never will be again. 

It is a great relief to me, that my MiUonic 
labors are suspended. I am now busy in 
transcribing the alterations of Homer, having 
finished the whole revisal. I must then write 
a new preface, which done, I shall endeavor 
immediately to descant os The Fvur Ages. 
Adieu ! my dear brother, W. C. 

The Milfonic labors of Cowper were not 
only suspended at this time, but we lament 
to say never resumed. 

There is a period in the history of men 
of letters when the mind begins to shrink 
from the toil and responsibility of a great 
undertaking and to feel the necessity of 
contracting its exertions within limits more 
suited to its diminished powers. Physical 
and moral causes are often- found to co-oper- 
ate in hastening this crisis. The sensibilities 
that are inseparable from genius, the ardor 

* Hayley'a Life of Milton. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



451 



that consumes itself by its own fires, the la- 
bor of thought, and the inadequacy of the 
body to sustain the energies of the soul 
within — these often unite in luirassing- the 
spirit^;, aiul sowing tlie seeds of a premature 
decay. Such was now tlie case with Cowper. 
His literary exertions had been too unremil- 
ting, and though we must allow much to the 
infiuence of his unhappy malady, and to the 
illness of Mrs. Unwin, yet there can l)e no 
doubt that his long and laliorious habits of 
study had no small share in undermining his 
constitution. 

It seems desirable therefore, at this period, 
to refer to the intended edition of Milton, 
and briedy to state the result of his labors. 

The design is thus stated by Cowper hini- 
?elf, in one of his letters. " A Milton, that 
is to rival, and if possible to e.vceed in splen- 
dor, Boydelfs Shakspeare, is in contempla- 
tion, and I am in the Editor's ollice. Fuseli 
is the painter. My husiness will be to select 
notes from others, aTid to write original notes; 
to translate the Latin and Italian poems, and 
to give a correct text." 

All that he was enabled to accomplish of 
this undertaking was as follows : 

lie commenced the .series of his transla- 
tions about the middle of Septeniher, 1791. 
In February, 1792, he had completed all his 
Latin pieces, and shortly after he finished the 
Italian. While at Eartham, in August, he re- 
vised all his translations, and they were sub- 
sequently retouched, in his declining strength. 
at East Dereham. From an amiable desire 
to avoid what might create irritation, he 
omitted the Poems against the Catholics, and 
thus assigned his motives in a letter to 
Joiinson. 

Weston, Oct. 30, 1791. 

" We and the Papists are at present on 
amicable terms. They have behaved them- 
selves peaceably many years, and have lately 
received favor from (jovernment. I should 
think, therefore, that the dying embers of 
ancient animosity had better not be troubled." 

He also omitted a few of the minuter 
poems, as not worthy of being ranked with 
the n'st. 

He was assisted in the execution of this 
work by the Adamo of Andreini, IJentley's 
Milton, an interleaved copy of New-ton's, and 
Warton's edition of the minor poems.* 

• Orthe^ecditioosof Milton, that of Benlleyhaanlwftys 
been coii^idrnril n complete ruilure. It i!« reinarkiilile for 
the boldness of its conjectural emendutions, itud for the 
liberties talien with the text. An amiisint; ntiecdote is 
recorded on this subject. Tou Triend exjjostuliilint; with 
him oi) the occ.x«ion, and urgini< that it wiia impossible 
for Milton, in so many tnsUinceA, to have written a.s he 
n]le..:ed, he replied Willi his characteristic spirit, '^Then 
he out;hl to have written so." Rishop Xewton's edition 
has accoutred just relelirity, and has served as the basis 
of all subseijiieiilc'lilioris. It ha.sbe«n deservc.flly called 
"the l)est edited ICn'-'IisU Cla..wic up to the piTiod of itg 
publication.'* Warton'a edition of "The Juvenile and 



With respect to his critical labors, ho pro- 
ceeded with singular slowness and difficulty. 
It appears to h.-ive been a most oppressive 
burden on his spirits. " Milton especially," he 
observes, "is my grievance; and I might 
almost as well be haunted by his ghost as 
goaded with continual reproaches for neglect- 
ing him." He was always soliciting more 
time, and when the appointed period was ex- 
pired, he renewed his ajiplication for fresh 
delay. Ilis coinineiitary is restricted to thu 
three first books of the Paradise Lost. 

This seems to imply that however nature 
designed him to be a poet, she denied the 
qualifications nece.s.sary to constitute the critic, 
for it will generally be found, that to execute 
with delight and ease is the attribute of 
genius, and the evidence of natural impulse ; 
and that slowness of performance indicates 
the want of those powers that aflbrd the 
promise and pledge of success. 

In this unfinished state, the work was pul)- 
lished by Hayley, in the year 1808, for the 
benefit of the second son of Mr. Rose, the 
godchild of Cowper. Some designs in outline 
were furnished by Flaxman, highly character- 
istic of his graceful style. 

The translations are a perfect model of 
beautiful and elegant versification. 

We consider Milton's address to his father 
to be one of the most beautiful compositions 
extant, and rejoice in presenting it to the 
re.ader in an English form, so worthy of the 
original Latin poem. 



Minor Poems" discovers a cla.Bsical and elegant taste. 
Its merit, however, is greatly impaired by the severity 
of its censures on Millon's republican and religious prin- 
ciples. It was to rescue that [treat poet from the ani- 
madversions of Warton and l)r. Johnson that Hayley 
eneiuted in a life of Milton, which does honor to the 
manliness an<I ttenerosity of Iiis feelings. But the most 
powerful defence is that of the Rev. Dr. Symona, who, 
with considerable victor of thouithl and language, has 
lakeu a most comprehensive view of the character and 
pro,>*' writings of Milton. He would have been entitled 
lo distimjuished praise, if, in vindicatin'^ the republican- 
ism tif Milton, he had not deeply fallen into it himself. 
In the [iresent day the clouds of prejudice seem to have 
subsided, and Ih»' errors of the politician are deservedly 
forgotten in the celebrity of the poet. There was a pe- 
riod when, accordin'^ to Dr. Jonnson, a monument to 
Philips, with an inscription by Alterbury, in which he 
was said to be soli Miltono gecundii-fi^ was refused admit- 
tance by Deati Spi-at into Westminster Abbey, on the 
ground of its " btfitr^ too detestable to be read on the 
wall of a building dedicated to devotion." 

The honors of a monument were at length conceded to 
Milton himself; but the beautiful and elegant l.alin in- 
scription, composed by Dr. George, Provost of King's 
t'ollege. Cambridge, shows that it was thought newssary 
lo a|*oloi:ize iur ils admission into that sacred repository 
of kuigs and prelates.* 



* We cannot refrain from enriching our p:^e3 with this 
much admired Epitaph. 

" Augusti regum cineres sanctaequc favillaj 
Ileroum, Vosi(ue O! venerandi nominis unil)ra>: 
Parcite, quod vestriw, infensum regibiis olim, 
Sedil|us inferter nomen: liceat<iue supremis 
Funeribus finere odiiu et mors obruat iras. 
Nunc sub fuederibus coeatit felicibus, una 
Liherta-s, ct jus sacri inviolabile seeptri. 
Rcgc sub Jiugusto fas sit laudare Cj/i^ncm." 



452 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO HIS PATIIEn. 

Oh that Pieria's spring would thro' my breast 

Pour its inspiring influence, and rush. 

No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ! 

That for my venerable father's sake. 

All meaner themes renounced, my muse on wings 

Of duty borne, miglit reach a loftier strain. 

Kor thee, my father, howsoe'er it please, 

.She tramcs tills slender work, nor know I au^ht. 

That may thy gilts more suitably requite ; 

TJiougli to requite them suitably would ask 

Returns much nobler, and surpassing far 

The meagre stores of verbal gratitude : 

lUit, such as I possess, I send thee all. 

Thi.'^ page presents thee in their full amount 

With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought: 

Nought save the riches that from airy dream 

In secret grottoes, and in laurel bow'rs, 

I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. 

He then sing-s the praises of song in fche 
following animated strain. 

Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
Verse therefore, which evinces, (nothing more) 
Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
Some scintillations of Promethean fire. 
Bespeaks him animated from above. [selves 

The gods love verse, the infernal pow'rs thcm- 
Confcss tlie influence of verse, which stirs 
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. 
In verse the Delphic priestess, and the pale 
Tremulous Sybil, make the future known, 
And he who sacrifices, on the shrine [bull. 

Hangs verse, both when he smites the thrcat'ning 
And when he spreads his recking entrails wide 
To scrutinize the Fates envelop'd there. 

He anticipates it as one of the employ- 
ments of glorified spirits in heaven. 

We too, ourselves, what time we seek again 
Our native skies, and one eternal Now* 
Shall be the only measure of our being, 
Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre 
Harmonious verse, sliall range the courts above, 
And make the starry firmament resound. 

The sympathy existing between the two 
kindred studies of poetry and musie is de- 
.seribed with happy efiect. 

Now say, what wonder is it, if a son 

Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd 

In close aflinity we sympathize 

In social arts, and kindred studies sweet ? 

Such distribution of himself to us 

Was Phoebus" choice ; thou hast thy giil.f and 1 

Mine also, and between us we receive. 

Father and son, the whole inspiring god. 

The following effusion of filial feelinfr is as 
honorable to the discernment and liberality 
of the pnrent, as it is expressive of the gniti- 
liide of the son. 

. . . Thou never bad'st me tread 
The beaten path and broad, that leads right on 

* The same expression is iiscd by Cowley: 

'• Nothing is tliore lo corac nnd notliinK p;i3l, 
l!iit on elerntil Now dties always !n.^t." 
' MUun's liithoi- wa'5 well skillt'd in mayic. 



To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son 

To the insipid clamors of the bar, 

To laws voluminous and ill-observd ; 

But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 

My mind with treasure, led'st me far away 

Froai city-din to deep retreats, to banks 

And streams Aonian, and, with free consent. 

Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 

I speak not now, on more important themes 

Intent, of common benefits, and such 

As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, 

My father ! who, when I had open'd once 

The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd 

The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks. 

Whose lofty music grac'd the lips ot' Jove. 

Thyself didst counstl me to add the flow'rs. 

That GaUia boa.sts, those too, with which the 

Italian his dcgen'rate speech adorns, [smooth 

That witnesses his mixture with the Goth ; 

And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. 

We delight in witnessing the e.\uberance of 
manly and generous feeling in a son towards 
a parent, entitled by kind offices to his grati- 
tude, and therefore transcribe the following 
passage. 

Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds. 
That covet it 1 what could my father more ? 
What more could Jove himselt' unless he gave 
His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns 1 
More eligible gifts than these were not 
Apollo's to his son. had they been safe. 
As they were insecure, who made the hoy 
The world's vice-Iurainary, bade him rule 
The radiant chariot of the day, and hind 
To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath. 
I therefore, although last and least my place 
Among the learned, in the laurel grove 
Will hold, and where the conqu'ror's ivy twmes, 
Hencelbrth exempt frotu the unletter'd throng 
Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 
Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint, away! 
And Envy, witli thy 'jealous leer malign !"' . 
Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth 
Her venom'd tongue at mc. Detested toes ! 
Ve all are iaipotent against my peace. 
For I am privileg'd, and boar my breast 
Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. 

He thus beautifully concludes this affecting 
tribute of filial gratitude. 

But thou, my father! since to render thanks 
Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
Thy libendity, exceeds my power, 
Suihi'e it. that I thus record thy gifls. 
\nd bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind ! 
Ve too, the favorite pastime of my youth, 
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
To hope longevity, and to survive 
Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
In the oblivious Lethsean guli^ 
Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
Improve the lathers of a distant age I 

We subjoin Hayley's remark on this poem, 
in Cowper's edition of Milton. 

" These verses are founded on one of the 
most interesting subjects that language can 
display the warmth t\ud felicity of strong re- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



453 



ciprooal kindness between a father and a son, 
not only united by the most saered tie of 
nature, but still more endeared to caeh other 
by the happy cultivation of lionorable and 
congenial arts. The sublime description of 
poetry, and the noble and graceful portrait, 
which the autlior here exhibits of his own 
mental character, may be said to render this 
splendid poem the prime jewel in a coronet 
of variegated gems." 

We e.vtract the following passag:es from the 
remarks and notes in Cowper's Milton, as ex- 
hibiting the manner in which he executed this 
portion of his labors. 

BOOK I. 

" There is a solemnity of sentiment, as well 
as majesty of numbers, in the exordium of 
this noble poem, which, in the works of the 
ancients, has no example. 

" The sublimest of all subjects was reserved 
for Milton ; and, bringing to the contempla- 
tion of that subject, not only a genius equal 
to the best of theirs but a he.art also deeply 
impregnated with the divine truths which lay 
before him, it is no wonder that he has pro- 
duced a composition, on the whole, superior 
to any that \vc liave received from former ages. 
But he who addresses himself to the perusal 
of this work, with a mind entirely unaccus- 
tomed to serious and spiritual contemplation, 
unacquainted with the word of God, or pre- 
judiced against it, is ill qualilied to appreciate 
the value of a poem built upon it. or to taste 
its beauties. Jlilton is the poet of Christians : 
an infidel may have an ear for the harmony 
of his numbers, may be aware of the dignity 
of his expression, and, in some degree, of the 
sublimity of his conceptions ; but the unaf- 
fected and masculine piety, which w.as his 
true inspirer, and is the very soul of his poem, 
he will not either perceive, or it will otlend 
liim." 

To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 

Line 177. 

" In this we seem to hear a thunder suited 
both to the scene and the occasion, incom- 
parably more awful than any ever heard on 
earth, and the ihunder u-ingifd with lightning 
is highlv po^'tical. It may be observed here, 
that the ihunder of Milton is not hurled from 
the hand like Homer's, but discharged like 
an arrow. Thus in book vi., line 712, the 
Father, ordering forth tlie Son for the de- 
struction of the rebel angels, says — 

Bring forth all my war, 

My bow, atuL thunder. 

As if, je.alous for the honor of the true God, 
the poet disdained to arm him like the god 
of the he.athen.""* 

He spake, and to conlirm his words, &c. &c. 

Line 0C3. 
• Psalm vii. 12. 



" This is another instance in which appears 
the advant.age that Milton derives from the 
grandeur of his subject. Wh.-it description 
co\ild even he have given of a host of human 
warriors insulting their conqueror, at all com- 
parable to this? First, their multitude is to 
1)0 noticed. They are not thousands, but 
millions; and they are millions, not of puny 
mortals, but of mighty cherubim. Their 
swords flame, not metaphorically, but they 
are swords of fire ; they flash not by reflec- 
tion of the sun-beams, like the swords of 
Homer, but by their own light, and that liglit 
])lays not idly in the broad day, but far round 
illumines Hell. And lastly, they defy not a 
created being like themselves, but the Al- 
mighty." 



.\s when from mountain tops, &c. 

Line 488. 

"The reader loses half the beauty of this 
charming simile, who does not give particular 
attention to the numbers. There is a majesty 
in them not often equalled, and never sur- 
passed, even by this great poet himself; the 
movement is uncommonly slow ; an effect 
produced by means already hinted at, tlie as- 
semblage of a greater proportion of long 
syllables than usual. The pauses are also 
managed with great skill and judgment; 
while the clouds rise, and the heavens gather 
blackness, they fall in those parts of the ver.se 
where ihcy retard the reader most, and thus 
become expressive of the solemnity of the 
subject; but in the latter part of the simile, 
when the sun breaks out, and the scene 
brightens, they are so disposed as to allow 
the verse an easier and less interrupted flow, 
more suited to the cheerfulness of the oc- 
casion." 

He concludes with the following summary 
of the great doctrines that form the founda- 
tion of the I'aradise Lost. 

'• It may not be amiss, at the close of these 
admirable speeches — as admirable for their 
sound divinity as for the perspicuity with 
which it is expressed — to allow ourselves a 
moment's pause, for the purpose of taking a 
short retrospect of the doctrines contained in 
them. -Man, in the begiimiiig, is placed in a 
probationary state, and made the arbiter of 
his own deslinv. By his own fault, he for- 
feits happiness, both for himself and his de- 
scendant.s|^ But mercy interposes for his 
restoration That mercy is represented as 
perfectly free, as vouchsafed to the most un- 
worthy; to creatures so entirely dead in sin 
as to be destitute even of a sense of their 
need of it, and consequently too stupid even 
to .ask it. They are also as poor as they are 
unfeeling ; and. were it possible that they 
could affect themselves with a just sense aud 
apprehension of their lapsed condition, they 



454 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



would h;ue no compensation to offer to their 
otiendt'd Maker, notliing with, uhich they can 
satisfy the demands of his justice, — in short, 
no atonement. In this ruinous state of their 
affairs, and when all hope of reconciliation 
seems lost forever, the Son of God volunta- 
rily undertakes for them, — undertakes to be- 
come the son of man also, and to suffer, in 
man's stead, the penalty annexed to liis trans- 
gression. In consequence of this self-sub- 
stitution, Christ becomes the federal head of 
his church, and the sole author of salvation 
to his people. As Adam's sin was imputed 
to his posterity, so the faultless obedience of 
the second Adam is imputed to all, who, in 
the great concern of justitication, shall re- 
nounce their own obedience as imperfect and 
therefore incompetent. The sentence is thus 
reversed as to all believers: 'Death is swal- 
lowed up in victory.' The Saviour presents 
the redeemed before the throne of the Eter- 
nal Father, in whose countenance no longer 
any symptom of displeasure appears against 
them, but their joy and peace are thenceforth 
perfect. The general resurrection takes place; 
the saints are made assessors with Christ in 
the judgment, both of men and angels ; the 
new heaven and earth, the destined habita^ 
tion of the just, succeed ; the Son of God, 
his whole undertaking accomplished, surren- 
ders the kingdom to his Father: God be- 
comes all in all ! It is easy to see, that, 
among these doctrines, there are some which, 
in modern times, have been charged with 
novelty ; but how new they are Milton is a 
witness." 

Fuseli, whose labors were so unfortunately 
superseded, completed a series of admirable 
paintings from subjects furnished by the 
Paradise Lost; which were afterwards ex- 
hibited in London, under the name of the 
Milton Gallery. He thus acquired a reputa- 
tion which placed him in the first rank of 
artists; and the amateur had the opportunity 
of seeing, in the Shakspeare and Milton gal- 
leries, the most distinguished painters en- 
gaged in illustrating the productions of the 
two greatest authors that ever adorned any 
age or country.* 

This projected edition of Milton is re- 

- A popular writer paid the following eloqiucnt tribute 
to these mastL-rly specimens of professional art. 

Vet mark oarli willing Muse, where Boydell draws, 
And call^" tin- si-ter pow'rs in Shak:jpeare's cause! 
Ity art omtmira ihe lire of Reynolds breajy. 
And nature's pallium in her Northcote spe^p; 
The Grecian forms in Hamilton combine, 
Parrhasian grace, and Zeuxis' softet-t line ; 
There Barry's learniiiK meets with Uomney's strength, 
And Smirke portrays Thulia at full length. 

Lol Fuseli (in whoi?e tempestuous soul 
The unnaviyiible tides of genius roll,) 
Depicts tlie stilphVous fire, the smuuld'ring light, 
The bridge chaotic o'er the abyss of night, 
With each accursed form and mystic spell,^ 
And singly " bears up nil the fame of hell !" 

Pursuits of Literature. 



markable as having laid the foundation of 
the intercourse, which soon ripened into 
friendship, between Cowper and Hayley. 
The hitter was at that time engaged in writ^ 
ingalife of Milton, which gave rise to his 
being represented as an opponent of Cowper. 
To exonerate himself from such an imputa- 
tion, he wrote the letter which we subjoin in 
a note.* 

Having detailed the circumstances con- 
nected with the edition of Milton, we return 
to the regular correspondence. 

* Earthum, Feb., 1792. 

Dear Sir, — I have often been templed, by affectionate 
admiration of your poetry, to trouble you with a letter; 
but I have repeatedly checiied myself by recollecting that 
the vanity of believing ourselves distantly related in spirit 
to a man of genius is but a sorry apology for intruding 
on his time. 

Though I resisted my desire of professing myself your 
friend, that I might not disturb you with intrusive famil- 
iarity, I cannot resist a desire, equally affectionate, of dis- 
claiming an idea which I am told is imputed to me, of 
considering myself, on a recent occasion, as an antagonist 
to you. Allow me, therefore, to say, I was solicited to 
write a Life of Milton, for Boydell and Nichol, before I 
had the least idea that you and Mr. Fuseli were concerned 
in a project similar to theirs. When I first heard of yotu* 
intention, I was apprehensive that we might undesign- 
edly thwtirt each other ; but, on seeing your proposals, I 
am agreeably persuaded that our respective labors will 
be far from clashing; as it is your design to illustrate 
Milton with a series of notes, and I only mean to execute 
a more candid life of him than his late biographer has 
given us, upon a plan that will, I Hatter myself, be par- 
ticularly pleaiiing to those who love the author as we do. 

As to the jiecuniary interests of those persons who 
venture large sums in expensive decoration of Milton, I 
am persuaded his expanding glory will supjwrt them a\). 
Every splendid edition, where the merits of the pencil 
are in any de;,'ree worthy of the poet, will, I think, be 
secure of success. 1 w ish it cordially to all ; as I have a 
great affection for the arts, and a sincere regard for those 
whose talents reflect honor upon them. 

To you, my dear sir, I have a grateful attachment, for 
the infinite delight which your writings have afforded 
me : and if, in the course of your work, I have any oppor- 
tunity to serve or oblige you, I shall seize it with that 
friendly spirit which has impelled me at present to assure 
you both in prose and rhyme, that 1 am yoiu" cordial 
admirer. 

W. Hatlev. 

P. 3. I wrote the enclosed sonnet on being told that our 
names had been idly printed together in a newspaper, as 
hostile competitors. Pray forgive its partial defects f«.u- its 
affectionate smcerity. From my ignorance of your ad- 
dress, I send this to your bookseller's by a person com- 
missioned to place my name in the list of your sub- 
scribers ; and let me add, if you ever wish to form a new 
collection of names for any similar purpose, I entreat 
you to honor me so far as to rank 7/ii7ic, of your own ac- 
cord, among those of your sincerest friends. Adieu I 

SONNET. 

TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

On hearing that our names had been idly mentioned in a 
newspaper., as competitors in a htfc of Milton. 

Cowper! delight of all who justly prize 
The splendid magic of a strain divine, 
That sweetly tempts th' enlighten'd soul to rise, 
As sunbeams lure an t-aglf lo the skies. 
Poet! to whom I feel m\ heart incline 
As to a friend endeared by virtue's ties ; 
Ne'er shall my name in pride's cimtentlous line 
With hostile emulation cope with thine! 
No, let us meet, with kind fraternal aim, 
Where Milton's shrine invites a votive throng. 
With thee I share a passion for his fame, 
His zeal for truth, his scorn of venal blame: 
But thou hnsl rarer gifts,— to thee belong 
His harp of highest tone— his sanctity of song. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



456 



TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* 

Weston, Doc. 10, 1793. 

You mentioned, my dear friend, in your 
last letter, an unf^ivorable sprain that you 
had reeciw'd, which you apprehended might 
be very inconvenient to you for some time to 
come ; and having le.irned also from Lady 
Heskelh the same unwelcome intelligence, 
in terms still more alarming than those in 
which you related the accident yourself, 1 
cannot'but lie an.xious, as well as my cousin, 
to know tlie present state of it; and shall 
truly rejoice to hear that it is in a state of 
recovery. Give us a line of information on 
this subject, as soon as you can conveniently, 
and you will much oblige us. 

I write by morning candle-light: my lite- 
rary business obliging me to be an early riser. 
Homer demands me : finished, indeed, but the 
alterations not transcribed : a work to which 
I am now hastening as fast as possible. The 
transcript ended, which is likely to amount 
to a good si/eable volume, I must write a 
new preface : and then farewell to Homer 
forever! And if the remainder of my days 
be a little gilded with the protits of this long 
and laborious work, I shall not regret the 
time that I have bestowed on it. 
I remain, my dear friend, 

Atrectionately yours, W. C. 

Can you give us any news of Lord Howe's 
Armada ; concerning which we may inquire, 
as our forefathers did of the Spanish, — " an 
in cn>lum sublata sit, an in Tartarum de- 
pressa.'''t 

♦ 

The reader may now be anxious to learn 
some particulars of tlie projected poem, which 
has been repeatedly mentioned under the title 
of Tlie Fnur A^es ; a poem to which the mind 
of Cowper looked engerly forward, as to a 
new and highly promising field for his e.x- 
cursive fancy. The idea liad been suggested 
to him in the year 17'J1, by his clerical neigh- 
bor, Mr. Buchanan, of Ravenstone, a small 
sequestered village within the distance of an 

• Private correspiindence. 

t Lurd Hnwe wiis at this time in pursuit of the French 
fleet, and aliment «ix weeks, durini; which the public re- 
ceived no tnteltii^encR of hi.-* movemenb*. His lordship 
at !cn:;th returned, bavins only seen tlic enemy, but 
wiltiuut huvmi< beeti able to overtake and brintt ttieni to 
action. 'riiou-,ili this furnished no argument against him, 
but rather stiowed tlie K'rror that he inspired, yet some 
of the wits of the day wrote the following jeu iTc-iprit on 
the occasion. 

When Cicsar triumphM o*er his Gallic foes, 
Tiiree word:t concise,* his gallant acts disclose ; 
Itut Howe, inon* brief, comprises liis in one. 
And cidi tells us all that he has done. 

I*ord Howe sul'sequently proved his claim to tlie whole 
of this celebrated <lespatch of Cesar, by the great victory 
wliich lie u'ained o!T I 'shanl over the Frencli fleet, June J, 
17ni,nviclory whicli forms one of the brightest triumphs 
of the Ilrilish navy. 



* Keni, vidi, viei. I came, I saw, I conquered. 



e.asy walk from Weston. This gentleman, 
who had occasionally enjoyed the gratification 
of visiting Cowper, suggested to liim, with a 
becoming diffidence, the project of a new poem 
on the four distinct periods of life — infancy, 
youth, manhood, and old age. He imparted 
his ideas to the poet by a letter, in which he 
observed, witli eipial modesty and truth, thai 
Cowper was particularly qualified to relish, 
and to do justice to the subject ; a subject 
which he supposed not hitherto treated e.\- 
pressly, as its importance deserved, by any 
poet ancient or modern. 

Mr. Buchanan added to this letter a brief 
sketch of contents for the projected composi- 
tion. Tills hasty sketch he enlarged, at the 
request of Cowper. How the poet appteei- 
ated the suggestion will appear from the fol- 
lowing billet. 

TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN. 

Weston, May 11, 1793. 
My dear Sir, — You h.ave sent me a beauti- 
ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would 
to heaven that you would give it that requi- 
.site yourself; for he who could make the 
sketch, cannot but be well qualified fo finish. 
But if you will not, I will; provided always 
nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it 
will require no common share to do justice to 
your conceptions. 

I am much yours, W. C. 

Your little messenger vanished before I 
could catch him. 

This work, in his first conception of it, was 
greatly endeared to liim, but he soon enter- 
tained an apprehension that he should never 
.accomplisli it. Writing to his friend of St. 
Paul's in no.'?, the poet said — " The Four 
Ages is a subject that delights me when I 
think of it: but 1 am ready to fear, that all 
my ages will be exhausted before I shall beat 
leisure to write upon it." 

A fragment is all that he has left, for which 
we refer the reader to the Poems. In his hap- 
pier days, it would have been expanded in a 
manner more commensurate with the copi- 
ousness of the subject, and the poetical 
powers of the author. 

It may be interesting to .add, that a modern 
poem on the Four .\ges of Man was written 
by M. Werlhinullcr, a citizen of Zurich, and 
translated into Latin verse, by Dr. Olstrochi, 
librarian to the Ambrosian library at Milan. 
This performance gave rise to another Ger- 
m,an poem on the Four Ages of Wom.an, by 
M. Zacharie, professor of poetry .at Bruns- 
wick. 

The increasing infirmities of Cowper's aged 
companion, Mrs. Unwin, his filial solicitude 
to allevi.ate her sufterings, and the gathering 
clouds of deeper despondency that began to 



156 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



settle on his mind, in the first month of the 
year 1794, not only rendered it impossible for 
him to .idvanee in any great original perform- 
ance, bnt, to nse his own expressive words, 
in the close of his correspondence with his 
highly valued friend, Mr. Rose, made all com- 
position either of poetry or prose impractica- 
ble. Writing to that friend in J.anuary 1794, 
he says, "I have just ability enough to tran- 
scribe, which is all that I have to do at present : 
God knows that I write, at this moment, 
under the pressure of sadness not to be de- 
scribed." 

It was a spectacle that miglit awaken com- 
passion in the sternest of human characters, 
to see the health, tlie comfort, and the little 
fortune of a man, so distinguished by intel- 
lectual endowments, and by moral e.vcellence, 
perishing most deplorably. A sight so affect- 
ing made many friends of Cowper solicitous 
and importunate that his declining life should 
be honorably protected by public munificence, 
Men of all parties agreed that a pension might 
be granted to an author of his acknowledged 
merit, with graceful propriety. 

But such is the difficulty of doing real 
good, experienced even by tlie great and 
powerful, or so apt are statesmen to forget 
the pressing exigence of meritorious indi- 
vidual.s, in the distractions of official per- 
plexity, that month after month elapsed, 
without the accomplishment of so desirable 
an object. 

Imagination can hardly devise any human 
condition more truly affecting than the state 
of the poet at this period. His generous and 
faithful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had pre- 
served liim through seasons of the severest 
calamity, was now, with her faculties and 
fortune impaired, sinking fast into second 
childhood. The distress of heart that he felt 
in beholding the afiiicling change in a com- 
panion so justly dear to him, conspiring with 
his constitutional melancholy, was gradually 
undermining tlie exquisite faculties of his 
mind. The disinterestedness and affectionate 
kindness of Lady Hesketh, at this crisis, de- 
serves to be recorded in terms of the highest 
commendation. With a magnanimity of 
feeling to which it is difficult to do justice, 
and to the visible detriment of her health, she 
nobly devoted herself to the superintendence 
of a house, whose two interesting inhabitants 
were almost incapacitated. from attending to 
the ordinary offices of life. Those only who 
have lived with the superannuated and the 
melancholy, can properly appreciate the value 
of such a sacrifice. 

The two last of Cowper's letters to Hayley, 
that breathe a spirit of mental activity and 
cheerful friendship, were written in the close 
of the year 1793, and in the beginning of the 
next. They arose from an accident that it may 
be proper to relate, before we insert them. 



On Hayley's return from Weston, he had 
given an account of the poet to his old friend, 
Lord Thurlow. That learned and powerful 
critic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, de- 
clared himself not satisfied with his version 
of Hector's admirable prayer in caressing his 
child. Both ventured on new translations of 
this prayer, which were immediately sent to 
Cowper, and the following letters will prove 
with what just and manly freedom of spirit 
he was at this time able to criticize the com- 
position of his friends and his own. 

TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. 

Weston, Dec. 17, 1793. 
Oh Jove ! and a!! ye Gods ! grant this my son 
To prove, like me, pre-eminent in Troy ! 
In valor such, and firmness of command ! 
Be he cxtoll'il, when he retuns from tight, 
As lar his sire's superior ! may he slay 
His enemy, bring home his gory spoils, 
And may his mother's heart o'erflow with joy ! 

I rose this morm'ng at six o'clock, on pur- 
pose to translate this prayer again, and to 
write to my dear brotlior. Here you have it, 
such as it is, not perfectly according to my 
own liking, but as well as I could make it, 
and I think better than either yours or Lord 
Thurlow's. You with your six lines have 
made yourself stiflT and ungraceful, and he 
with his seven has produced as good prose as 
heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A scru- 
pulous attention to the letter has spoiled you 
both ; you h.ave neither the spirit nor the 
manner of Homer. A portion of both may 
be found, I believe, in my version, but not so 
much as I could wish — it is better however 
than the printed one. His lordship's two 
first lines I cannot very well understand ; he 
seems to me to give a sense to the original 
that does not belong to it. Hector, I appre- 
hend, does not say, " Grant that he may prove 
himself my son, and be eminent," &c., — but 
" grant that this my son may prove eminent" 
— which is a material diff'erence. In the 
latter sense I find the simplicity of an ancient ; 
in the former, that is to say, in the notion of 
a man proving himself his father's son by 
similar merit, the finesse and dexterity of a 
modern. His lordship too makes the man, 
who gives the young hero his commendation, 
the person who returns from battle; whereas 
Homer makes the young hero himself that 
person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, 
which I suppose is hardly to be disputed. 

If my old friend would look into my Pref- 
ace, he would find a principle laid down there, 
which perhaps it would not be easy to invali- 
date, and which properly attended to would 
equally secure a translation from stifl"ness and 
from wildness. The principle I mean is thi.s, 
" Close, but not so close as to be servile ! free, 
but not so free as to be licentious !" A su- 
perstitious fidelity loses the spirit, and a loose 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



457 



<ievi:ition the sense of the translated aullior — 
a happy moderation in either ease is the only 
possible way of preserving both. 

Thus I have disciplined you both, and now 
if you please, you may both diseipline me. I 
shall not enter my version in my book till it 
has undergone your strictures at le.ast, and, 
should you write to the noble critic again, you 
are welcome to submit it to his. We are 
three awkward fellows indeed, if we cannot 
amongst us make a tolerable good translation 
of six lines of Homer. 

Adieu ! W. C. 



TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. 

Weston, Jan. 3, ITW. 
My dear Hayley, — I have waited, but waited 
in vain, for a propitious moment when I 
might give my old friend's objections the con- 
sideration they deserve ; I shall at last be 
forced to send a vague answer, unworthy to 
be sent to a person accustomed, like him, to 
close reasoning and abstruse discussion ; for 
I rise after ill rest, and with a frame of mind 
perfectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit too 
at the window for light's sake, where I am so 
cold that my pea slips out of my fingers. 
First, I will give you a translation, de novo, 
of this untranslatable prayer. It is shaped as 
nearly as I could contrive to his lordship's ideas, 
but I have little hope that it will satisfy him. 

Grant Jove, and all ye Gods, that this my son 
Be. as myself have been, illustrious here ! 
A vaUant man ! and let hira reign in Troy ! 
May all who witness his return from fight 
Hereatler. say — he far excels his sire ; 
.And let him bring back gory trophies, stript 
From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy. 

Imlac in Rasselas s.iys — I forget to whom, 
" You have convinced me that it is impossi- 
ble to be a poet." In like manner I might 
say to his lordship, you have convinced me 
that it is impossible to be a translator; to be 
a translator, on his terms at least, is I am 
sure impossible. On his terms, I would defy 
Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the 
Paradise Lost into Greek. Vet Jlilton had 
IIo:i:'r much in his eye when he composed 
that jioem ; whereas Homer never thought of 
me or my translation. There are minuta; in 
every language, which, transfused into an- 
other, will spoil the version. Such extreme 
fidelity is in fact unfaithful. Such close re- 
semblance takes away all likeness. The 
original is elegant, easy, natural ; tTle copy is 
clumsy, constrained, unnatural : to what is 
this owing ? To the adoption of terms not 
congenial to your purpo.se, and of a context, 
such as no man writing an original work 
would make use of. Homer is everything 
that a poet .should be. A translation of Ho- 
mer, so made, will be everything a translation 



of Homer should not be; becau.se it will be 
written in no language under heaven. It 
will be English, and it will be Greek, and 
therefore it will be neither. He is the man, 
whoever he be (I do not pretend to be that 
man myself), he is the man best qualified 
as a translator of Homer, who has drenelied, 
and steeped, and soaked himself in the elfu- 
sions of his genius, till he has imbibed their 
color to the bone, and who. when he is thus 
dyed through and Ihrougli, distinguishing be- 
tween what is essentially Greek, and what 
may be habited in English, rejects the for- 
mer, and is faithful to the latter, as far as the 
purposes of fine poetry will permit, and no 
farther: this, I think, may be easily proved. 
Homer is everywhere remarkable either for 
ease, dignity or energy of expression ; for 
grandeur of conception, and a majestic flow 
of numbers. If we copy him so clo.sely as to 
make every one of these excellent properties 
of his absolutely unattainable, which will 
certainly be the etfeet of too close a copy, in- 
stead of translating, we murder him. '['here- 
fore, after all his lordship h.is said, 1 still hold 
freedom to be an indispensable — freedom, I 
mean, with respect to the expression ; free- 
dom so limited as never to leave beiiind the 
mailer; but at the same time indulged with 
a suflicient scope to secure the spirit, and as 
much as possible of the manner. I .say as 
much as possible, because an English manner 
must differ from a Greek one, in order to be 
graceful, and for this there is no remedy. 
Can an ungraceful, awkward translation of 
Homer be a good one? No : but a graceful, 
easy, natural, faithful version of him, will not 
that be a good one ? Yes : allow me but 
this, and I in.sist upon it, that such a one may 
be produced on my principles, and can be 
produced on no other. 

I have not had time to criticise his lordship's 
other version. You know how- little time I 
have for anything, and can tell him so. 

Adieu ! my dear brother. I have now tired 
both you and myself; and with the love of 
the whole trio, remain yours ever, 

W. C. 

Reading his lord.ship's sentiments over 
again, I am inclined to think, that in all I 
have said, I have only given him biick the 
same in other terms. He disallows both 
the absolute free, and the absolute close — 
so do I, and, if I understand myself, I said 
so in my preface. He wishes to recom- 
mend a medium, though he will not call 
it so — so do I ; only we express it differ- 
ently. What is it, then, that we dispute 
about ? My head is not good enough to-tlay 
to discover. 



These letters were followed by such a si- 
lence on the part of Cowper, as excited the 



458 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



severest apprehensions, which were painfully 
confirmed by the intelligence conveyed in the 
ensuing letter : — 

FROM THE EEV. MR. GKEATHEED — TO 
WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Newport Pagnel, April 8, 1794. 

Dear Sir, — Lady Hesketh's correspondence 
acquainted you with the melancholy relapse 
of our dear friend at Weston ; but I am un- 
certain whether you know, that in the last 
forlniglit he has refused food of every kind, 
e.\cept. now and then a very small piece of 
toasted bread dipped generally in water, 
sometimes mixed with a little wine. This, 
lier ladyship informs me, was the case till 
last Saturday, since wlien he has eat a little 
at e.icli family meal. He persists in refusing 
such medicines as are indispensable to his 
state of body. In such circumstances, his 
Jong continuance in life cannot be expected. 
How devoutly to be wished is the alleviiition 
of his danger and distress 1 You, dear sir, 
who know so well the worth of our beloved 
and admired friend, sympathise witli his afflic- 
tion, and deprecate his loss doubtless in no 
ordinary degree : you have already most ef- 
fectually expressed and proved the warmth 
of your friendship. I cannot think that any- 
thing but your society would have been sufii- 
eieiit, during the intirmity under which his 
mind has long been oppres.sed, to have sup- 
ported him against the shock of Mrs. Un- 
win's paralytic attack. I am certain that 
nothing else could have prevailed upon him 
to undertake the journey to Eartham. You 
have succeeded where his other friends knew 
tliey could not, and where they apprehended 
no one conld. How natural, therefore, nay, 
how reasonable, is it for them to look to you, 
as most likely to be instrumental, under the 
blessing of God, for relief in the present dis- 
tressing and alarming crisis! It is indeed 
scarcely attemptable to ask any person to 
take such a journey, and involve himself in 
so melancholy a scene, with an uncertainty 
of the desired success ; increased as the ap- 
parent ditticulty is by dear Jlr. Cowper's 
aversion to all company, and by poor Mrs. 
Unwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On 
these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it 
of you, rejoiced as she would be at your ar- 
rival. Am I not, dear sir, a very presumptu- 
ous person, who, in the face of all opposition, 
dare do this? lam emboldened by those two 
powerful supporters, conscience and experi- 
ence. Was I at Eartham, I would certainly 
undertake the labor I presume to recommend, 
for the bare possibility of restoring Mr. Cow- 
per to himself, to his friends, to the public, 
and to God. 



Hayley, on the receipt of this letter, lost 



no time in repairing to Weston ; but his 
unhappy friend was too much overwhelmed 
by his oppressive malady to show even the 
least glimmering of satisfaction at the appear- 
ance of a guest whom he used to receive 
with the most lively expressions of affection- 
ate delight. 

It is the nature of this tremendous mel- 
ancholy, not only to enshroud and stifle the 
finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, 
and apparently annihilates, for a time, the 
strongest and best-rooted affections of the 
heart. 

Lady Hesketh, profiling by Hayley's pres- 
ence, quitted her cliarge for a few days, that 
she might have a personal conference with Dr. 
Willis. A friendly letter from Lord Thurlow 
to that celebrated physician h.ad requested his 
attention to the highly interesting sufferer. 
Dr. Willis jirescrihed for Cowper, and saw 
him at Weston, but not with that success and 
felicity which m.ade his medical skill on an- 
other most awful occasion the source of na- 
tional delight and exultation. 

Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper 
appeared to abound with circumstances very 
unfavorable to his uiental relief The daily 
sight of a being reduced to such a deplorable 
imbecility as now overwhelmed Mrs. Unwin, 
was in itself sufficient to plunge a tender 
spirit into extreme melancholy ; yet to sep- 
arate two friends, so long accustomed to 
minister, with the purest and most vigilant 
benevolence, to the infirmities of each oiher, 
was a measure so pregnant with complicated 
distraction, that it could not be advised or at- 
tempted. It remained only to palliate the 
suffering of each in their present most pitia- 
ble condition, and to trust in the mercy of 
that God, who had supported them together 
through periods of very dark affliction, though 
not so doubly deplorable as the present. 

Who can contemplate this distressing spec- 
tacle witliout recalling the following pathetic 
exclamation in the Sampson Agonistes of 
Milton 1 

God of our fathers, what is man 1 

Since such as thou hast solemnly elected, 
With gifts and graces eminently adorned ; 

Yet towards these thus dignified, thou oft 
Amidst their height of noon, [regard 

Changest thy count'nance, and thy hand, with no 
Of highest favors past 
From thee on them, or them to thee of service. 

So deal not with this once thy glorious champion ! 
What do I beg 1 How hast thou dealt already ! 
Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn, 
His labors, for thou canst, to peaceful end ! 

It was on the 23d of April, 1794, in one of 
those melancholy mornings, when his kind 
and affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



459 



Ilayley, were watching together over this 
dcjeetcil sufferer, that a letter from Lord 
Spencer arrived at Weston, to announce the 
intended grant of a pension from his Majesty 
to Cowper. of 300/. per annum, rendered 
payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee 
of Cowper. Tliis intelligence produced in 
the friends of the poet very lively emotions 
of delight, yet blended with pain almost as 
powerful ; for it was painful, in no tritling 
degree, to relied that these desirable smiles 
of good fortune could not impart even a faint 
glimmering of joy to the dejected poet. 

From the time when Hayley left his un- 
happy friend at Weston, in the spring of the 
year 17!(4, he remained there under the ten- 
der vigilance of Lady Hcsketh, till tlie latter 
end of July, 1"95: a long season of the dark- 
est depression ! in which the best medical ad- 
vice, and the influence of time, apjieared equal- 
ly unable to lighten that atliictive burthen 
which pressed incessantly on his spirits. 

It was under these circumstances that my 
revered l)rother-in-law, \\ith a generous dis- 
interestedness and aifection that must ever 
endear him to the admirers of Cowper, deter- 
mined, with Lady Hesketh's concurrence, to 
remove the poet and his afflicted companion 
into Norfolk. In adopting this plan, he did 
not contemplate more than a year's absence 
from Weston : but what was intended to be 
only temporary, proved in the sequel to be a 
final removal. 

Few events could have been more painful 
to Cowper than a separation from his beloved 
Weston. Every object was tiimiliar to his 
eye, and had long engaged the affections of 
his heart. Its beaiitiful scenery had been 
traced with all the minuteness of description 
and the glow of poetic fancy. The slow- 
winding Ouse, " bashful, yet impatient to be 
seen," was henceforth to glide " in its sinuous 
course" unpereeived. The spacious niead-s, 
the lengthened colonnade, the proud alcove, 
and the sound of the sweet village-bells — 
these memorials of past happy d.-iys were to 
be seen and heard no more. All have felt 
the pang excited by the separation or loss of 
friends; but who ha.s not also experienced 
that even trees have tongues, and that every 
object in nature knows how to plead its em- 
pire over the heart 1 

What Cowper's sensations were on this 
occasion, may be collected from the follow- 
ing little incident. 

On the morning of his departure from 
Weston, he wrote the following lines in 
pencil on the back of the shutter in his bed- 
room. 

" Farewell, dear scenes, forever closed to me ! 
Oh ! for what sorrows must I now exchange 
you ! ' 

These lines have been carefully preserved 



as the cxpres.sive memorial of his feelings on 
leaving Weston. Nor can the following lit- 
tle poem fail to excite interest, not only as 
being the last original production which he 
composed at Weston, but from its deep and 
unatfectcd pathos. It fs addressed to Mrs. 
Unwin. No language can exhibit a specimen 
of verse more exquisitely tender. 

TO MART. 

The twentieth year is wcll-nijrh past, 

Since first our sky was overcast, 

Ah, would that this might be the last! 

My Mary ! 

« Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
I see lliee daily weaker grow — 
'Twas my distress th;U brought thee low, 

My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more. 

My Mary ! 

For, though thou ghully wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office forme still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will. 

My Mary ! 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part. 
And all thy threads with magic art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary ! 

Thv indistinct expressions seem 

Like language utter'd in a dream ; ^ 

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light. 

My Mary ! 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see 1 
The sun would rise in vain for me. 

My Mary ! 
Partakers of thy sad decline. 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet, gently prest, press gently mine. 

My Mary ! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
That now at every step thou mov'st 
Uphelil by two, yet still thou lov'st. 

My Mary ! 

And still to love, though prest with ill. 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still. 

My Mary ! 

But, ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

My Mary ! 

And. sliould my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last. 

My Mary ! 

On Tuesday, the twenty-eighth of July, 



460 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



1795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, un- 
der the fare and guidance of Mr. Johnson, 
from Weston to North-Tuddenham, in Nor- 
folk, by !i journey of three days, passing 
througli Cambridge jvitliout stopping tliere. 
In the evening of the lirst day they rested at 
the vilhige of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cow- 
per walked with his young kinsman in the 
ehmvhyard by moonlight, and spoke witli 
much composure on the subject of Thom- 
son's Seasons, and the circnmstanccs under 
which they were probably written. This 
conversation was almost liis last glimmering 
of cheerfulness. 

At North-Tuddenham the travellers were, 
uccommod.ated witli a commodious, unten- 
anted parsonage-house, by the kindness of 
the Rev. Leonard Shelford. Here they re- 
sided till the nineteenth of August. It was 
the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not 
to remove them immediately to his own 
house, in the town of East-Dereham, lest the 
situation in a market-place sliould be dis- 
tressing to the tender spirits of Cowper. 

In their new temporary residence they 
were received by Miss Johnson and Miss 
Perowne, whose gentle and sympatliizing 
spirit peculiarly qualified them to discliarge 
so delicate an otKce, and to alleviate the suf- 
ferings of the dejected poet. 

Severe as his depressive malady appeared 
at this period, he was still able to bear con- 
siderable e.xercise, and, before he left Tud- 
denham, he walked with Jlr. Johnson to the 
neighboring village of Mattishall, on a visit 
to his cousin, Mrs. Bodh.am. On surveying 
his own portrait by Abbot, in the house of 
that lady, he clasped his hands in a paroxysm 
of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that 
his present sensations might be such as they 
were when that picture was painted. 

In August 1195, BIr. Johnson conducted 
his two invalids to Mundsley, a village on 
tlie Norfolk coast, in the hope that a situation 
by the sea-side might prove salutary and 
amusing to Cowper. They continued to re- 
side there till October, but without any .ap- 
parent benetit to the health of the interesting 
sntferer. 

He had long relinquished epistolary inter- 
course witli his most intim.ate friends, but his 
tender solicitude to hear some tidings of his 
favorite Weston induced him, in September, 
to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows 
the severity of his depression, but proves also 
that transient gleams of pleasure could oc- 
casionally break through the brooding dark- 
ness of melancholy. 

He begins with a poetical quotation : 

" To interpose a little ease, 
Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise!" 

" I will not forget, for a moment, that to 
whomsoever I may address myself, a letter 



from me can no otherwise be welcome than 
as a curiosity. To you, sir, I address this; 
urged to it by e.\treme penury of employ- 
ment, and the desire I feel to learn somclliing 
of wliat is doing, and has been done, at Wes- 
ton (my beloved Weston!) since I left it. 

"The coldness of these blasts, even in the 
hottest day.s, has been sucli, that, added to 
the irritation of tlie salt-spray, with which 
they are always charged, they have occa- 
sioned me an inflammation in the eye-lids, 
which threatened a few days since to confine 
me entirely, but by absenting myself as much 
as possible from the beach, and guarding my 
face with an umbrella, that inconvenience is 
in some degi'ee abated. My chamber com- 
mands a very near view of tlie ocean, and the 
ships at high water approach the coast so 
closely, that a man furnished with better eyes 
th.an mine might, I doubt not, discern the 
sailors from the window. No situation, at 
least when the weather is clear and bright, 
can be pleasanter; which you will easily 
credit, when I add, that it imparts something 
a little- resembling pleasure even to me. — 
Gratify me with news of Weston I If Mr. 
Gregson and your neighbors the Courtenjiys 
.are there, mention me to them in such terms 
as you see good. Tell me if my poor birds 
are living! I never see the herbs I used to 
give them, without a recollection of them, 
and sometimes am ready to gather them, for- 
geting that I am not at home. Pardon this 
intrusion ! 

" Mrs. Unwin continues much as usual. 

" Mundsley, Sept. 5, 1795." 



Mr. Buchanan endeavored, with great ten- 
derness and ingenuity, to allure his deject- 
ed friend to prolong a correspondence, that 
seemed to promise some little alleviation to 
his melancholy ; but this distressing malady 
bafHcd all the various expedients that could 
be devised to counteract its overwhelming 
influence. 

Much hope was entertained from air and 
exercise, with frequent change of scene. — In 
September, Jlr. Johnson conducted his kins- 
man (to the promotion of whose recovery he 
devoted his most unwearied efl'orts) to take 
a survey of Dunham-Lodge, a seat at that 
time vacant: it is situated on high ground, 
in a park, about four miles from Swafl'ham. 
Cowper spoke of it as a house rather too 
spacious for him, yet such as he was not un- 
willing to inhabit — a remark which induced 
Mr. Johnson, at a subsequent period, to be- 
come the tenant of this mansion, .as a scene 
more eligible for Cowper than the to\\'n of 
Dereham. — This town they also surveyed in 
their excursion ; and, after passing a night 
there, returned to Mundsley, which they 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



4G1 



quitted for the «'asoii on the seventh of Oc- 
tober. ^ 

They removed immediately to Dereham : 
hut left it in the eourse of a month for Dun- 
hani-Iiodi,'e, whieh now became tlieir settled 
residence. 

The spirits of Cowper were not sullieiently 
revived to allow him to resume either his pen 
or his books: but the kindness of liis young 
kinsman continued to furnish him with inex- 
haustible amusement, by reading to him al- 
most incessantly : and, although he was not 
led to converse on what he heard, yet it 
failed not to rivet his attention, and so to 
prevent hi.s afilicted nn'nd from preying on 
it.self. 

In April, 1796, Mrs. Unwin, whose infirmi- 
ties continued to engage the tender attention 
of Cowper, even in his darkest periods of 
depression, received a visit from her daughter 
and son-in-law, Mr. and Jlrs. Powley. On 
their departure, Jlr. Johnson assumed the 
ollice which Mrs. I'owley had tenderly per- 
formed for her venerable parent, and regu- 
larly read a chapter in the Bible every morn- 
ing to Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was 
the invariable custom of Cowper to visit his 
poor old friend the moment he had finished 
ins breakfast, and to remain in her apartment 
while the chapter was read. 

In June, the pressure of his melancholy 
appeared in some degree alleviated, for, on 
!Mr. Johnson's receiving the edition of Pope's 
Ilomcr, published by Wakefield, Cowper 
eagerly seized the book, and began to read 
the notes to himself with visible interest. 
They awakened his attention to his own ver- 
sion of Homer. In August, he deliberately 
engaged in a revisal of the whole, and for 
some time produced almost sixty new linos 
a day. 

This mental occupation animated all his 
intimate friends with a most lively hope of 
his progressive recovery. But autumn re- 
pressed the hope that summer had e.xcited. 

In September the family removed from 
Dunham-Lodge to try again the iuflnenee 
of the sea-side, in their favorite village of 
Jliindsley. 

Cowper w.ilked frequently by the sea, but 
no .apparent beiielU arose, no mild relief from 
the incessant pressure of melancholy. He 
had relinnuished his Homer again, and could 
not yet be iiiduccd lo resume It. 

Towards the end of October, this interest- 
ing party retired from the coast to the house 
of Mr. Johnson, in Dereham — a house now 
chosen for their winter residence, as Dunham- 
Lodge appe.n-ed to them too dreary. 

The long and exemplary life of Mrs. Un- 
win was drawing towards .1 close — the pow- 
ers of nature were gr.idually exhausted, and 
on the seventeenth of December she ended 
a troubled e.xi<te,ice; d siingiiished bv a sub- 



lime spirit of piety and friendship, that shone 
through long periods of calamity, and con- 
tinued to glimmer tlirongh the distressful 
twilight of her declitiing faculties. Her 
d<'ath was calm and traiKpiil. Cowper saw 
her about half an hour before the moment 
of expiration, which passed without a strug- 
gle or a groan, as the clock was striking 0i;e 
in the afternoon. 

On the morning of that day, he said to the 
servant who opened the window of his cham- 
ber, " Sally, is there life above stairs?" A 
striking i)roof of his bestowing incessant at- 
tention (in the sufferings of liis aged friend, 
although he had long appeared almost totally 
absorbed in his own. 

In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. 
Johnson to survey the corpse ; and after look- 
ing at it a very few moments he started sud- 
deidy aw.ay, with a vehement but unfinished 
sentence of passionate sorrow. He spoke 
of her no more. 

She was buried by torch-light, on the 
twenty-third of December, in the north aisle 
of Dereham church ; and two of her friends, 
impressed with a just and deep .sense of lier 
extraordinary merit, have raised a marble 
tablet to her memory with the following in- 
scription : 

IN MEMORY OF MARY, 

WIDOW OF THK IlEV. MORI.EV UNWIN, 

AND 

MOTHER or THE REV. WIOLUM CAWTHORN UNWIN, 

BORN AT ELY, 1724. 

BURIED IN THIS CHURCU 1790. 

Trusting in GoJ. with all her heart and mind 

This woman prov'd magnanimously kind ; 

EmIurM alHiction's desolating hail, 

And watrh'd a poet thro" mislbrtune's vale. 

Her spotless dust, angelic guards, defend ! 

It is the du.st of Unwin, Cowper's friend ! 

That single title in itself is fame, 

For all who read his verse revere her name. 

It might have been anticipated that the 
death of Jlrs. Unwin, in Cowper's enfeebled 
sUite, would have proved too severe a shock 
to his agitated nerves. But it is mercifully 
ordained that, while declining years incapa- 
citate us for trials, they, at the same time, 
weaken the sensibility to suffering, and there- 
by render us less accessible to the inHu?nie 
of sorrow. It may be regarded as an in- 
stance of providential mercy to this afilicted 
poet, that his aged friend, whose life he had 
so long considered as essential to his own, 
was taken from him at a time when the pres- 
sure of his malady, a per))elual low fever, 
both of body and mind, h.ad, in a great de- 
gree, diminished the native energy of his 
fjeullics and afl'ec'.ions. 

Ov.'iiig to these c.iuse*, Cowper wa^ so f.ir 



462 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



preserved in this season of trial, that, instead 
of mourning the loss of a person in whose 
life he had seemed to live, all perception of 
that loss was mercifully taken from him ; and, 
from the moment when he hurried away from 
the inanimate object of his filial attachment, 
he appeared to have no memory of her hav- 
ing existed, for he never asked a question 
concerning her funeral, nor ever mentioned 
her name. 

Towards the summer of 1797, his bodily 
health appeared to improve, but not to such 
a degree as to restore any comfortable activi- 
ty to his mind. In June he wrote a brief 
letter to Ilayley, but such as too forcibly ex- 
pressed the cruelty of liis distemper. 

The process of digestion never passed 
regularly in his frame during the years that 
he resided in Norfolk. Medicine appeared to 
have little or no influence on his complaint, 
and his aversion at the sight of it was ex- 
treme. 

From asses' milk, of which he began a 
course on the twenty-first of June in this 
year, he gained a considerable acquisition of 
bodily strength, and was enabled to bear an 
airing in an open carriage, before breakfast, 
with Mr. Johnson. 

A depression of mind, which suspended 
tlie studies of a writer so eminently endeared 
to the public, was considered by men of piety 
and learning as a national misfortune, and 
several individuals of this description, though 
personally unknown to Cowper, wrote to him 
in the benevolent hope that expressions of 
friendly praise, from persons who could be 
Influenced only by the most laudable motives 
in bestowing it, might re-animate his dejected 
spirit. Among these might be enumerated 
Dr. Watson, the Bishop of Llandafl^, who 
kindly addressed him in the language of en- 
couragement and of soothing consolation; 
but the pressure of his malady had now 
made him utterly deaf to the most honorable 
praise. 

He had long discontinued the revisal of his 
Homer, when his kinsman, dreading the effect 
of the cessation of bodily exercise upon his 
mind during a long winter, resolved, if pos- 
sible, to engage him in the revisal of this 
work. One morning, therefore, after break- 
fast, in the month of September, he placed 
tlie Commentators on the table, one by one ; 
namely, Villoison, Barnes, and Clarke, open- 
ing them all, together with the poet's trans- 
lation, at the place where he had left olf a 
twelvemonth before, but talking with him, as 
he paced the room, upon a very dltl'erent sub- 
ject, namely, tlie impossibility of the things 
befalling him which his imagination liad repre- 
sented ; when, as his companion had wished, 
he said to him, " And are you sure that I 
shall be here till the book you are reading is 
finished ?" " Quite sure," replied his kins- 



man, " and that you will also be here to com- 
plete the revisal of your Homer," pointing to 
the books, "if you will resume it to day." 
As he repeated these words he left the room, 
rejoicing in the well-known token of their 
having sunk into the poet's mind, namely, 
his seating himself on the sofa, taking up 
one of the books, and saying in a low and 
phuntive voice, " I may as well do this, for I 
can do nothing else."* 

In this labor he persevered, oppressed as 
he was by indisposition, till March 1799. 
On Friday evening, the eighth of that month, 
he completed his revisal of the Odyssey, 
and the next morning wrote part of a new 
preface. 

To watch over the disordered health of 
afflicted genius, and to lead a powerful, but 
oppressed, spirit by gentle encouragement, 
to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an 
office that requires a very rare union of ten- 
derness, intelligence, and fortitude. To con- 
template and minister to a great mind, in a 
state that borders on mental desolation, is 
like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the 
tottering ruins of palaces and temples, whefe 
the laculties of the spectator are almost ab- 
sorbed in wonder and regret, and where every 
step is taken with awful apprehension. 

Hayley, in alluding to Dr. Johnsons kind 
and affectionate othces. at this period, bears 
the following honorable testimony to his 
merits, which we are happy in transcribing. 
"It seemed as if Providence had expressly 
formed the young kinsman of Cowper to 
prove exactly such a guardian of his declin- 
ing years as the peculiar exigencies of his 
situation required. I never saw the human 
being that could, I think, have sustained the 
delicate and arduous ollice (in which the in- 
exhaustible virtues of Mr. Johnson perse- 
vered to the last) through a period so long, 
with an equal portion of unwearied tender- 
ness and unshaken fidelity. A man who 
wanted sensibility would have renounced the 
duty; and a man endowed with a particle 
too much of that valuable, though perilous, 
quality, must have felt his own health utterly 
undermined, by an excess of sympathy with 
the sufferings perpetually in his sight. Mr. 
Johnson has completely discharged, perhaps, 
the most trying of human duties: and I trust 
he will forgive me for this public declaration, 
that, in his mode of discharging it, he has 
merited the most cordial esteem from all who 
love the memory of Cowper. Even a stran- 
ger may consider it as a strong proof of his 
tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the 
afflicted poet, that he was able to engage him 
steadily to pursue and finish the revisal and 
correction of his Hmncr, durhig a long period 
of bodily and mental suffx'rings, wlien his 
troubled mind recoiled from all intercourse 
• Sketch of Ihe Life of Cowper. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



463 



with his most intimate friends, and labored 
under a morbid abhorrence of all cheerful 
exertion." 

In the summer of 1798, his kinsman was in- 
duced to vary his jilan of remaining for some 
montlis in the marine viljaffc of Mundsley, 
and thought it more eligible to make frequent 
visits from Dereham to the coast, passing a 
week at a time by the sea-side. 

Cowper, in his poem on "Retirement," 
seems to inform us what his own sentiments 
were, in a ,scas<tn of health, concerning the 
regimen most proper for the disease of mel- 
ancholy. 

Virtuous and faithful Hebrrden, whose skill 
Attempts no task it cannot well lullil, 
Gives melancholy up to nature's care, 
And sends the patient into purer air. 

The frequent change of place, and the 
m.agnificence of marine scenery, produced at 
limes a little relief to his depressed spirits. 
On the 7th of June 1798, he surveyed the 
light-house at Happisburgh, and expressed 
some pleasure on beholding, through a tele- 
scope, several ships at a distance. Yet, in 
his usual walk with his companion by the 
sea-side, he exemplilied but too forcibly his 
own affecting description of melancholy si- 
lence : 

That silent tongue 
Could give advice, could censure, or commend. 
Or cliarm the sorrows of a drooping friend ; 
Kcnounc'il alike its of!ice and its sport, 
Its brisker and its graver strains tall short : 
Both t'ail beneath a fever's secret sway, 
And, like a summer-brook, are past away. 

On the twenty-fourth of .Tuly, Cowper had 
the honor of a visit from a lady, for whom 
he had long entertained affectionate respect, 
the Dowager Lady Spencer — and it was 
ratlier remarkable, that oti the very morn- 
ing she called upon him he had begun his 
revisal of the Odyssey, which was originally 
inscribed to her. Such an incident in a hap- 
pier season would have produced a very en- 
livening effect on his spirits : but, in his 
present state, it liad not even the power to 
lead him into any free conversation with his 
distinguished visitor. 

The only amusement that he appeared to 
admit without reluctance was the reading of 
his kinsman, wlio, indefatigable in the supply 
of such amu.sement, had exhausted a succes- 
sive scries of works of fiction, and at this 
period began reading to the poet his own 
works. To these he listened also in silence, 
and heard all his poems recited in order, till 
the reader arrived at the history of John 
Gilpin, which he begged not to hear. Mr. 
JoliTison proceeded to his manuscript poems; 
to these he willingly listened, but tnade not 
a .single remark on any. 

Ill October, 1798. the pressure of his mel- 
ancholy seemed to be mitigated in some lit- 



tle degree, for he exerted himself so far as 
to write the following letter, without solicit- 
ation, to Lady Heskelh. 

Dear Cousin, — You describe delightful 
scenes, but you describe them to one, who, 
if he even saw them, could receive no de- 
light from them: who has a faint recollec- 
tion, and so faint, as to bo like an almost 
forgotten dream, that once he was suscep- 
tible of pleasure from such causes. The 
country that you have had in prospect has 
been always famed for its beauties ; but the 
wretcli who can derive no gr.atilieation from 
a view of nature, even under the disadvan- 
tage of her most ordinary dress, will havo 
no eyes to admire her in any. 

In one day, in one minute, I should rather 
have s.aid, she became an universal blank to 
me, and though from a different cause, yet 
with an effect as diSieult to remove as blind- 
ness itself 

Mundsley, Oct. 13, 1798. 

On his return from Mundsley to Dereham, 
in an evening towards the end of October, 
Cowper, with Jliss I'erowne and Mr. John- 
son, was overturned in a post-chaise : he 
discovered no terror on the occasion, and 
escaped without injury from the accident. 

In December he received a visit from his 
highly esteenu'd friend. Sir John Throck- 
morton, but his mal.ady was at that time so 
oppressive that it rendered him almost in- 
sensible to the kind solicitude of friendship. 

He still continued to exercise the powers 
of his astoni.shing mind: upon his finishing 
the revisal of his Homer, in March, 1799, his 
kinsman endeavored in the gentlest manner 
to lead him into new literary occupation. 

For this purpose, on the eleventh of 
IMarch he laid before him the paper contain- 
ing the commencement of his poem on " The 
Four Ages." Cowper altered a few lines ; he 
:iIso added a few, but soon observed to his 
kind attendant — " that it was too great a work 
for him to attempt in his present situation." 

At sup|ier Mr. Johnson suggested to him 
several literary projects that he might exe- 
cute more easily. He replied — "that he had 
just thouglit of six Latin verses, and if he 
could compose anything it must be in pur- 
suing that composition." 

The next morning he wrote the six verses 
he had mentioned, and subsequently added 
the remainder, entitling the poem, " Montes 
Glaciales." 

It proved :i versification of a circumstance 
recorded in a newspaper, which had been read 
to him a few weeks before, without his appear- 
ing to iu>tiee it. This poem he translated into 
English verse, on the nineteenth of March, to 
oblige Jliss I'erowne. Hoth the original and 
the translation appear in the Poems. 



464 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



On the twentieth of March he wrote the 
stanzas entitled " The Castaway," founded 
on an anecdote in Anson's Voyage, which 
liis memory suggested to him, although he 
had not looked into the book for many years. 

As this poem is the last original produc- 
tion from the pen of Cowpcr, we shall intro- 
duce it here, persuaded that it will be read 
with an interest proportioned to the extraor- 
dinary pathos of the subject, and the still more 
extraordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre 
could sound so forcibly, unsileneed by the 
gloom of the darkest distemper, that was 
conducting liim, by slow gradations, to the 
shadow of death. 

THE CASTAWAY. 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky ; 

Th' Atlantic billows roar'd, 
When such a destin'd wretch as I, 

Wash'd headlong from on board, 
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, , 
His floating home forever left. 

No braver chief could Albion boast 
Than lie with whoni he went, 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
With wanner wishes sent. 

He lov'd them both, but both in vain, 
Nor him beheld, nor her again. 

Not long beneath the 'whelming brine, 

Expert to swim, he lay ; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But wag'il with death a lasting strife, 
Supported by despair of life. 

He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 

To check the vessel's course, 
But so t!ie turious blast prevail'd, 

That, pitiless, per force. 
They left their out-cast mate behind. 
And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succor yet they could afford ; 

And such as storms allow, 
The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 

Delay'd not to bestow. 
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore, 
Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
Their haste himself condemn. 

Aware that flight in such a sea, 
Alone coul(f rescue them ; 

Yet bitter feU it still to die 

Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean selt-upheld: 
And so long he with unspent pow'r. 

His destiny ropell'd : 
And ever, as the minutes flew, 
Entreated help, or cry'd — " Adieu !" 

At length, his transient respite past, 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 

Could catch the sound no more. 
For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
The stilling wave, and then he sank. 



No poet wept him, but the page 

Of narrative sincere, 
That tell his name, his worth, his age, 

Is wet with .Anson's tear. 
And tears by bards or heroes shed. 
Alike immortalize the dead 

I therefore purpose not, or dream. 

Descanting on his tate ! 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date, 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its 'semblance in another's case. 

No voice divine the storm allay'd. 

No light propitious shone ; 
When, snatch'd from all efTectual aid. 

We perish'd, each alone ; 
But I beneath a rougher sea, 
And 'whelm'd in deeper gulfs than lie. 

In August he translated this poem into 
Latin verse. In October he went with Miss 
Perowne and Jlr. Johnson to survey a larger 
house in Dereham, which he preferred to 
their present residence, and in wliicli the 
family were settled in the following De- 
cember. 

Though his corporeal strength was now 
evidently declining, the urgent persuasion 
of his kinsman induced him to amuse lii.'5 
mind with frequent composition. Between 
August and December, he wrote all the 
translations from various Latin and Greek 
epigrams, which the reader will find in the 
present volume. 

In his new residence, he amused himself 
with translating a few fiibles of Gay's into 
Latin verse. The fable which he used to 
recite when a child — " The Hare and many 
Friends" — became one of his latest amuse-* 
ments. 

These Latin fables were all written in 
January, 1800. Towards the end of that 
month,' Hayley requested him to new-model 
a passage in his Homer, relating to tlie curi- 
ous monumentof ancient sculpture, so grace- 
fully described by Homer, called the Cretan 
Dance. This being the last eflbrt of his pen, 
and the passage being interesting, as a rejv 
resentation of ancient manners, we here in- 
sert it. 

To these the glorious artist added next 
A varied dance, resembling that of old 
In Crete's broad isle, by Dtedalus, compos'd 
For bright-hair'd .-iriaJne. Tliere the youths 
And youth-alluring maidens, hand in hand, 
Danc'd jocund, ev'ry maiden neat attir'd 
In finest linen, and the youths in vests 
Well-woven, glossy as the olaze of oil. 
These all wore garlands, and bright falcions those, 
Of burnish'd gold, in silver trappings hung ;— 
They, with wcll-tutor'd step, now nia.bly ran 
The'circle, swift, as when, before his wheel 
Seated, the potter twirls it with both hands 
For trial of its speed ; now, crossing quick, 
They pass'd at once into each others place. 
A circling crowd surveyed the lovely dance, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



465 



Delighted ; two, the leEidinjr pair, their heads 
Willi uracel'iil inclination bowini; oft, 
Pass'ii swill bctwcn them, and began the song. 
See Coxcpers Version, Book xviii. 

On the very day that this endearing mark 
of his kindness reached Hayley, a dropsical 
appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson 
to have recourse to Iresh medical assistance. 
Cowpcr was with great dilliculty per.suaded 
to take the remedies prescribed, and to trv 
the exercise of a post-chaise, an exercise 
which he could not bear beyond the twenty- 
second of February. 

In March, when his decline became more 
and more visible, he was visited by Mr. 
Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure 
on the arrival of a friend whom he had so 
long and so tenderly regarded, yet he showed 
cvidefit signs of regret at his departure, on 
the sixth of April. 

The illness and impending death W his 
talented son precluded Hayley from sharing 
with Mr. Rose in these last marks of affec- 
tionate attention towards the man, whose 
genius and virtues tliey had once contem- 
plated together with mutual veneration and 
delight ; whose approaching dissolution they 
felt, not only as an irreparable loss to them- 
selves, but as a national misfortune. On 
the nineteenth of April, Dr. Johnson re- 
marks, the weakness of this truly pitiable 
sufferer had so much increased, that his 
kinsman apprehended his death to be near. 
Adverting, therefore, to the affliction, as well 
oftbody as of niiud, which his beloved in- 
mat* was then enduring, he ventured to 
speak of his approaching dissolution as the 
signal of his deliverance from both these 
miseries. After a pause of a few moments, 
which was less interrupted by the objections 
of his desponding relative than he had dared 
to hope, he proceeded to an observation 
more consolatory still ; namely, that, in the 
world to which iie was hastening, a merciful 
Redeemer had prepared imspeakable happi- 
ness for all bis children — and therefore for 
him. To the first part of this sentence, he 
had listened with composure, but the con- 
eluding words were no sooner uttered, than 
his passionately expressed entreaties, that 
his companion would desist from any further 
observations of a similar kind, clearly proved 
that, thoiigli it was on the eve of being in- 
vested witli angelie light, the darkness of 
delusion still veiled liis spirit.* 

On Hundiy, the twentieth, he seemed a 
lifle revived. 

Oil Monilay he appi'arcd dying, bul re- 
covered so mucli as to eat a slight dinner. 

Tuesdiiy and Wednesday he grew npp,a- 
rently weaker every hour. 

On Thursday he s:'.* up as usual in the 
evening. 

• Ski'lctl of lite I.ilV: of roW'ier. In Dr. Julm^oii. 



In the course of the night, when exceed- 
ingly exhausted. Miss Perowne otVered him 
some refreshment. He rejected it with these 
words, the very last that be was heard to 
utter, •' What can it signify V 

Dr. Johnson closes the affecting account 
in the following words. 

"At five in the morning of Friday 25th, a 
deadly change in his features was observed 
to take place. lie remained in an insensible 
state from that time till about five minutes 
before five in the afternoon, when he ceased 
to breathe. And in so mild and gentle a man- 
ner did his spirit take its flight, that though 
the writer of this Memoir, liis medical attend- 
ant Mr. Woods, and three other persons, 
were standing at the foot and side of the bed. 
with their eyes fLxed upon his dying counte- 
nance, the precise moment of his departure 
was unobser\ed by any." 

F'roin this mournful period, till the features 
of his deceased friend were closed from 
his view, the expression which the kinsman 
of Cowper observed in them, and which he 
was alfectionately delighted to suppose " an 
index of the last thoughts and enjoyments of 
his soul, in its gradual escape from the 
depths of despondence, was that of calm- 
ness and composure, mingled, as it were, 
with holy surprise." 

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, in 
the church of East Dereliam, on .Saturday. 
May 2nd,atten<led by several of liis relations. 

He left a will, but without appointing his 
executor. The administration, therefore, of 
the little property he possessed devolved on 
his alfectionate rel.it ive. Lady llesketli : bul 
not having been carried into effect by thai 
Lady, the office, on her tlecease, was under- 
taken by his cousin german, Jlrs. Uodham. 

Lady Hesketh raised a marble tablet to his 
memory, with the following inscription from 
the pen of Hayley : 

IN HK.MORY op 

\VILI,I.\M COWPER F.Sa. 

Bon\ i\ URRTPORDsinn;:, 

I73I. 

EIRTI'.I) IS TUIS CIHRCII, 

Vc, who with warmth the public triumph feel 
Of talents dignifioil by sacred zeal, 
Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just. 
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust I 
England, exulting in his spotless Ikmc, 
Ranks with her dearest hoiis his favorite name. 
Sense, fancy, wit, suflice not all Id raise 
.So clear a title to affection's praise : 
(lis higliest honors to the heart belong ; 
His virtues forai'd the ma^ic of his sonff, 
I 

] We have now conduelcd the endeared sub- 

' jcct of this biogr.;phy t jjrough the various 

I scenes of his chequered and eventful life, till 

its last solemn tenuinaliori : and it is impos- 



466 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



sible that any otiier feelinfrs can have been 
awakened than those of admiration for his 
genius, homage for his virtues, and profound 
sympathy for liis sufferings. It was fully an- 
ticipated by his friends, that the hour of fmal 
liberation, at least, would h.ave been cheered 
by that calm .sense of the divine presence, 
which is the delightful foretaste of eternal 
rest and glory. Young beautifully observes : 

The chamber where the good man meets his fate 

Is privile<Ted beyond the common walk 

Of virtuous lite, quite on the verge of heaven. 

The Bible proclaims the same animating 
truth. "Mark the perfect man, and behold 
tlie upright, for the end of th.at man is 
peace !" The divine faithfulness is an ample 
security for the fulfilment of these declar- 
.ations ; but the promises of God, firm and un- 
changeable as they are in themselves, after 
all, can be realized only in a mind disposed 
for their reception ; as the light cannot pass 
through a medium that is incapable of ad- 
mitting it. Such, alas ! is the influence of 
physical causes and of a morbid temperament 
on the inward perceptions of the soul, that 
it is possible to be a child of God, without a 
consciousness of the blessing, and to have a 
title to a crown, and yet feel to be immured 
in the deptlis of a dungeon. 

The consolation to the friends of the un- 
h.appy sufferer, if not to the patient hiiuself, 
is, that the chains are of his own forging, 
and that, if he had but the discernment to 
know it, the delusion would promptly vanish, 
and the peace of God flow into the soul like 
a river. 

That such was the case with Cowper, no 
one can doubt for a moment, A species of 
mental aberration, on a particular subject, in- 
volved his mind in a strange and sad delusion. 
The Sun of Righteousness, therefore, failed 
in his last moments to impart its refreshing 
light and comfort, because the cloud of do- 
sp.air intervened, and obscured the setting 
beams of grace and glory. 

Who can contempl.ate so mysterious a 
process of the mind, without exclaiming — 

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, 
How complicate, how wondertul is man! 
How passincr wonder He, who made him such ! 
Who centred in our make such strange extremes ! 

It is impossible to dwell on the manner of 
Cowper's death, and not to be reminded of 
the wish cherished by himself on this subject, 
and recorded so impressively in the following 
lines : 

So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
More golden than that age oi" fabled gold 
Renown'd in ancient song ; not vex'd with care. 
Or stain'd with guilt, benelicient approved 
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 
So glide my life away I and so^ at last, 



My share of duties decently J'alJUVd, 
May some disease, not tardy to perform. 
Its destined ojfice, yet uith gentle stroke, 
Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat. 
Beneath the turf that I liave often trod.* 

God mercifully grjmted the best portion 
of his prayer, but saw fit to deny the rest. 
No conscious guilt or open transgression 
stained his life ; his heart was the seat of 
every beneficent and kind afTection. As v.n 
author, he was blessed with an honorable 
career of usefulness ; the public voice con- 
feiTed upon him the title to immortality, and 
succeeding times have ratified the claim. But 
if perception be necessary to enjoyment, he 
was not "peaceful in his end;" for he died 
without this conviction. He did not, like 
Elijah, ascend in a ch.ariot of fire ; it was his • 
lot rather to realize the quaint remark of 
some of the old divines, " God sometimes 
put#his children to bed in the dark," that 
they may have nothing whereof to boast ; 
that their salv.ation may appear to be more 
fully the result of his own free and unmerited 
mercy, and th.at in this, as in all things, he 
may be known to act as a sovereign, who 
" giveth no account of his matters."f 

But the severest exercises of faith are al- 
ways mingled with some gracious purpose ; 
and God may perhaps see fit to appoint these 
dark dispensations, th.at the transition into 
eternity m.ay be more glorious ; and that the 
emancip.ated spirit, bursting the shackles of 
death and sin, and delivered from the bond- 
age of its fears, may rise \vith a nobler»tri- 
umph from the depths of humiliation into the 
very presence-ehaiuber of its God. 

These remarks are so closely connected 
with the subject of Cowper's afflicting mal- 
ady, that the time is now arrived when it is 
necessary to enter into a more detailed view 
of its nature and char.acter ; to trace its 
origin and progress, and to disengage this 
ccimplicated question from that prejudice and 
misrepresentation wliich have so inveterately 
attached to it. At the same time, it is with 
profound reluct.ince that the Editor enters 
upon this painful theme, from a deep con- 
viction that it does not form a proper subject 
for di-^cnssion, and that the veil of secrecy is 
never more suitably employed, than when it 
is thrown over infirmities which are too s,a- 
cred to meet the gaze of public observation. 
This inquiry is now, however, no longer op- 
tional. Cowper himself has, unfortunately, 
suffered in the public estimation by the man- 
ner in which his earliest biogr.apber, Hayley, 
has presented him before the public. By 
suppressing some very important letters, 
which tended to elucid.ate his real character, 
an air of mystery has been imparted which 
deeply affects its consi.stency : while, by attri- 
buting what he could not sufficiently concea. 
* Tlie Taslc, book vi. t Job xxxiii. 13. 



LIFE OF COVVPER. 



467 



of the malady of the poet to tlie operation of 
religious causes, truth has beeu violated, anil 
an unuioritod wound iullieted upon religion 
itself. Thus Ilayley, fri)ni motives of deli- 
cacy most probably, or from misapprehension 
of the subject, has committed a double error; 
while others, misled by his authority, have 
unhappily .aided in propagatini,' the delusion. 

The Private Corresi)ondence of Cowper, 
which is exclusively incorporated with the 
present edition, is of the first importance, .is 
it dispels the mystery previously attached to 
his character. All that now remains is, to 
estiiblish by undenhable evidence that, so far 
from religious causes having been instru- 
mental to his mal.ady, the order of events 
and the testimony of positive facts both mili- 
tate again such a conclusion. 

For this purpose, we shall now introduce 
to the notice of the reader, copious extr;icts 
from the Memoir of Cowper, written by him- 
self, containing the particulars of his life, 
from his earliest years to the period of his 
imJady and subsequent recovery. This re- 
markable document was intended to record 
his sense of the Divine mercy in the preser- 
vation of his life, during a. season of disas- 
trous feeling ; and to perpetuate the remem- 
brance of that gr.ace which overruled this 
event, in so remarkable a manner, to bis best 
atid eternal interests. lie designed this 
document principally for the perusal of .Mrs. 
Unwin, to whose hands it w.is most confiden- 
tialiy entrusted. A copy was also presented 
to Mr. Newton, and ultimately to Dr. John- 
son ; but the parties were strictly enjoined 



never to allow another copy to be taken. 
By some means the MenVoir at length found 
its way before the public. On this ground 
the editor feels less dilliculty in communicat- 
ing its purport: as the seal of secrecy has 
been already broken, though in the estima- 
tion of Dr. Johnson and his friends, in .so 
unauthorized a m.inner. Its publication, how- 
ever has been umiuestionably .attended by 
one beneticial result, in having established, 
beyond the possibility of contradiction, that 
so far from Cowper's religious views havin" 
been the source of his malady, they were the 
first occasion and instrument of its cure.* 

The Memoir is interesting in another re- 
spect. It elucidates the early events of Cow- 
per's history. One important subject is how- 
ever omitted, his .attachment to Miss Theo- 
dora Cowper, the failure of which formed no 
sm.all ingredient in the disappointments of his 
early life. This omission we shall be enabled 
to supply. 

With these preliminary remarks we shall 
now introduce this curious and remarkable 
document, simply suppressing those portions 
which violate the feelings, without being es- 
sential to the substance of the narrative. 

* Tho following is the result of tlie iiifurmation obtained 
by lli(! I'Mitor on this subject, after tlie minutest intiuiry. 
A lady who was on a visit at Mr. Newton's, in London, 
saw, it is said, this Memoir of (Jowper Ij i iig, amon'j other 
papers, on the table. She wa-s led to peruse it, and felt 
11 deeper interest in the contents, from havinfr herself 
been recently recovered fi'om aslate of derangement. .She 
privately copied the manuscript, and communicated it to 
some friend. It was llnally published by a pious char- 
acter, who considered that in so dointj he exonerated the 
reliKtoua views of Cowper from the charge of having 
beeu instrumental to his malady. 



MEMOIR OF THE EARLY LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. 

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 



I CANNOT recollect, th.at, till the month of 
December, in the thirty-second y^ar of my 
life, 1 h.ad ever any serious impressions of the 
religious kind, or at all bethought myself of 
the things of my salvation, except in two or 
three instances. The first was of so transi- 
tory a nature, and passed when I was so 
very young, that, did I not intend what fol- 
lows for a history of my heart, so far as re- 
ligion has been it.s object, I should hardly 
mention it. 

At .six years old, I was taken from the 
nursery, and from the immediate care of a 
most indulgent mother, and sent to a consid- 



erable .school in Bedfordshire.* Here I had 
hardships of ditfcrent kinds to conflict with, 
which I felt more .sensibly in proportion to the 
tenderness with wliicli 1 had been treated nt 
home. But my chief affliction consisted in 
ray being singled out from all the other boys 
by a lad about fifteen years of age, as a pro|i- 
er object upon whom he might let loose the 
cruelty of his teniper. 1 choose to forbear a 
particular recital of the many acts of barbar- 

• Market Street. H.iyley places this village in Hert- 
fordshire, and Cowper in IJedfordshire. Holh are ri^ht, 
for the public road or street forms a boundary between 
the two counties. 



468 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ity with which he made it his business con- 
tinually to persecute ine: it will be suffi- 
cifiit to say, tliat he had, by his savage treat- 
ment of ine, impressed sucli a dread of his 
figure upon my mind, that I well remember 
being afraid to lift up my eyes upon him, 
higher than his knees; and that I knew him 
by liis shoe-buckles better than any other part 
of his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and 
may we meet in glory ! 

One day, as I was sitting alone on a bench 
in the scliool, mel.ancholy, and almost re.ady 
to weep at the recollection of what I h.ad al- 
ready suffered, and expecting at the same time 
my tormentor every moment, tliese words of 
the P.salmist came into my mind, " I will not 
be afraid of what man can do unto me." I ap- 
jilied this to my own case, with a degree of 
trust and conttdence in God that would have 
been no disgrace to a much more experienced 
Christian. Instantly I perceived in myself a 
bn.skness of spirits, and a cheerfulness, which 
I had never before experienced, — and took 
several ])aces up and down the room with 
joyful alacrity — his gift in whom I trusted. 
Happy had it been for me, if this early effort 
towards a dependence on the blessed God had 
been frequently repe.ated by me. But, alas! 
it was the first and last instance of the kind 
between infancy and manhood. The cruelty 
of this boy, wliich he had long practised in so 
secret a manner that no creature suspected it, 
was at length discovered. He was expelled 
from the school, and I was taken from it. 

from hence, at eight years old, I was sent 
to Mr. D,, an eminent surgeon and oculist, 
Iia\ing very weak eyes, and being in danger 
of losing one of them. I continued a year 
in this family, where religion was neither 
known nor practised; and from thence was 
despatched to Westminster. Whatever seeds 
of religion I might carry thither, before my 
seven years' apprenticeship to the classics was 
expired, they were all marred and corrupted; 
the duty of the school-boy swallowed up 
every other ; and I acquired Latin and Greek 
at the expense of a knowledge much more 
important.* 

Here occurred the second instance of se- 
rious consideration. As I was crossing St. 

* We deeply lament that boys frequently leave public 
schools niu.-l discreditaljly delicienl even in the common 
principles utllie<'lii-istian' faith. My late lamented friend, 
llie ftev. l.i^'li Kiclimond, used to observe thiit Christ 
wascrurilicd belweeii classics and mathematics. A great 
iniprovrnient tiiif,'hl be effected in the system of modern 
educaliun, if Ji brief but compendious summary of divine 
truth, or ateilysis of the IJible, were drawn up, divided 
into parts, suited to the ditfeieut trniilalions of age and 
liiiouledge, anil introduced into our jtuhlic schools under 
Ilu' sanction of the Kpiscupal Bench. l_'are should also 
be taken, in the selection of uuder-masters, to appoint 
men of nrlinirir/etl^r,-il riltgiotis as wrJI as i-.lassical attain- 
iHf/fr^-, who tnight specially superintend the religious im- 
provement of the boys. Such are to be found in our 
I'niversilies, men not less eminent for divine than pro- 
fane knowledL'e. A visible reformation would thus be 
etlected. powerfully operating on the ni ual and Sjiiritual 
character of tlic rising geni-ration. \ 



Margaret's churchyard, late one evening, I saw 

a glimmering light in the midst of it, which 

excited my curiosity. Just as I arrived at the 

spot, a grave-digger, who was at work by the 

light of his lanthorn, threw up a skull which 

struck me upon the leg. This little accident 

was an alarm to my conscience ; for that event 

! may be numbered among the best religious 

documents which I received at Westminster. 

[ The impression, however, presently went off, 

and I became so forgetful of mortality, that, 

strange as it may seem, surveying my activity 

I and strength, and observing the evenness of 

my pulse, I began to entertain, with no small 

complacency, a notion that perh.aps I might 

never die ! This notion was, however, very 

short-lived ; for I was soon after struck with a 

low7wss of spirits, uncommon at my age, and 

frequently had intimations of a consumptive 

habit. I had skill enough to understand their 

' meaning, but could never prevail on myself 

I to disclose them to any one ; for I thought 

any bodily infirmity a disgrace, especially a 

consumption. This messenger from the Lord, 

however, did his errand, and perfectly con- 

i vinced me th.at I was mortal. 

That I may do justice to the idace of my 
eductition, I must relate one mark of religious 
discipline, which, in my time, was observed at 
Westminster; I mean, the pains which Dr. 
Nicholls took to prepare us for contirmation. 
The old man acquitted himself of his duty 
like one who had a deep sense of its impor- 
tance ; and 1 believe most of us were struck 
by his manner, and affected by his exhortation. 
For my own part, I then, for the first time, 
attempted prayer in secret; but being little 
accustomed to that exercise of the heart, 
and having very childish notions of religion, I 
found it a difficult and painful task ; and was ■ 
even then frightened at my own insensibility. 
This ditHculty, though it did not subdue my 
good purposes, till the ceremony of eonfirm.-i- 
tion was past, soon aftei» entirely coiiquered 
them ; I relapsed into a total forgetfulness of 
God, with the usual disadvtintage of being 
more hardened, for having been softened to 
no purpose. 

At twelve or thirteen I was seized witli the 
small-pox. I only mention this to show that, 
at that early age, my heart was become proof 
against the ordinary means which a gracious 
God employs for our chastisement. Tliougli 
I was severely handled by tlie di.sease, and in 
imminent danger, yet neither in tlie course of 
it, nor during my recovery, had I any senti- 
ment of contrition, any thought of God or 
eternity. On the contrary, I was scarcely 
raised from the bed of pain and sickness, be- 
fore the emotions of sin became more violent 
in me tlian ever ; and Satan seemed rather to 
have gained than lost an advantage ; so readily 
did I admit his suggestions, and so passive was 
! under them. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



469 



By this time I became such an adept in 
falseliood that I was seldom guilty of a fault 
for which I cDuld not, at a very short notice, 
invent an apolojry, capable of deceivinn; the 
wisest. These I know are called school-hoys' 
tricks; but a sad depravity of principle, and 
the work of the father of lies, are universally 
at the bottom of them. 

At the afie of eighteen, being tolerably fur- 
nished with a grammatical knowledge, but as 
ignorant in all points of religion as tlie satchel 
at ray hack, 1 was taken from Westminster; 
and, having spent about nine months at home, 
was sent to acquire the practic'C of the law 
with an attorney. There 1 might have lived 
and died without hearing or seeing anything 
that might remind me of a single Christian 
duty, had it not been that I was at liberty to 
spend my leisure time (which was well nigh 
all my time) at my uncle's,* in Southampton 
Row. By this means I had indeed an op- 
portunity of seeing the inside of a church, 
whither I went with the family on Sundays, 
which probably I should otherwise never have 
seen. 

At the expiration of this term, I became, 
in a manner, completo master of myself; 
and took possession of a complete set of 
chambers iu the Temple, at the age of 
twenty-one. This being a critical season of 
my life, and one upon which much depended, 
it pleased my all-merciftd Father in Jesus 
Christ to give a check to my rash and rni;i- 
ous career of wickedness at the very onset. 
/ teas struck, wil long after mtj settlrmenl in 
the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as 
none but they who have felt the same ran hare 
the least coticeplion of. Day and night I was 
upon the rack, tying down in horror, and 
rising up in despair.^ I presently lost all 
relish for those studies to which 1 had be- 
fore been closely attached : the classics had 
no longer any charms for me ; I had need 
of something more salutary than amuse- 
ment, but 1 iiad no one to direct me where 
to find it. 

At length I met witli Herbert's Poems; 
and gothic and uncouth as they were, I yet 
found in them a strain of piety whicli I could 
not but admire. This was the only author 
I had any delight in reading, I pored over 
him all day long; .and though I found not 
here, what I might have found, a cure for 
my malady, yet it never seemed so much .al- 
leviated as while I was reading him. At 
length I was advised by a very near and 
dear relative, to lay him aside; for he thought 
such an author more likely to nourish my 
disorder than to remove it.J 

• Ashley Cowper, Esq. 

t Here wo first ob^ervo the i^round-work of Cowper's 
malady, nrisnnatin^ in constitiitionul causes, and morbid 
temperamenl. 

t A reliitive of Cowprr's oueht to have been the In.st lo 
prohibit the perusal of Herbert's Poems, because Dr. John 



In this state of mind I continued near a 
twelvemonth ; when, luaving experienced the 
ineliicacy of all human means, I at length 
betook myself to Uod in prayer ; such is 
the rank which our Redeemer holds in our 
esteem, never resorted to but in the last in- 
stance, when all creatures have failed to suc- 
cor us. iMy hard heart was at length soft- 
ened ; and my stubborn knees brought to 
bow. I composed a set of pr.iyers, and 
made fre(|uent use of them. Weak as n]y 
faith was, the Almighty, who will not break 
the bruised reed, nor ijucnch the smoking 
fia.\, was graciously pleased to hear me. 

A change of scene was recommended to 
me ; and I embraced an opportunity of going 
with some friends to Southampton, where I 
spent several months. Soon after our ar- 
rival, we walked to a place called Freeman- 
tie, .about a mile from the town ; the morn- 
ing was clear and calm ; the sun shone bright 
upon the sea ; and the country on the bor- 
ders of it was tlie most beautiful I had ever 
seen. We sat down upon an eminence, at 
the end of the arm of the sea, which runs 
between Southampton and the New Forest. 
Here it was, that, on a sudden, as if another 
sun had been kindled that instant in the 
he.avcns, on purpose to dispel sorrow and 
ve.xation of spirit, I felt the weight of all my 
misery t.aken oil"; my heart became light and 
joyful in a moment ; I could h.ave wept with 
tran.sport had I been alone. I must needs 
believe that nothing less th.an the Almighty 
fiat could h.ave tilled me with such inexpres- 
sible delight ; not by a gradual dawning of 
pe.aee, but as it were with a Hash of his life- 
giving countenance. I think I remember 
something like a glow of gratitude to the 
Father of mercies for this Unexpected bless- 
ing, and that I ascribed it to his gracious .ac- 
ceptance of my prayers. But Satan, and my 
own wicked heart, quickly persuaded me 
that I was indebted for my deliverance to 
nothing but a change of .scene and the amus- 
ing varieties of the place. By this means 
he turned the blessing into a poison ; te.ic!i- 
ing me to conclude, that nothing but a con- 
tinued circle of diversion, .and indulgence of 
.appetite, could secure me from a relapse.* 

Donne, the pious and eminent Dean of St. Paul's, one of 
Cowper's ancestors, wjis the endeared friend of that holy 
man. to whom, nul lont^ licfore Iiis death, he sent a seal, 
representing; a (Iirnre off'lirist extended upon an anchor, 
the emlilein ttf Hope, lo he kept a.s a memorial. 

Iziulk Walton bears the foUowiii'.; expresdive testimony 
to Herbert's Temple, or Sjicred P.)ems. 

" A hook, in which by declaring: his own soiritual coll- 
flict.s, he hath ccunforled and r.aised many atlejecteil and 
discomposed soul, and charmed theift into sweet ancl 
(juiet thoughts; abook, hy the frequent reading whereof, 
and the a-s-sisU-ince of that Spirit that seemi-d to inspire 
the author, the reader may attain habits of /trfier and 
pirtif, and all the lofls of the f/t>/ij Oltogt and Itcavrn ; 
and" may, liy still readimf, still keep thos*) sacred fires 
biirnintt upon the altar of so pure a heart, as shall froo 
it from the anxieties of this world, and keep it llxed upon 
thinurs that are above." S*?e tValtfin^s lAven. 

* We do not know a state of mind more to be dcpre- 



470 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Upon this fulse principle, as soon as I re- 
turned to London, I burnt my prayers, and 
away went all thoughts of devotion and de- 
pendence upon God my Saviour. Surely it 
\vas of his mercy tliat I was not consumed ; 
ulorv be to his grace ! Two deliverances 
froni danger not making any impression, 
having spent about twelve years in the Tem- 
ple, in an uninterrupted course of sinful in- 
dnlgence, and my associates and companions 
being either, like myself, professed Chris- 
tians, or professed infidels, ] obtained, at 
length, so complete a victory over my con- 
science, that all remonstrances from that 
quarter were in vain, and in a manner 
silenced ; though sometimes, indeed, a ques- 
tion would arise in my mind, whether it 
were safe to proceed any farther in a course 
so plainly and utterly condemned in the 
word of God. I saw clearly that if the gos- 
pel were true, such a conduct must inevitably 
end in my destruction ; but 1 saw not by 
wliat means I could change my Ethiopian 
complexion, or overcome such an inveterate 
habit of rebelling against God. 

The next thing that occurred to me was a 
doubt whether the gospel were true or false. 
To this succeeded m.any an anxious wish for 
the decision of this important question; for 
I foolishly thought, that obedience would 
presently follow, were I but convinced that 
it was worth while to attempt it. Having 
no reason to expect a miracle, and not hoping 
to be s.atisfied with anything less, I acqui- 
esced, at length, in the force of that devilish 
conclusion, that the only course I could take 
to secure my present peace was to wink 
hard against the prospect of future misery, 
and to resolve to banish all thoughts of a 
subject, upon which I thought to so little 
purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the 
company of deists, and heard the gospel 
blasphemed, I never failed to assert the truth 
of it with much vehemence of disput.ition ; 
for which I was the better qualified, having 
been always an industrious and diligent in- 
quirer into the evidences by which it was 
externally supported. I think I once went 
so far into a controversy of this kind, as to 
assert, that I would gladly submit to have 
mv right hand cut off, so that I might but 
be' enabled to live according to the gospel. 
Thus have I been employed, when half in- 

cnted Ihan what is imiicated in lliis passage. It is Ihe 
science of solf-lormenting, lliat withers every joy, and 
blichts all our happiness. That Satan tempts is a scrip- 
tural truth ; but the same divine authority also informs 
U.1, that •■ every man is tempted when he is drawn away 
of his own lust antl enticed," .lames i. 14 : that God suf- 
fcreth no man to be tempted above what he is able, and 
tliat if we resist Satan he will Bee from vis. The mind 
that f.-els itself harassed by these menial temptations 
must take refuge in the promises of God, such as Isaiah 
x\i. 10; .\liii. 2; lix. 19 ; 2 Cor. xii. 9. and plead them in 
prayer. Resistance to teropt^ition will weaken it, faith 
will overcome it, and the panoply of Heaven, if we be 
carefid to s(ird ourselves with il, will secure us against 
all its inroads. 



loxicated, in vindicating the truth of scrip- 
ture, while in the very act of rebellion against 
its dictates. Lamentable inconsistency of 
a convinced judgment with an unsanctified 
heart ! An inconsistency, indeed, evident to 
others as well as to myself, inasmuch as a 
deistical friend of mine, with whom I was 
disputing upon the subject, cut short the 
matter, by alleging that, if what I said were 
true, I was certainly lost by my own showing. 

By this time, my patrimony being well 
nigh spent, and there being no appearance 
that I should ever repair the damage by a 
fortune of my own getting, I began to be a 
little apprehensive of approaching want. It 
was, I imagine, under some apprehensions 
of this kind, th.at I one day said to a friend 
of mine, if the clerk to the journals of the 
House of Lords should die, I had some 
hopes that my kinsman, who had the place 
in his disposal, would appoint me to succeed 
him. We both agreed th.at the business of 
that place, being transacted in priv.ate, would 
exactly suit me. Thus did I covet what God 
had commanded me not to covet. It pleased 
the Lord to give me my heart's desire, and 
with it an immediate punishment for my 
crime. The man died, and, by his death, not 
only the clerkship of the journals became 
vacant, but it became necessary to appoint 
officers to two other places, jointly, as depu- 
ties to Mr. De Grey,* who jit this time re- 
signed. These were the office of reading 
clerk, and the clerkship of the committees, 
of much greater value than that of the jour- 
nals. The p.atentce of these appointments 
(whom I pray to God to bless for his benev- 
olent intention to serve me) called on me at 
my chambers, and, having invited me to 
t.^ke a turn with him in the garden, there 
made me an offer of the two most profitable, 
places; intending the other for his friend 
Mr. A. Dazzled by so splendid a proposal, 
and not immedi.ately reflecting upon my in- 
capacity to execute a business of so public a 
nature, I at once accepted it ; but at the 
same time (such was the will of Him wlio.se 
hand was in the whole matter) seemed to 
receive a dagger in my heart. The u-onjid 
was given, and I'vei'y moment added to the 
smart of il. All the considerations, by which 
I endeavored to compose my mind to its for- 
mer tranquillity, did but torment me the 
more ; proving miserable comforters and 
counsellors of no value. I returned to my 
chambers thoughtful and unhappy ; my coun- 
tenance fell ; and my friend was astonished, 
instead of that additional cheerfulness he 
might so reasonably expect, to find an air of 
deep melancholy in all I said or did. 

Having been harassed in this manner by day 
and night, for the space of a week, perplexed 

* Afterwards Lord Chief Justice of the Court of Com- 
mon Pleas, and created Lord Walsingham. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



471 



between the apparent folly of casting away 
tlie only visible elianee I hail of being well 
provided for and tiic impossibility of retain- 
ing it, I determined at length to write a let- 
ter to my friend, though he lodged in a 
manner at the next door, and we generally 
spent the day together. I did so, and therein 
begged him to aeeept my resignation, and to 
appoint ilr. A. to the places he had given 
me : and permit me to succeed Mr. A. I 
was well aware of the disproportion between 
the value of his appointment and mine ; but 
my peace was gone ; pecuniary advantages 
were not equivalent to what 1 had lost: and 
I flattered myself, that the clerkship of the 
journals would fall fairly and easily within 
the .scope of ray abilities. Like a man i>i a 
fever, 1 thought a cliange of posture would 
relieve my pain ; and, as the event will show, 
was equally disappointed. At length 1 car- 
ried my point ; my friend, in this instance, 
preferring the gratilicatiun of my desires to 
his own interest ; for nothing could be so 
likely to bring a suspicion of bargain and 
sale upon his nomination, which the Lords 
would not have endured, as his appointment 
of so near a relative to the least profitable 
ollice, while the most valuable was allotted 
to a stranger. 

The matter being thus settled, something 
like a calm took place in my mind. I was, 
indeed, not a little concerned about my char- 
acter ; being aware, that it must needs sulTer 
by the strange appearance of my proceeding. 
This, however, being but a small part of the 
an.\iety I liad labored under, was hardly felt, 
when the rest was taken off. I thought my 
path to an easy maintenance was now plain 
and open, and for a day or two was toler- 
ably cheerful. But, beliold, the storm was 
gathering all the while ; and the fury of it 
was not the less violent for this gleam of 
sunshine. 

In the beginning, a strong opposition to 
my friend's right of nomination began to 
show itself. A powerful party was formed 
"among the lords to thwart it, in favor of an 
old enemy of the family, though one much 
indebted to its bounty; and it appeared plain 
that, if wc succeeded at last, it would only be 
by fighting our ground by inches. Every 
advantage, I was told, would be sought for. 
and eagerly seized, to disconcert us. I was 
bid to expect an examination at the bar of 
the house, touching my sulHeiency for the 
post I had taken. Being necessarily igno- 
rant of the nature of that business, it became 
e.xpedient that 1 sliould visit the office daily, 
in order to qualify myself for the strictest 
scrutiny. All the horrol" of my fears and 
perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt 
would have been as welcome (o me as this 
intelligence. I knew, to demonstration, that 
upon these terms the clerkship of the jour- 



nals was no place for me. To require my 
attendance at the bar of the house, that 1 
might there publicly entitle myself to the 
oflice, was, in ettect, to exclude me from it. 
In the nie.'mtime, the interest of my friend, 
the honor of his choice, my own reputatioi; 
and circumstances, all urged me forward; all 
pressed me to undertake that which I saw 
to be impracticable. They whose spirits are 
formed like mine, to whom a jmhlk exhibUiun 
of themsdwa, on any occasion, is mortal poison, 
may have some idea of the horrors of my sit- 
uation ; others can have none. 

My continual misery at length brought on 
a nervous fever : quiet forsook me by day, 
and peace by night; a finger rai.sed against 
me was more than I could stand against. In 
this po.sture of mind, I attended regularly at 
the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the 
rack, the most active spirits were essentially 
necessary for my purpose. I expected no 
assistance from anybody there, all the infe- 
rior clerks being under the influence of my 
opponent; and accordingly I received none. 
The journal books were indeed thrown open 
to me, a thing which could not be refu.sed; 
and from which, perhaps, a man in health, 
and with a head turned to business, might 
have gained all the information he w.anted; 
but it was not so with me. I read without 
perception, and was so distressed, that had 
every clerk in the oBice been my friend, it 
could have .availed me little ; for I was not in 
a condition to receive instruction, much less 
to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direc- 
tion. Many months went over mc thus em- 
ployed; constant in the use of means, de- 
spairing as to the issue. 

The feelings of a man wlien he arrives at 
the place of execution, are probably much 
like mine every time I set my foot in the 
office, which was every day for more than 
half a year together. 

At length, the vacation being ])retty far 
advanced,! made a shift to get into the coun- 
try, and repaired to Margate. There, by the 
help of cheerful company, a new scene, and 
the interniis.sion of my painful employment, 
I presently began to recover my spirits; 
though even here, for some time after my ar- 
rival (notwithstanding, perhap.s, that the pre- 
ceding day had been spent agreeably, and 
without any disturbing recollection of my 
circumstances), my first reflections, when I 
awoke in the morning, were horrible and full 
of wrelclu'dness. 1 looked forward to the 
approaching winter, and regretted the flight 
of every moment which brought it nearer; 
like a man borne away by a rapid torrent into 
a stormy sea, whence he .sees no possibility 
of returning, and where he knows he I'annot 
subsist. .\t length, indeed, I acquired such 
a facility of turning away my thoughts from 
the ensuing crisis, that for weeks together, I 



472 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



liardly adverted to it at all ; but the stress of 
tlie tempest was yet to come, and was not to 
be avoided by any resolution of mine to look 
anotlier way. 

" How wonderful are tlie works of tlie 
Lord, and his ways past finding out!" Thus 
was lie preparing me for an event wliich I 
least of all e.xpeeted, even the reception of 
Ills blessed gospel, working by means which, 
in all human contempljition, must needs seem 
directly opposite to that purpose, but which, 
in his wise and gracious disposal, have, I trust, 
etfectually accomplished it. 

About the beginning of October, 1763, I 
was ag.ain required to attend the oflice and 
prepare for the push. This no sooner took 
place, than all my misery returned ; again I 
visited the scene of inefi'ectual labors ; again 
I felt myself pressed by necessity on either 
side, witli nothing but despair in prospect. 
To this dilemma was I reduced, either to 
keep possession of the office to the last ex- 
tremity, and by so doing expose myself to a 
public rejection for insufficiency (for the little 
knowledge I had acquired would have quite 
fors.akcn me at the bar of the house) ; or else 
to fling it up at once, and by this means run 
the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right 
of appointment, by bringing his discretion 
into question. In this situation, such a fit of 
passion has sometimes seized me, when alone 
in my chambers, that I have cried out aloud, 
and cursed the hour of my birth ; lifting up 
my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as 
a supplicant, but in the spirit of reproach 
against ray Maker. A thought would some- 
times come .across my mind, that my sins had 
])erhaps brought this distress upon me, that 
the hand of divine vengeance was in it; but 
in the pride of my heart, I presently acquit- 
ted myself, and thereby implicitly charged 
God with injustice, saying, " What sins have 
I committed to deserve this?" 

I saw plainly that God alone conid deliver 
me ; but was firmly persuaded that he would 
not, and therefore omitted to ask it. Indeed, 
at /lis hands, I would not; but as Saul sought 
to the witch, so did I to the physician. Dr. 
Heberden ; and was as diligent in the use 
of drugs, as if they would have healed my 
wounded spirit, or have made (he rough places 
plain before me. I made, indeed, one effort 
of a devotional kind; for, having found a 
prayer or two, I said them a few niglits, but 
with so little expectation of prevailing that 
W!iy, that I soon laid aside the book, and 
with it all thoughts of God and hopes of a 
remedy. 

I now- began to look upon madness as the 
only chance remaining. I had a strong kind 
of foreboding that so it would one day fare 
with me; and I wished for it earnestly, and 
looked forward to it with impatient expecta- 
tion. My chief fear was, that my senses 



would not fail me time enough to excuse my 
appearance at the bar of the House of Lords, 
which was the only purpose I wanted it to 
answer. Accordingly, the day of decision 
drew near, and I was still in my senses ; 
though in my heart I had formed many wish- 
es, and by word of mouth expressed many 
expectations to the contrary. 

Now came the grand temptation; the point 
to which Satan had all the while been driving 
me. I grew more sullen and reserved, fled 
from society, even from my most intimate 
friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. 
The ruin of my fortune, the contempt of my 
rel.ations and acqu.aintance, the prejudice I 
should do to my patron, were all urged on 
me with irresistible energy. Being recon- 
ciled to the apprehension of madness, I be- 
gan to be reconciled to the apprehension of 
death. Though formerly, in my happiest 
hours, I had never been able to glance a 
single thought that way, without shuddering 
at the idea of dissolution, I now wished for 
it, and found myself but little shocked .at the 
idea of procuring it myself I considered life 
as my property, and therefore at my own dis- 
posal. Men of great name, I observed, had 
destroyed themselves; and the world still 
retained the profoundest respect for their 
memories. 

[An imperative sense of duty compels me 
to throw a veil over the afflicting details which 
follow. . Respect for the known wishes of 
my departed brother-in-law, a desire not to 
wound the feelings of living characters, and 
a consciousness that such disclosures are not 
suited to meet the public eye, confirm me in 
this resolution. It may be s.aid, that the facts 
are accessible, and may be known; why make 
a mystery of communicating them ? My an- 
swer is, I am a father; I will not inflict a 
shock on the youthful minds of ray own 
children, neither will I be instrumental in 
conveying it to those of others. I will make 
such use of the Memoir as may answer the 
purpose I have in view, but I will not be the 
medium of revealing the secrets of the pris- 
on-house. It is sufficient to state that Covv- 
per meditated the crime of self-destruction, 
and that he was arrested in his purpose by 
an Almighty arm. To quote his own em- 
phatic words, " Unless my Eternal Father in 
Christ Jesus had interposed to disannul my 
covenant with death, and ray agreement with 
hell, that I might hereafter be admitted into 
the covenant of mercy, I had by this time 
been the just object of his boundless ven- 
geance." 

All expectations of being able to hold the 
office in parliament being now .at an end, he 
despatched a friend to his relative at the 
eofl'ee-house.] 

As soon, he observes, as the latter arrived, 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



473 



1 apprised liira of the attempt I had been 
making. His words were, " My dear Jlr. 
Cowper, you terrify me ; to be sure you can- 
not hold the office at this rate. Where is 
the deputation V I iravc him the key of tlie 
drawers where it was deposited ; and, his 
business requiring his immediate atteudanee, 
lie took it away with him; and thus ended 
all my connexion with the parliament house. 

To this mom<Mit I had felt no concern of a 
spiritual kind. Ignorant of original sin, in- 
sensible of llie guilt of actual transgression, 
I understood neither the law nor the Gospel; 
the condemning nature of the one, nor the 
restoring mercies of the other. I was as 
much unacquainted with Christ, in all his 
saving oflices, as if his blessed name had 
never reached me. Now, therefore, a new 
scene opened upon me. Conviction of sin 
took place, especially of that just committed; 
the meanness of it, as well as its atrocity, 
were exhibited to me in colors so inconceiv- 
ably strong, that I despised myself, with a 
contempt not to be imagined or expressed, 
for having attempted it. This sense of it 
secured me from the repetition of a crime, 
which I could not now reflect on without ab- 
horrence. 

A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair 
of escaping it, instantly succeeded. The fear 
of death became much more prevalent in me 
than ever the desire of it had been. 

A frequent flashing, like that of tire, before 
my eyes, and an excessive pressure upon the 
brain, made me apprehensive of an apoplexy. 

By the advice of my dear friend and l)cne- 
factor, who called upon me again at noon, I 
sent for a physician, and told him the fiict, 
and the stroke I apprehended. He assure(I 
me there was no danger of it, and advised 
me by all means to retire into the country. 
Being made easy in that particular, and not 
knowing where to better myself, I continued 
in my chambers, where the solitude of my 
situation left me at full liberty to attend to 
my spiritual state ; a matter I h.ad till this 
day never sufficiently thought of. 

At this time I wrote to my brother, at 
Cambridge, to inform him of the distress I 
had been in, and the dreadful method I had 
kikcn to deliver myself from it; assuring 
him, as I faithfully might, that I had laid 
aside all such horrid intentions, and was de- 
sirous to live as long as it would please the 
Almighty to permit me. 

My sins were now set in array against me, 
and I beg.in to see and feel that I had lived 
without God in the world. As I walked to 
.ind fro in my chamber, I s.aid within myself, 
" There npicr iras so abaiidorwd a tcrelcb, sn 
great a siiitvr." All my worldly sorrows 
seemed as though they had never been ; the 
terrors which succeeded them seemed so 
grrcit and so much more afflicting. One 



moment I thought myself .shut out from 
mercy by one chapter; the next by another. 
The sword of the Spirit seemed to guard the 
tree of life from my touch, and to flame 
against me in every avenue by which I at- 
tempted to approach it. I particul.irly re- 
member, that the parable of the barren tig- 
tree was to me an inconceivable source of 
anguish; and I applied it to myself with a 
strong persuasion in my mind that, when the 
Saviour pronounced a curse upon it, he had 
me in his eye, and pointed that curse directly 
at me. 

I turned over all Archbishop Tillotson's 
sermons, in hopes of finding one upon the 
subject, and consulted my brother upon the 
true meaning of it ; desirous, if possible, to 
obtain a difl'erent interpretation of the matter 
than my evil conscience would sulTer me to 
fasten on it. '■ O Lord, thou didst vex me 
with all thy storms, all thy billows went over 
me; thou didst run upon me like a giant in 
tlie night season, thou didst scare me with 
visions in the night season." 

In every book I opened, I found something 
that struck me to the heart. I remember tak- 
ing up a volume of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
which lay upon the table in my kinsman's 
lodgings, and the first sentence which I saw 
was this: "The justice of the gods is in it." 
Jly heart instantly replied, " It is a truth ;" 
an I I cannot but observe, that as I found 
something in every author to condemn me, 
so it was the first sentence, in general, I 
pitched upon. Everything preached to me, 
and everything preached ihe curse of the law. 

I was now strongly tempted to use lauda- 
num, not as a poison, but as an opiate, to 
compose my spirits ; to stupefy my awakened 
and feeling mind, harassed with sleepless 
nights and days of uninterrupted misery. 
But God forbad it, who would have nothing 
to interfere with the quickening work he had 
begun in me ; and neither the want of rest, 
nor continued .agony of mind, could bring 
me to the use of it; I hated and abhorred 
the very smell of it. 

Having an obscure notion about the effi- 
cacy of faith, I resolved upon an experiment 
to prove whether 1 had faith or not. For 
this purpose, 1 resolved to repeat the (.'reed: 
when I came to the second period of it, all 
traces of the former were struck out of my 
memory, nor could I recollect one syllabic ot 
the matter. While I endeavored to recover 
it, and when just upon the point, I perceived 
a sensation in my brain, like a tremulous vi- 
bration in all the fibres of it. By this means 
1 lost the words in the very instant when I 
thought to have laid hold of them. This 
threw me into an agony ; but growing a little 
calmer. I made an attempt for the third time; 
here again I failed in the same maimer as 
before. 



474 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In this condition my brother found me, and 
the first words I spoke to liiin were, " Oh ! 
brother, I am lost ! tliink of eternity, and 
then tliink what it is to be lost!" I had, in- 
deed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my 
mind, which seemed almost to amount to a 
full comprehension of it. 

Jly brother, pierced to the heart with the 
siglit of my misery, tried to comfort me, but 
all to no purpose. I refused comfort, and 
my mind appeared to me in such colors, that 
to administer it to me was only to e,\asperate 
me, and to mock my fears. 

At length, I remembered my friend Martin 
Madan, and sent for him. I used to think 
him an enthusiast, but now seemed convinced 
tliat, if thei-e was any balm in Gilead, he 
must administer it to me. On former occa- 
sions, when my spiritual concerns had at any 
time occurred to me, I thought likewise on 
the necessity of repentance. I knew that 
many persons had spoken of shedding tears 
for sin ; but when 1 asked myself, whether 
the time would ever come when I should 
weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone 
might sooner do it. 

Not knowing that Christ was e.\alted to 
give repentance, I despaired of ever attaining 
to it. My friend came to me ; we sat on the 
bed-side together, and he began to declare to 
me the gospel. He spoke of original sin, 
and the corruption of every man born into 
the world, whereby every one is a child of 
wrath. I perceived something like hope 
dawning in my heart. This doctrine set me 
more on a level with the rest of mankind, 
and made my condition appear less desperate. 

Ne.\t he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy 
of the blood of Jesus, and his righteousness, 
for our justification. While I heard this part 
of his discourse, and the scriptures on which 
he founded it, my heart began to burn within 
me, my soul was pierced with a sense of my 
bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour; 
and tliose tears, which I thought impossible, 
burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my 
case required such a remedy, and had not the 
least doubt within me but that this was the 
gospel of salvation. 

Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively 
faith in Jesus Christ; not an assent only of 
the understanding, but a faith of application, 
an actual laying hold of it, and embracing it 
as a salvation wrought out for me personally. 
Here I failed, and deplored my want of such 
a faitli. He told me it was the gift of God, 
which he trusted he would bestow upon me. 
I could only reply, " I wish he would :" a very 
irreverent petition;* but a very sincere one, 
and such as the bles.sed God, m his due time, 
was pleased to answer. 

My brother, finding that I had received 

* It could hardly be callod irreverent, unless the man- 
ner in which it was uttered rendered it auch. 



consolation from Mr. Bladan, was very anx- 
ious that I should take the earliest opportu- 
nity of conversing with him again ; and, for 
this purpose, pressed me to go to him inuue- 
diatcly. I was for putting it off, but my 
brother seemed impatient of delay: and, at 
length, prevailed on me to set out. I men- 
tion this, to the honor of his candor and hu- 
manity; which would sutler no ditl'ereiice of 
sentiments to interfere with them. My wel- 
fare was his only object, and all prejudices 
fled before his zeal to procure it. May he 
receive, for his recotiipense, all that happiness 
the gospel, which I then first became ac- 
quainted with, is alone able to impart ! 

Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. 
The wounded spirit within me was less in 
pain, but by no means healed. What I had 
experienced was but the beginning of sor- 
rows, and a long train of still greater terrors 
was at hand. I slept my three hours well, 
and then awoke with ten times a stronger 
alienation from God than ever. 

At eleven o'clock my brother called upon 
me, and, in about an hour after his arrival, 
that distemper of mind, which I had so ar- 
dently wished for, actually seized me. 

While I traversed the aparliuent, expect- 
ing every moment the earth would open her 
mouth and swallow me, ray conscience scar- 
ing me, and the city of refuge out of reach 
and out of sight, a strange and horrible dark- 
ness fell upon me. If it n-ere possible that 
a heavy blow could light on tlie brain, with- 
out touching the skull, such was the sensa- 
tion I felt. I clapped luy hand to luy fore- 
head, and cried aloud through the pain it gave 
tne. At every stroke my thoughts and ex- 
pressions became more wild and incoherent; 
all that remained clear was the sense of sin, 
and the expectation of punishment. These 
kept undisturbed possession all through my 
illness, without interruption or abatement. 

My brother instantly observed the change, 
:ind consulted with my friends on the best 
mode to dispose of me. It was agreed 
among them, that I should be carried to St. 
Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for 
the reception of such patients, and with 
whom I was known to have a slight ac- 
quaintance. Not only his skill as a physi- 
cian recommended hitn to their choice, but 
his well-known humanity and sweetness of 
temper. It will be proper to draw a veil 
over the secrets of my prison-house : let it 
suffice to say, that the low state of body and 
mind to which I was reduced was perfectly 
well calculated to hutnble the natural vain- 
glory and pride of my lieart. 

These are the ellicacious means which In- 
finite Wisdom thought meet to make use of 
for th.at purpose. A sense of self-loathing 
and abhorrence ran through all my insanity. 
Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant 




judgment, never left me, from the 7tli of De- 
c-cmlier 17(53, until tlie niidtUe of July fol- 
lowing. The accuser of the brethren was 
ever busy with me night and day, bringing 
to my recollection in dreams the commission 
of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon 
my conscience things of an indill'erent nature 
as atrocious crimes. 

All that passed in this long interval of eight 
months may be classed under two heads, con- 
viction of sin, and despair of mercy. i3ut 
blessi'd be the God of my salvation for every 
sigh 1 drew, for every tear I shed; since thus 
it pleased him to judge me here, that I might 
not be judged hereafter. 

After five months of continual expectation 
that the divine vengeance would overtake me, 
I became so familiar with despair as to have 
contracted a sort of hardiness and inditVer- 
cnce as to the event. I began to persuade 
myself that, while the execution of the sen- 
tence was suspended, it would be for my in- 
terest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas 
than I had been accustomed to muse upon. 
By the means I entered into conversation 
with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and 
told him some of my own to match them ; 
still, however, carrying a sentence of irrevo- 
cable doom in my heart. 

He observed the seeming alteration with 
pleasure. Believing, as well lie might, that 
my smiles were sincere, he thought my re- 
covery well-nigh completed ; but they were, 
in reality, like the green surface of a morass, 
pleasant to the eye, l)ut a cover for nothing 
but rottenness and tilth. Thr anlij thing that 
could promnle and effectuate my cure was yet 
wanting ; an experimental knowledge of tlie 
redemption ichich is in Christ Jesus. 

In about three months more (July 25, 
17ti4) my brother came from Cambridge to 
visit me. Dr. C. having told him that he 
thought me greatly amended, he was rather 
disappointed at finding me almost as silent 
and reserved as ever : for the first sight of 
him struck me with many painful sensations 
both of sorrow for my own remediless con- 
dition and envy of his ha|)piness. 

As soon as we were left alone, he asked 
mc how I found myself; I answered, "As 
much better as despair can make me." We 
went together into the garden. Here, on 
expressing a settled assurance of sudden 
judgment, he protested to me that it was all 
a delusion; and protested so strongly, that 
I could n^Mu'lp giving some attention to 
him. I burst into tears, and cried out, " If it 
be a delusion, then am I the happiest of be- 
ings." Something like a ray of hope w.as 
shot into my heart : but still I was afraid to 
indulge il. We dined together, and I spent 
the aflernoon in a more cheerful manner. 
Something seemed to whisper to me every 
moment, '■ Still there is mercy." 



Even after he left me, this change of sen- 
timent gathered ground continually; yet my 
mind was in sucli a lluctuating .state, that I 
can only call it a vague presage of better 
things at hand, without being able to assign 
a reason for it. The servant observed a 
sudden alleration in me for the better; and 
the man, whom I have ever since retained in 
my service,* expressed great joy on the oc- 
casion. 

I went to bed and slept well. In the 
morning, I dreamed that the sweetest boy I 
ever saw came dancing up to my bedside ; 
he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet I 
took particular notice of the firmness and 
steadiness of his tread. The sight affected 
me with pleasure, and served at least to har- 
monize my spirits ; so that I awoke for the 
first time with a sensation of delight on my 
mind. Still, however, I knew not where to 
look for the establishment of the comfort I 
felt ; my joy was as much a mystery to my- 
self as to those about me. The blessed 
God was preparing for me the clearer light 
of his countenance, by this first dawning of 
that light upon me. 

Within a few days of my first arrival at 
St. Alban's, I had thrown aside the word of 
God, as a book in which I had no longer 
.iny interest or portion. The only instance, 
in which I can recollect reading a single 
chapter, was about two months before my 
recovery. Having found a Bible on the 
bench in the garden, I opened upon the Ilth 
of St. John, where Lazarus is raised from 
the dead ; and saw so much benevolence, 
mercy, goodness, and sympathy with miser- 
able man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I 
almost shed tears even after the relation ; 
little thinking that it was an exact type of 
the mercy which Jesus was on the point of 
extending towards myself I sighed, and 
said, "Oh, that I had not rejected so good a 
Redeemer, that I had not forfeited all his 
favors!" Thus was my heart softened, 
though not yet enlightened. I closed the 
book, without intending to open it again. 

Having risen with somewhat of a more 
cheerful feeling, I repaired to my room, 
where breakfast waited for me. Wliile I 
sat at table, I found the cloud of horror, 
which had so long hung over me, was every 
menienl passing away; and every moment 
came fraught with hope. I was continually 
more and more persuaded that I \v;is not ut- 
terly ibiomcd to destruction. The way of 
salvation was still, however, hid from my 
eyes : nor did I see it at all clearer than be- 
fore my illness. I only thought that if it 
would please God to spare me, I would lead 
a better life; and that I would yet escape 
hell, if a religious observance of my duty 
would secure me from it. 

* Samuel Roberts. 



476 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Thus may the terror nfthe Lord make a 
pharisee ; but only the sweet voice of mercy in 
thegospcl can make a Christian. 

[We are now arrived at the eventful crisis 
of Covvjier's conversion and restoration, whicli 
is til us recorded in liis own words.] 

But tlie liappy period which was to slial<e 
off my fetters,and afford me a clear opening 
of the free mercy of God in Clirist Jesus, 
was now arrived. I Hung myself into a chair 
near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, 
ventured once more to apply to it for comfort 
and instruction. The first verse I saw was 
the 25th of the 3rd of Romans ; " Whom 
God hath set forth to be a propitiation 
through faith in his blood, to decl.are his 
righteousness for the remission of sins that 
are past, through the forbearance of God." 

Immediately I received strength to believe 
it, and tlie full beams of the bun of Right- 
eousness shone upon me. I saw the suffi- 
ciency of the atonement he had made, my 
pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness 
and completeness of his justification. In a 
moment I believed, and received the gospel. 
Whatever my friend Madan had said to me, 
long before, revived in all its clearness, with 
demonstration of the Spirit and with power. 
Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, 
I think I should liave died with gratitude and 
joy. My eyes filled with tears, and my voice 
choked with transport, I could only look up 
to heaven in silent fear, overwhelmed with 
love and wonder. But the work of the Holy 
Ghost i.s best described in his own words, it 
is "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." 
Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ 
Jesus pleased to give me the full assurance 
of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbe- 
lieving heart to raise up a child unto Abra- 
ham. How glad should I now have been 
to have spent every moment in prayer and 
thanksgiving! 

I lost no opportunity of repairing to a 
throne of grace ; but flew to it with an ear- 
nestness irresistible, and never to be satis- 
lied. Could 1 help it? Could I do other- 
wise th.an love and rejoice in my reconciled 
Father in Christ Jesus? The Lord had en- 
larged my heart, and I ran in the way of his 
commandments. For many succeeding weeks 
tears were ready to flow,"if I did but sp?ak 
of the gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. 
To rejoice d.ay and night was all my employ- 
ment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought 
it was but lost time that was spent in slum- 
ber. O that the ardor of my first love had 
continued! But I have known many a life- 
less and unhallowed hour since ; long inter- 
vals of darkness, interrupted by short returns 
of peace and joy in believing. 

My physician, ever watchful and apprehen- 
sive for my welfare, was now alarmed lest 



the sudden transition from despair to joy 
should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But "the 
Lord was my strength and my song, and was 
become my salvation." I said, " I shall not 
die, but live, and declare the works of the 
Lord ; he has chastened me sore, but not 
given me over unto death. O give thanks un- 
to the Lord, for his mercy cndureth forever." 

In a short time. Dr. C. became s.atisfied, 
and acquiesced in the .soundness of my cure : 
and much sweet communion I had with him, 
concerning the things of our salvation. He 
visited me every morning while I stayed with 
him, which was near twelve months after my 
recovery, and the gospel was the delightful 
theme of our conversation. 

No trial has befallen me since, but what 
might be expected in a state of warfare. 
Satan, indeed, has changed his battery. Be- 
fore my conversion, sensual gr.atification was 
the weapon with which he sought to destroy 
me. Being naturally of an easy, quiet dis- 
position, I was seldom tempted to anger ; yet 
that passion it is which now gives me the 
most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest 
conflicts. But Jesus being my strength, I 
fight again.st it; and if I am not conqueror, 
yet I am not overcome. 

I now employed my brother to seek out 
an abode for me in the m^ighborhood of 
Cambridge, being determined by the Lord's 
leave, to see London, the scene of my former 
abominations, no nxjre. I had still one place 
of preferment left, which seemed to bind 
me under the necessity of returning thither 
again. But I resolved to break the bond, 
chiefly because my peace of conscience was 
in question. I held, for some years, the 
otfice of commissioner of bankrupts with 
about GO/, per annum. Conscious of my 
ignorance of the law, I could not take the 
accustomed oath, and resigned it; thereby 
releasing myself from an occasion of great 
sin, and every obligation to return to Lon- 
don. By this means, I reduced myself to 
an income scarcely sufficient for my mainten- 
ance ; but I would rather have starved in 
reality than deliberately oft"end against my 
Saviour ; and his great mercy has since raised 
me up such friends, as have enabled me to 
enjoy all the comforts and conveniences of 
life. I am well assured that, while I live, 
" bread shall be given uie, and water sliall be 
sure," according to his gr.acious promise. 

After my brother had made many unsuc- 
cessful attempts to procure n^a dwelling 
near him, I one day poured out my soul in 
prayer to God, beseeching him ih.at, wherever 
he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy, 
to lead me, it might be in the society of those 
who feared his name, and loved the Lord 
Jesus Christ in sincerity ; a prayer of which 
I have good reason to acknowledge his gr;i- 
cious acceptance. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



477 



In the beginninnf of June, 1765, I received 
a letter from iiiv brother, to siiy he had taken 
lodijiiigs for me at IIiintiiij,'don, which he 
believed would suit me. Though it was six- 
teen miles from Cambridge, 1 was resolved 
to take them ; for I had been two months in 
perfect health, aiul my eireumstanees required 
a less expensive way of life. It was with 
great reluctance, however, that I thought of 
leaving the place of my second nativity ; I 
had so much .leisure there to study the bless- 
ed word of God, and had enjoyed so much 
happiness: but (iod ordered everything for 
nu' like an indulgent Father, and had pre- 
pared a more comfortable place of residence 
than I could have chosen for myself. 

On the 7lh of June, 1765, having spent 
more than eighteen months at St. Alban's, 
partly in bondage, and partly in the liberty 
wherewith Christ had made me free, I took 
my leave of the place at four in the morning, 
and set out for Cambridge. 

The servant, whom I lately mentioned as 
rejoicing in my recovery, attended me. He 
had maintained such an affectionate watch- 
fulness over me during my whole illness, and 
waited on me with so much patience and 
gentleness, that I could not bear to leave him 
behind, though it was with some ditiicultv 
the Doctor was jirevailed on to part with 
him. The strongest argument of all was 
the earnest desire he expressed to follow 
me. He seemed to have been ])rovidentially 
thrown in ray way, having entered Dr. C.'s 
service just time enough to attend me ; and 
I have strong ground to hope, that God will 
use me as an instrument to bring him to a 
knowledge of Jesus. It is impossible to say 
with how delightful a sense of his protection 
and fatherly care of me, it has pleased the 
Almighty to favor mo, during- the whole 
journey. 

I remembered the pollution which is in the 
world, and the sad share I had in it myself; 
and my heart ached at the thought of enter- 
ing it again. The blessed God had endued 
me with some concern for his glory, and I 
was fearful of hearing it traduced by oaths 
and blasphemies, the common language of 
this highly favored, but ungrateful country.* 
But •• fuar not, I am with thee," was my com- 
fort. I passed the whole journey in silent 
communion with God; and those hours are 
amongst the happiest I have known. 

I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday 
after my arrival at Cambridge. My brother, 
who had ,'ittende<l me thither, had no sooner 
left me than, finding myself surrounded by 
strangers and in a strange place, my spirits 
began to slid;, and I felt (such were the back- 

• There is con^ideraljlf improvement in piildic man- 
nnrs ^itice Itiis period, nrni outtiH luid bliu^plKtriiies would 
ii:tt be liilerateu in well-bred society. M:iy the linllowed 
itilliieiiee uC tlie Compel be iiistrumetitttl in prodttciti:; u 
alitl b.ippiei' change ; 



slidings of my heart) like a traveller in the 
midst of an inhospitable desert, without a 
friend to comfort or a guide lo direct me. I 
walked forth, towards the close of the day. 
in this inelanclioly frame of mind, and, hav- 
ing wandered about a mile from the town, 
I found my heart, at length, so powerfully 
drawn towards the Lord, that, having gaineil 
a retired and secret nook in the corner of 
a lic'ld, I kneeled down under a bank, and 
poured forth ray complaints hefore him. It 
pleased ray Saviour to hear me, in that this 
opju'ession was taken olf, and I was enabled 
to trust in him that eareth for the stranger, 
to roll my burden upon him, and to rest as- 
sured that, wheresoever he might cast my 
lot, the God of all consolation would still be 
with rae. But this was not all. He did for 
me more than either I had asked or tlumglit. 

The next day, I went to chtirch for the • 
first time after my recovery. Throughout 
the whole service, I had much to do to re- 
strain my emotions, so fully did I see the 
beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart 
was full of love to all the congregation, es- 
pecially to them in whom 1 observed an air of 
sober attention. A gr.ive and sober person 
sat in the ))CW with me; liiin I have since 
seen aiul often conversed with, and have 
found liini a pious man, and a true servant 
of the blessed Redeemer. While he was 
singing the psalm, I looked at him, and, ob- 
serving him intent on his holy employment, 
I could not help saying in my heart, w'ith 
much emotion, " Bless you, for praising Him 
whom my soul loveth 1" 

Such was the goodness of the Lord to me, 
that he gave me '• the oil of joy lor mourn- 
ing, and the garment of praise for the spirit 
of heaviness;" and though my voice was 
silent, being slopped by the intenseness of 
what I felt, yet ray soul snng within me, and 
even leaped for joy. And when the gospel 
for the day was read, the sound of it was 
more than I could well support. Oh, what 
a word is the word of God, when the Spirit 
quickens us to receive it, and gives the hear- 
ing ear, and the" understanding heart! The 
harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its 
author. Tl;e parable of the prodigal son 
was the portion. I saw myself in that glass 
so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my 
slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole 
.scene was realized to me, and acted over in 
my heart. 

I went immediately after church to l\u: 
place where I had prayeil the day before, and 
found the relief I had there received was but 
the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall 
I express what the Lord did for me, except 
by .saying, th.at he made all his goodness to 
pass before me ! I seemed to speak to him 
face to face, as a man conversing with his 
friend, except that my Fpceeli was oidy in 



478 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tears of joy, and groanings which cannot be 
uttered. I could say, indeed, with Jacob, not 
" how dreadful," hut how lovely, " is this 
pl.nce ! This is none other than llie house 
of God." 

Four months I continued in my lodging. 
Some few of the neighbors came to see me, 
but their visits were not very frequent ; and, 
in general, I had but little intercourse, ex- 
cept with my God in Christ Jesus. It was 
he who made my solitude sweet, and the wil- 
derness to bloom and blossom as the rose; 
and my meditation of him was so delightful 
that, if I had few other comforts, ncitlier did 
I want any. 

One day, however, towards the expiration 
of this period, I found myself in a state of 
desertion. That communion which I had so 
long been able to maintain with the Lord 
was suddenly interrupted. I began to dis- 
like my solitary situation, and to fear I should 
never be able to weather out the winter in 
so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought 
struck me, which I shall not fear to call a 
suggestion of the good providence whicli had 
brought me to Huntingdon. A few months 
before, I had formed an acquaintance with the 
Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though 
he had heard that I r.ather declined society 
than sought it, and though Mrs. Unwiu her- 
self dissuaded him from visiting me on that 
account, was yet so strongly inclined to it, 
that, notwithstanding all objections and ar- 
guments to the contrary, he one day engaged 
liimself, as we were coming out of church, 
after morning prayers, to drink tea with me 
that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I 
found him one whose notions of religion 
were spiritual and lively; one whom the 
J.iOrd had been training up from his infancy 
for the service of the temple. We opened 
our liearts to each other at the first inter- 
view, and, when we parted, I immediately 
retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, 
who had been the author, to be the guardian 
of our friendship, and to grant to it fervency 
and perpetuity even unto death; and I doubt 
not that my gracious Father heard this prayer 
also. 

The Sunday following I dined with him. 
Th.at afternoon, while tlie rest of the family 
was withdrawn, I had much discourse with 
Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to deserihe 
the pleasure I had in conversing with her, 
because she will be one of the first who will 
ha\'e the perusal of this narrative. Let it 
sullice to say, I found we had one faith, and 
had been baptized with the same baptism. 

When I returned home, I gave tli.anks to 
God, who had so graciously answered mv 
prayers, by bringing me into the society of 
Christians. She has since been a means in 
the hand of God of supporting, quickening, 
and strengthening me, in my walk with him. 



It was long before I thought of any other 
connexion with this family than as a friend 
and neighbor. On the day, however, above 
mentioned, while I was revolving in my mind 
the nature of my situation, and beginning, 
for the first time, to find an irksomeness in 
such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me 
that I might probably find a place in Mr. 
Unwin's family as a boarder. A young gen- 
tleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, 
was the day before gone to Cambridge. It 
appeared to me, at least, possible, that I might 
be allowed to succeed him. From the mo- 
ment this thought struck me, such a tumult 
of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two 
or three days I could not divert my mind to 
any other subject. 1 blamed and condemned 
myself for want of submission to the Lord's 
will; but still the language of my mutinous 
and disobedient heart was, "Give me the 
blessing, or else I die." 

About the third evening after I had deter- 
mined upon the measure, I, at length, m.ade 
shift to fasten my thoughts upon a theme 
which had no manner of connexion with it. 
While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. 
Unwin and family quite out of sight, my at- 
tention was suddenly called home again by 
the words which had been continually play- 
ing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated 
with such importunity that I could not help re- 
garding them : — '■ The Lord God of truth will 
do this." I was effectually convinced, that 
they were not of my own production, and 
accordingly I received from them some as- 
surance of success ; but my unbelief and 
fearfulness robbed me of much of the com- 
fort they were intended to convey ; though I 
h.ave since had many a blessed experience of 
the same kind, for which I can never be suf- 
ficiently thankful. I immediately began to 
negotiate the afi'air, and in a t\:\v days it was 
entirely concluded. 

I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 
11, 1765. I have found it a place of rest 
prepared for me by God's own hand, where 
he has blessed me with a thousand mercies, 
and instances of his fatherly protection ; and 
where he has given me abundant means of 
furtherance in the knowledge of our Lord 
Jesus, both by the study of his own word, 
and communion with his dear disciples. May 
nothing but death interrupt our union ! 

Pe.ace be with the reader, through faith in 
our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen ! 



Painful as this memoir is in some of its 
earlier details, yet we know nothing more 
simple and beautiful in narr.ative,more touch- 
ing and ingenuous in sentiment than its happy 
sequel and consummation. It resembles the 
storm that desolates the plain, but which is 
afterwards succeeded by the glowing beauties 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



479 



of the renovated hnd^enpe. No document 
ever furnislied an ampler refutation of the 
remark that ascribes his malady to the oper- 
ation of reliijious causes. On the contrary, it 
appears that liis first relief, under the tyranny 
of an unfeelinir school-boy, was in the exer- 
cise of prayer, and lliat some of his liappiest 
momenls, in the enjoyment of the Divine 
presence, were experienced in the frame of 
mind which he describes, when at Southamp- 
ton — that in proportion as he forgot the 
heavenly Monitor, his peace vanished, his 
passions resumed the ascendency, and he 
presented an unhappy compound of guilt and 
wretchedness. The history of his malady is 
developed in his own memoir with all the 
clearness of the most circumstantial evidence. 
A morbid temperament laid the foundation ; 
an extreme susceptibility exposed him to con- 
tinual nervous irritation ; and eatrly disap- 
pointments deepened the impression. At 
length, with a mind unoccupied by study, and 
undisciplined by self-connnand — contemplat- 
ing a " public exhibition of himself as mortal 
poison," he sank under an offer which a more 
buoyant spirit would have grasped as an 
object of honorable ambition. In this state 
religion found liim, and administered the 
hajipy cure. 

That a morbid temperament was the origi- 
nating cause of his depression, is confirmed 
by an affecting passage in one of his poems. 

In the beautiful and much admired lines on 
his mother's picture, there is the following 
pathetic remark : 

Jlymollicr! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
Say, wasl thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
Hovcr'd thy spirit oV-r thy sorrowing son, 
Wretch crcntUen^ lift s journey just bc^un? 

In dwelling on these predisposing causes, the 
Editor thinks it right to state, in the most 
unequivocal manner, that there is not the re- 
motest reason for supposing that any heredi- 
tary mal.ady existed in the family of Cowper 
sufficient to account for this alHicting dispen- 
sation. There was an inflammatory action 
of his blood, .and peculiar irritability of the 
nervous system, which a wise and salutary 
self-control and the early inlluence of relig- 
ious princiiJes might have subdued, or at 
least modified. Employment, also, or the 
active exercise of the faculties, seems indis- 
pensable to health and happiness.* He who 
lives without an allotted occupation is sel- 
dom either wise, virtuous, or happy. The 
ininil recoils upon itself, and is consumed by 
its own firc^s. I'roviil/mce, after the Fall, in 
mercy, not less than in justice, decreed th.at 
man should live by the sweat of nis brow; 
that, in the same moment that he was re- 
minded of his punishment, he might find the 

• Cowper udopted a prutV.'SsioD, l>ut Devcr pursued it 
with pcraovpTaucc 



toil itself a powerful alleviation to his suf- 
ferings, and the exercise of all his faculties 
the road to competency, to usefulness, and 
honor. 
! Two events contributed to ex(Tcise a most 
injurious influence on the morbid mind of 
Cowper, not recorded in his own Memoir. 
We allude to the death of his friend. Sir 
William Rnssel,and his hopeless attachment 
to !\Iiss Theodora Cowper. 

Sir William was the contemporary of Cow- 
per at Westminster, and his most intimate 
friend. This intercourse was continued in 
their riper years, on the footing of the most en- 
dearing friendship. Unhappily, young Rus- 
sel was cut off by a premature death,* while 
bathing in the Tliames, amidst all the ojjcn- 
ing prospects of life, and with accomplish- 
ments and virtues that adorned his rank and 
station. This occurrence inflicted a great 
moral shock on the sensitive mind of Cowper. 

But it was his attachment to Miss Theo- 
dora Jane Cowper that formed the eventful 
era in his early life, and clouded all his future 
prospects. The relation of this fact is wliolly 
omitted by Hayley, in compliance, we pre- 
sume, with the express wishes of the fatnily. 
It was, indeed, understood to be a prohibited 
subject, and involved in mucli mystery. The 
name of this lady was never uttered by 
Cowper, nor mentioned in his presence ; 
and, af'ler his death, delicacy towards the sur- 
vivor equally imposed the duty of silence. 
The brother-in-law of the Editor, the Rev. 
Dr. Johnson, conscious th.at a correspond- 
ence must have existed between the poet 
and the fair object of his attachment, re- 
quested to know whether he could be fur- 
nished with any documents, and permitted, 
without a violation of delicacy, to lay them 
before the public. Tlie writer was also com- 
missioned by him to solicit an interview, and 
to urge the same request, but without suc- 
ces.s. An intimation was .at length conveyed 
th.'tt no documents could see the light till 
after the decease of the owner. The death 
of this lady, in the year 1824, at a very ad- 
v.Tjiced age, removed the veil of secrecy, 
though the leading facts were known bv a 
small circle of friends, through the confiden- 
tial communications of I-ady Hesketh and 
Dr. Johnson. We now proceed to the de- 

• Shortness of life seems to Iiave been pfc»iliar to tliis 
fanjily. Tlie writer welt remembers the two last bar.i. 
nets, viz.. Sir Jolin Itussul, wliose form was so weak 
and I'rai^ile, that, when resident at the ITiiiversity (tf <>.\- 
foni, lie w.a..* supported l)y instruments of steel. He diuit 
at tlie early ai(e of twenty-one. 2ndly. Sir George Rus-sel, 
Iiis brother, who survived only lilt his Iwenly-secund 
year. The editor followed him to his crave. The family 
residence was at Chequers, in Buckinghamshire, an an- 
cient seat, and re«t(jred at t[re:it expense l)y these last direct 
descendants of their rac^. Chequers was formerly noted 
as the place where ilam[ideu, Cromwell, and a few 
others, held their secret meetinffs, and cuiicerl.-d their 
measures of opposition at^airisl the government of 
Charh^s I. Tlie estate afterwards devolved lo Robert 
Urecybtll, Esq. 



480 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



tails of this transaction. Miss Theodora 
Cowper was the second daugliter of Ashley 
Cowper, Esq., the poet's uncle, and sister to 
Lady Hesketh ; she was, consequently, own 
cousin to Cowper. She is described as hav- 
ing been a young lady possessed of great per- 
sonal attractions, highly accomplished, and 
distinguished by the qualities th.at engage 
affection and regard. It is no wonder that a 
person of Cowper's susceptibility yielded to 
so powerful an influence. She soon became 
the theme of liis poetical effusions, whieli 
have since been communicated to the public* 
They are juvenile compositions, but interest- 
ing, as forming the earliest productions of his 
muse, and recording his attachment to his 
cousin. Miss Theodora Cowper was by no 
means insensible to the regards of her ad- 
mirer, and the father was eventually solicited 
to ratify her choice. But Mr. Ashley Cow- 
per, attached as he was to his nephew, and 
anxious to promote the happiness of his 
daughter, could by no means be induced to 
listen to the proposition. His objections 
were founded, first, on the near degree of 
relationship in which they stood to each 
other ; and secondly, on the inadequacy of 
Cowper's fortune. From this resolution no 
entreaty could induce him to depart. The 
poet, therefore, was compelled to cherish a 
hopeless passion, which no lapse of time was 
capable of effacing; and his fair cousin, on 
her part, discovered a corresponding fidelity. 

The subsequent melancholy event, record- 
ed in the Memoir, at once extinguished all 
further hopes on the subject. 

How powerfully his feelings were affected 
by tlie death of his friend, Sir William, and 
by his disappointment in love, m.ay be seen 
by the following pathetic lines, referring to 
Miss Theodora Cowper : — 

Dootn'd as I am, in solitude to waste 

The present moments, and regret the past ; 

Depriv'i] of every joy I valued most, 

My friend lorn from me and my mistress lost; 

Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 

The dull elVect of humor, or of spleen ! 

Still, still. I !nourn with each returning day, 

Him. snatchVl Iiy fate in early youtii away ; 

And iicr — through tedious years of doubt and 

pain 
Fix'd in her choice and faithful — but in vain ! 
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
Wiiosc eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 
See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
.See mc neglectett on the world's rude coast. 
Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 

Such were the preparatory causes that 
weakened and depressed the mind of Cow- 
per. The iiiiinnliate and excilhif;' cauxe of 
his unhappy derangement has already been 

* Poems, the Early Prortuctions of William Cowper. 



faithfully disclosed as well as the occasion 
that ministered to its cure. 

Pursuing this interesting and yet painful 
subject in the order of events, it appears that, 
after spending nearly ten years in the enjoy- 
ment of much inward peace, he was visited in 
the year 1773, .at Olney.with a return, not of 
his original derangement, but with a severe, 
nervous fever, and a settled depression of 
spirits. This attack began to subside at the 
close of the year 177G, though his full pow- 
ers were not recovered till some time after. 
What he suffered is feelingly expressed in a 
letter to Mr. Hill. "Other distempers only 
b.atter the walls; but they (nervous fevers) 
creep silently into the citadel, and put the 
garrison to the sword."* 

The death of his brother, the Rev. John 
Cowper, may have been instrumental to this 
long indisposition. At the same time we 
think that his situation at Olney was by no 
means favorable to his health ; and that more 
time should have been' allotted for relaxation 
and exercise. 

In January, 1787, he experienced a fresh 
attack, though surrounded by the beautiful 
scenery of Weston; which seems to prove 
that local causes were not so influential as 
some have suggested. A much better reason 
may be assigned in the lamented death of his 
endeared friend, Mr. Unwin. This illness 
continued eight months, and greatly enfee- 
bled his lieallh and spirit-s. "This last tem- 
pest," he remarks, in a letter to Mr. Newton, 
" has left iny nerves in a worse condition 
than it found them ; my head, especially, 
though better informed, is more infirm than 
ever."t In December, 1791, Mrs. Unwin ex- 
perienced her first attack : and in May, 1792, it 
was renewed with aggravated symptoms, dur- 
ing Hayley's visit to Weston. He describes 
its powerful effect on Cowper's nerves in ex- 
pressive language, and none can be more 
expressive than his own, at the close of the 
same year. " The year ninety-two shall 
stand chronicled in my remembrance as the 
most melancholy that I have ever known, ex- 
cept the few weeks that I spent at Eartham."J 
Cowper's ment.al depression kept pace with 
the spectacle of her increasing imbecility, till 
at length, yielding to the pressure of these 
accunndating sorrows, he sanii under the 
violence of the shock. 

The coincidence of these facts is worthy of 
observation, as they, seem to prove that the 
embers of the original constitutional malady 
never became extinct, and required only some 
powerful stimulant to revive the flame. Re- 
ligious feelings unquestionably concurred, 
because Whatever predomin.ates in the mind 
furnishes the materkals of excitement; but 
it was not the religion of a creed, for wliat 



» Sec p. 58. 



t See p. 284. 
• Letter, Der. 26, i;SS. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



481 



creed ever proclaimed the delusion under 
wliifh Cowper labored '.* Ilis persuasion 
was in opposition to his creed, for he knew 
tliat lie was once saved, and yet believed that 
he should be lost, though his creed assured 
him that, where divine grace had once re- 
vealed its saving power, it never tailed to 
perfect its work in mercy — that the Saviour's 
love is unchangeable, and that whom he hath 
loved he lovcth unto the end (John xiii. 1). 
His case, therefore, was an exception to his 
creed, and consequently must be imputed to 
the operation of other causes. 

We trust we have now succeeded in tracing 
to its true source the origin of Cowper's mal- 
ady, and that the numerous facts which have 
been urged must preclude the possibility of 
future misconception. 

There are some distinguishing features in 
this mysterious malady wliich arc too extraor- 
dinary not to be specified. We notice the fol- 
lowing : — 

1st. The free exercise of his mental pow- 
ers continued during the whole period of his 
depression, with the exception of two inter- 
vals, from 1773 to 1776, and a season of 
eight months in the year 1787. With these 
intermissions of study, all his works were 
written in moments of depression and un- 
ceasing nervous excitement. 

It still further shows the singular mechan- 
ism of his wonderful mind, that his Jlontos 
GKiciales, or Ice Islands, exhibiting decided 
marks of vigor of genius, were composed 
in the last stage of his malady — within five 
weeks of his decease — when his heart was 
Ulcerated by sorrow, his imagination seared by 
dreams, and the heavens over his head were 
as brass. The public papers had announced 
a phenomenon, wliich the voyages of Cap- 
tains Ross and Parry have now made more 
familiar, viz., the disruption of immense 
masses of ice in the North Pole, and their 
appearance in the German Ocean. Cowper 
seized this incident as a fit subject for his 
poelic powers, and produced the poem from 
which we make the following extract : — 

What portents, from what distant region, ride. 
Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish d tide 1 — 
What view wc now '< more wondrous still ! Be- 
hold ! 
Like burnish 'd brass they shine, or boatcn gold : 
And all uround the pearl's pure splendor show, 
And all around the ruby's hery glow. 
Come they from India, wh(^o tho burning earth, 
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; 
And where the coistly gems, that beam around 
Tlie brows of mightiest potentates, are found t 
.\o. Never such a countless, dazzling store 
Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore — 
Whence sprang they then! 

* Cowper believed that lie hiwl incurred the Divine 
displca'iure, because he did not commit the crime of self- 
(l'"slr<ic:ioii ; a persiwion «o manifestl.v ubsurd as to 
aiford luide-uiable proof of doniugemenl. 



-Far hence, where most severe 



Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year, 
Their infant growth began. He bade arise 
Their uncouth forms, potentous in our eyes. 
Ofl, as dissolv'd tiy transient suns, the snow 
Left the tall cliff to join the flood below. 
He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast 
The current, ere it rcach'd the boundless waste. 
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile 
And long successive ages roll'd the while, 
Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claira'd to stand 
Tall as its rival mountains on the land. 
Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill 
Or force of man, had stood the structure still; 
But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yet 
By pressure of its own enormous weight, 
It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound 
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, 
Self-launeh'd, and swittly, to the briny wave, 
As if instinct witli strong desire to lave, 
Down went the pond'rous mass. 

See Poems. 

indly. His malady, however oppressive to 
himself, was not perceptible to others. 

The Editor is enabled to state this remark- 
able fact on the authority of Dr. Johnson, 
confirmed by the testimony of Lady Throck- 
morton, and John Higgins, Esq., of Turvey 
Abbey, formerly of Weston. 

There was notliing in his general manner, 
or intercourse with society, to e.xeite the sus- 
picion of the wretchedness that dwelt within. 
Among strangers he was at all times reserved 
and silent, but in tlie circle of familiar friends, 
where restraint was banished, not only did he 
exhibit no marks of gloom, but he could par- 
ticipate in the mirth of others, or inspire it 
from his own fertile resources of wit and hu- 
mor. The prismaiic colors, so to speak, were 
discernible through the descending shower. 
The bow in the heavens was not only em- 
blematic of his imagination, but might be in- 
terpreted as tlie pledge of promised mercy. 
For it seemed to be graciously ordered that his 
lively and sportive imagination should be a 
relief to the gloomy forebodings of his mind ; 
and that, in vouchsafing to him this alleviation, 
God proclaimed, " Behold, 1 do set my bow in 
the cloud, it shall be for a covenant between 
me and thee." 

3rdly. The rare union, in the same mind, 
of a rich vein of humor with a spirit of pro- 
found melancholy was never perhaps so strik- 
ingly exemplified as in the celebrated pro- 
duction of John Ciilpin. The town resounded 
with its praises. Henderson recited it to over- 
flowing auditories ; Mr. Henry Thornton ad- 
dressed it to a large party of friends at Mr. 
Newton's. Laughter might be said to hold 
both his sides, and the gravest were compelled 
to acknowledge the power of comic w'it. Wc 
scarcely know a more extraordinary phenom- 
enon than what is furnished by tlie history 
of this performance. For it appears, by the 
author's own testimony, that it was written 
" in the ii'iddest mood, and but for that saddest 
31 



482 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



mood, perhaps, had never been written at 
all."* It is also known that this depression 
was not incidental or temporary, but a fixed 
and settled feeling ; that he was in foot ab- 
sorbed, for the most part, in the profonndest 
melancholy ; that he considered himself to be 
cut off from the mercy of his God, though 
liis life was blameless and without reproach; 
and that, finally, having enliglitened his coun- 
try with strains of the sublimest morality, he 
died the victim of an incurable despair. As 
a contrast to the inimitable humor of John 
Gilpin, let us now turn to that most affecting 
representation which the poet draws of his 
own mental sufferings, occasioned by the 
painful depression which has been the subject 
of so many remarks. 

Look where he comes— in this embowered alcove 
.Stand close concealed, and see a statue move; 
Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, 
Arms hantring idly down, hands clasped below, 
Interpret to the marking eye distress, 
.Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue 
Could argue once, could jest or join the song, 
Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
Renounced alike its office and its sport. 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; 
Both fail beneath aftrer^s secret sicay, 
And like a summer-brook arc past away. 
This is a sight for pity to peruse, 
Till she resemble faintly what she views; 
Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, 
Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. 
This, of all maladies that man infest, 
Clahns most compassion, and receives the least. 
Sec Poem on Retirement. 

The minute and mournful delineation of 
mental trouble here submitted to the eye of 
the reader, and the fjict of this living image 
of woe being a portrait of Cowper drawn by 
his own hand, impart to it a character of in- 
imitable pathos, and of singular and indescrib- 
able interest. 

The physical and moral solution of this 
evil, and its painful influence on the mind, till 
the cure is administered by an almighty Phy- 
sician, are beautifully and aflectionately de- 
scribed. 

Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 
Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; 
The screws reversed (a task which if he please 
God in a moment executes with ease). 
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, 
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 
Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 
As ever recompensed the peasant's care. 
Nor soil declivities, with tutted hills, 
Nor view of waters turning busy mills. 
Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, 
Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, 

* See p. 143. 



Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves, 
And wall it to the mourner as he roves — 
Can call up hfe into his faded eye. 
That passes all he sees unheeded by : 
No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, 
No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. 

Retirement. 

The lines which follow are important, as 
proving by his own testimony that, so far 
from his religious views being the occasion 
of his wretchedness, it was to this source alone 
that he looked for consolation and support. 

And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill. 

That yields not to the touch of human skill; 

Improve the kind occasion, understand 

A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand : 

To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon. 

The purple evening and resplendent moon, 

The stars, that, sprmkled o'er the vault of night. 

Seem drops descending in a shower of light, 

Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, 

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : 

Yet seek Him, in his favor life is found. 

All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : 

Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth. 

Shall seem to start into a second birth! 

Nature, assuming a more lovely face. 

Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 

Shall be despised and overlooked no more, 

Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, 

Impart to things inanimate a voice. 

And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ; 

The sound shall run along the winding vales. 

And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 

Retirement. 

The Editor has entered thus largely into 
the consideration of Cowper's depressive 
I malady, because it has been least understood, 
and subject to the most erroneous misrepre- 
sentations, affecting the character of Cowper 
and the honor of religion. One leading ob- 
ject of the writer's, in engaging in the present 
undertaking, has been to vindicate both from 
so injurious an imputation. 

We have now to lay before the reader 
another most interesting document, of which 
Cowper is the acknowledged author. It con- 
tains the affecting account of the last illness 
and peaceful end of his brother, the Rev. John 
Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cam- 
bridge. The original manuscript was faith- 
fully transcribed by Newton, and then pub- 
lished with a preface, which we have thought 
proper to retain. It cannot fail to be read 
with deep interest and edification ; and, while 
it is a monument of Cowper's pious zeal and 
fraternal love, it is a striking record of the 
power of divine grace in producing tliat great 
change of heart which we deem to be essen- 
tial to every professing Christian. This docu- 
ment is now extremely scarce, and not .acces- 
sible but through private sources.* 

* We are indebted for this copy to a tnucli esteemed 
and higlily valued friend, the Rev. Charles Bridges. 



A D E LP H I. 



A SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER, AND AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST ILLNESS, 

OF TBE LATE 

REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. 

FELLOW OF BENNET COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 

WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE WITH JOY, 'Mlh MARCH, 1770. 
WRITTEN BY HIS BROTHER, 

THE LATE WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

OF THE INNER TEMPLE, AUTHOR OF "THE TASK," ETC. 

FAITHFULLY TRANSCRIBED FROM HI.S ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, 

BY JOHN NEWTON, 

RECTOR OF ST. MARVf WOOLNOTH, AND ST MARY, WOOLCHDRCH. 

Tu supplicanti protinus admoves 
• Aurem, beiii^ius: pro lachrimis mihi 

Kisiiin reducis, pro dolore 
La;litiamque, alacreauiue plausum. 

Buchanan, Ps. xxx. 



NEWTON'S ORIGINAL PREFACE. 



The Editor's motives, which induce him to 
publish the following narrative, are chiefly 
two. 

First, that so striking a display of the 
power and mercy of God may be more gen- 
erally known to the praise and glory of liis 
grace and the instruction and comfort of his 
people. 

Secondly, the boasted spirit of refinement, 
the stress laid upon unassisted human reason, 
and the consequent scepticism to whicli they 
lead, and which so strongly mark the charac- 
ter of the present times, are not now confined 
merely to the dupes of infidelity ; but m.any 
persons are under their influence, who would 
be much offended if we charged them with 
having renounced Christianity. While no 
theory is admitted in natur.al history, which 
is not confirmed by actual and positive exper- 
iment, religion is the only thing to which a 
trial by this test is refused. The very name 
of vital e.xperimcntal religion excites con- 
tempt and scorn, and provokes resentment. 



The doctrines of regeneration by the power- 
ful operation of the Holy Spirit, and the ne- 
cessity of his continual agency and influence 
to advance the holiness .and comforts of those 
in whose hearts he has already begun a work 
of grace, are not only exploded and contra- 
dicted by many wlio profess a regard for the 
Bible, and by some who have subscribed to 
the articles and liturgy of our established 
church, but they who avow an attacliment to 
them are, upon that account, and that account 
only, considered as hypocrites or visionaries, 
knaves or fools. 

The Editor fears that many unstable persons 
are misled and perverted by the fine words 
and fair speeches of tliose who lie in wait to 
deceive. But he likewise hopes that, by the 
blessing of God, a candid perusal of what is 
here published, respecting the character, sen- 
timents, and happy death of the late Rever- 
end John Cowper, may convince them, some 
of them at least, of their mistake, and break 
tlie snare in which thoy have been entJingled. 
John Newton. 



A SKETCH OF THE LIFE 



OF THE LATE 



REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. 



As soon as it had pleased God, after a long 
and sharp season of conviction, to visit me 
with the consolations of liis grace, it became 
one of my chief concerns, that my relations 
miglit be made partakers of the same mercy. 
In the first letter I wrote to my brother,* I 
took occasion to declare what God had done 
for my soul, and am not conscious that from 
that period down to his last illness 1 wilfully 
neglected an opportunity of engaging him, if 
it were possible, in conversation of a spiritual 
kind. When I left St. Alban's, and went to 
visit him at Cambridge, my heart being full 
of the subject, I poured it out before him 
witliout reserve ; and, in all my subsequent 
dealings with him, so far as I was enabled, 
took care to show that I had received, not 
merely a set of notions, but a real impression 
of the truths of the gospel. 

At first I found him ready enough to talk 
with me upon tliese subjects; sometimes he 
would dispute, but always witliout heat or 
animosity ; and sometimes would endeavor to 
reconcile the difference of our sentiments, by 
supposing that, at tlie bottom, we were both 
of a mind and meant the same thing. 

He was a man of a most candid and in- 
genuous spirit ; his temper remarkaV^ly sweet, 
and in his behavior to me he had always 
manifested an uncommon affection. His out- 
ward conduct, so far as it fell under ray notice, 
or ) could learn it by the report of others, 
was perfectly decent and unblameable. There 
was nothing vicious in any part of his practice, 
but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he 
placed his chief delight in the acquisition of 
learning, and made such acquisitions in it that 
lie liad but few rivals in that of a classical 
kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, 
Greek, and Hebrew languages, was beginning 
to make himself master of the Syriac, and 
perfectly understood the French and Italian, 
the latter of wlneh he could speak fluently. 
These attainments, however, and m:uiy others 
in the literary way, he lived heartily to de- 
ipisc, not a^ useless when sanctified and cm- 



, t !m! a bi-(>lhei 



onco," &c. 
Tke T:!sl., baolc ii. 



ployed in the service of God, but when sought 
after for their own sake, and with a view to 
the praise of men. Learned however as he 
was, he was easy and cheerful in his conver- 
sation, and entirely free from the stiffness 
which is generally contracted by men devoted 
to such pursuits. 

Thus we spent about two j'ears, conversing 
as occasion offered, and we generally visited 
each other once or twice a week, as long as I 
continued at Huntingdon, upon the leading 
truths of the gospel. By this time, however, 
he began to be more reserved ; he would hear 
me patiently but never reply ; and this I found, 
upon his own confession afterward, was the 
eft'ect of a resolution he had taken, in order 
to avoid disputes, and to secure the continu- 
ance of that peace which had always subsisted 
between us. When our family removed to 
OIney, our intercourse became less frequent. 
We exchanged an annual visit, and, whenever 
he came amongst us, he observed the same 
conduct, conforming to all our customs, at- 
tending family worship with us, and heard 
the preaching, received civilly whateverpassed 
in conversation upon the subject, but adhered 
strictly to the rule he had prescribed to him- 
self, never remarking upon or objecting to 
anything he lieard or saw. This, through the 
goodness of his natural temper, he was ena- 
bled to carry so far that, though some things 
unavoidably happened \vhich we feared would 
give him oifence, he never took any; for it 
was not possible to offer him tlie pulpit, nor 
when Mr. Newton was with us once at the 
time of family prayer, could we ask my bro- 
ther to officiate, though, being himself a min- 
ister, and one of our own family for the time, 
the ofiice seemed naturally to fall into his 
hands. 

In Sejitember 1769, I learned by letters 
from Cambridge that he was dangerously ill. 
I set out for that place the day after I received 
them, and found him as ill as I expected. He 
had taken cold on his return from a journey 
into Wales; and, lest he should be laid up at 
a distance from home, had pushed forward as 
far as he co\ild from B:.'th with a fever upon 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



485 



liim. Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he 

discharged, iinlxiiown to himself, such a pro- 
digious quantity of blood, thai the physician 
aserihed it only to the strength of his consti- 
tution that he was still alive ; and assured me, 
that if the discharge should he rejiealed, he 
must inevitably die upon tiie spot. In this 
state of imuiiuent danger, he seemed to liave 
no more eoueern about his spiritual interests 
than wlien in perfect health. His couch was 
strewed with volumes of plays, to which he had 
frequent recourse for amusement. I learned 
indeed afterwards, that, even at this time, the 
thoughts of God and eternity would often 
force themselves upon his mind; but, not ap- 
prehending his life to be in danger, and trust- 
ingiii themorality of his pa.sl conduct, he found 
it no difheult matter to thrust them out again. 
As it plea.sed (iod that he had no relapse, 
he presently began to recover strenglli, and 
in ten days' time I left him so far restored, 
that he could ride many miles w'ithout fa- 
tigue, and had every symptom of returning 
heahh. It is probable, however, that though 
his recovery seemed perfect, this illness was 
the means which God had appointed to bring 
down his strength in the midst of his jour- 
ney, and to hasten on the malady which 
proved his last. 

, On the 16th of February, 1770, 1 was again 
summoned to attend him, by letters which 
represented him as so ill that the physician 
entertained but little hopes of his recovery. 
I found him afflicted with asthma and dropsy, 
supposed to bo the ett'eet of an impost liume 
in his liver. lie was, however, cheerful when 
I first arrived, expressed great joy at seeing 
me, thought himself much better than he had 
been, and seemed to flatter himself with hopes 
that he should be well again. My situation 
at this time was truly distressful. I learned 
from the physician, that, in this instance, as 
in the last, he was in much greater danger 
than he suspected. He did not seem to lay his 
illness at all to heart, nor could I hnd by iiis 
conversation that he had one serious tiiougiit. 
As often as a suitable occasion offered, when 
we were free from company and interruption, 
I endeavored to give a spiritual turn to the 
discourse ; and, the day after my arrival, 
asked his permission to pray with him, to 
wliicli he readily consented. I renewed my 
attempts in this way as often as I could, 
though without any apparent success: still 
he seemed as careless and unconcerned as 
ever; yet I could not but consider his will- 
ingness in this instance as a token for good, 
and observed with pleasure, that though at 
other times he discovered no mark of seri- 
ousness, j'et when I spoke to him of the 
Lord's dealings with myself, he received vvh.at 
I said with affection, would press my hand, 
and look kindly at me, and seemed to love 
mc the better for it. 



On the 21st of the same month he had a 
violent fit of the asthma, which seized him 
when he rose, about an hour before nooif, 
and lasted all the day. His agony was dread- 
ful. Having never seen any person afflicted 
in the same way, I could not help fearing that 
he would be suffocated ; nor was the physi- 
cian himself without fears of the same kind. 
This day the Lord was very present with me, 
and enabled me, as I sat by the poor suffer- 
er's side, to wrestle for a blessing upon him. 
1 observed to him, that though it h.id pleased 
God to visit him with great afflictions, yet 
mercy was mingled with the dispensation. I 
said, " You have many friends, who love you, 
and are u'illing to do all they can to serve 
you ; and so perhaps have others in the like 
circumstances; but it is not the lot of every 
sick man, how much soever he may be be- 
loved, to have a friend that can pray for him." 
He replied, "That is true, and 1 hope God 
will have mercy upon me." His love for 
me from this time became \cry remai'kable ; 
there was a tenderness in it more than was 
merely natural ; and he generally expressed 
it by calling for blessings upon me in ihe 
most affectionate terms, and with a look and 
manner not to be described. At night, when 
he was quite worn out with the fatigue of 
Laboring for breath, and could get no rest, his 
asthma still continuing, he turned to me and 
said, with a melancholy air, "Brother, I seem 
to be marked out for misery ; you know some 
people are so." That moment I felt my heart 
enlarged, and such a persuasion of the love 
of God towards him was wrought in my soul, 
that I replied with confidence, and, as if I had 
authority given me to say it, "But that is not 
your case ; you are marked out for mercy." 
Through the whole of this most painful dis- 
pensation, he was blessed with a degree of 
patience and resignation to the will of God, 
not always seen in the behavior of established 
Christians under sufferings so great as his. I 
never heard a murmuring word escape him; 
on the contrary, he would often say, when his 
pains were most acute, "I only wish it may 
plense God to en;ible me to suffer without 
complaining ; I have im right to complain." 
Once he said, with a loud voice, " Let thy rod 
and thy staff support and comfort me:" and 
"Oh that it were with me as in times past, 
when the candle of the Lord shone upon my 
tabernacle!" One evening, when I liad been 
expressing my hope that the Lord would 
show him mercy, he rei)lied, " I hope he will ; 
I am sure I pretend to nothing." Many times 
he spoke of himself in terms of the greatest 
.self-abasement, wdiich I cannot now particu- 
larly remember. 1 thought I could di.scern, 
in these expressions, the glimpses of ap- 
proaching day, and have no doubt at present 
hut that the Sjjirit of God was gradually 
preparing him, in a way of true humiliation, 



486 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



for that bright display of gospel-grace which 
l^e was soon after pleased to afi'ord liim.* 

On Saturday the lOtli of Marcli, about 
three in the afternoon, he suddenly burst into 
tears, and said, with a loud cry, "Oh, forsake 
nie not!" I went to his bed-side, when he 
grasped my hand, and presently, by his eyes 
and eountenanee, I found that he was in 
prayer. Tiien turning to me, he said, " Oh, 
brother, I am full of what I could say to 
you." The nurse asked him if he would 
have any hartshorn or lavender. He replied, 
" None of these things will serve my pur- 
pose." I said, " But I know what would, 
my dear, don't I ?" He answered, " You do, 
brother." 

Having continued some time silent, he said, 
" Behold, I create new heavens, and a new 
earth," — then, after a pause, " Ay, and he is 
able to do it too." 

I left him for about an hour, fearing lest 
he sliould fatigue himself with talking, and 
because my surprise and joy were so great 
that I could hardly bear them. When I re- 
turned, he threw his arms about my neck, 
and, leaning his head against mine, he said, 
"Brother, if I live, you and I shall be more 
like one another than we have been. But 
whether I live or live not, all is well, and will 
be so ; I know it will ; I have felt that which 
I never felt before ; and am sure that God 
has visited me with this sickness to teach me 
what I was too proud to learn in health. I 
never had satisfaction till now. The doc- 
trines I had been used to referred me to my- 
self for the foundation of my hopes, and 
there I could find nothing to rest upon. The 
sheet-anchor of the soul was wanting. I 
thought you wrong, yet wished to believe as 
you did. I found myself unable to believe, 
yet always thought that I should one day be 
brought to do so. You suffered more than I 
have done, before you believed these truths; 
but our sufl'erings, though different in their 
kind and measure, were directed to the same 
end. I hope he has taught me tliat which 
he teaches none but his own. I hope so. 
These things were foolishness to me once, 
but now I have a firm foundation, and am 
satisfied." 

In the evening, when I went to bid him 
good night, he looked steadfastly in my face, 
and, with great solemnity in his air and man- 
ner, taking me by the hand, resumed the 
discourse in these very words : " As empty, 
and yet full ; as having nothing, and yet pos- 
sessing all things — I see the rock upon wiiich 
I once split, and I see the rock of my salva- 
tion. I h.ave peace in myself, and if I live, I 
hope it will be that I may be made a mes- 
senger of peace to others. I have heard that 

* There is a beautiful illustration of this sudden and 
liappy chant,'e in Cowper's poem cnUUed " Hope." 
" A3 when a felon whom his country's laws," &c. 



in a moment, which I could not have learned 
by reading many books for many years. I 
have often studied these point.s, and studied 
them with great attention, but was blinded 
by prejudice ; and, unless He, who alone is 
worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the 
book to me, I had been blinded still. Now 
they appear so plain, that though I am con- 
vinced no comment could ever have made me 
understand them, I wonder T did not see 
them before. Yet, great as my doubts and 
difficulties were, they have only served to 
pave the way, and being solved, they make 
it plainer. The light I have received comes 
late, but it is a comfort to me that I never 
made the gospel-truths a subject of ridicule. 
Though I dissented from the persuasion and 
the ways of God's people, I ever thought 
them respectable, and therefore not proper to 
be made a jest of. The evil I suffer is the 
consequence of my descent from the corrupt 
original stock, and of my own personal trans- 
gressions ; tlie good I enjoy comes to me as 
the overflowing of his bounty; but the crown 
of all his mercies is this, that he has given me 
a Saviour, and not only the Saviour of man- 
kind, brother, but my Saviour. 

" I should delight to see the people at 01- 
ney, but am not worthy to appear amongst 
them." He wept at speaking these words, 
and repeated them with emphasis. "I sliould 
rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. 
Newton, and, if I live, shall have much dis- 
course with liim upon these subjects, but am 
so weak in body, that at present I could not 
bear it." At the same time he gave me to 
understand, that he had been five years inquir- 
ing after the truth, that is, from the time of 
my first visit to him after I left St. Alban's, 
and that, from the very day of his ordination, 
which was ten years ago, he liad been dissat- 
isfied with his own views of the Gospel, and 
sensible of their defect and obscurity; that 
he had always had a sense of the importance 
of the ministerial charge, and had used to 
consider himself accountable for his doctrine 
no less than Iiis practice ; that he could .ap- 
peal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that 
time, and had never wilfully erred, but al- 
ways been desirous of coming to the knowl- 
edge of the truth. He added, that the mo- 
ment when he sent forth that cry* was the 
moment when light was darted into his soul ; 
that he had thought much about these things 
in tlie course of his illness, but never till that 
instant was able to understand them. 

It was remarkable that, from the very in- 
stant when he was first enlightened, he was 
also wonderfully strengthened in body, so 
that from the tenth to the fourteenth of 
March we all entertained hopes of his recov- 
ery. He was himself very sanguine in his 

• On the lOth of March, vide supra. 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



487 



expectations of it, tut frequently said that 
his desire of recovery extended no farther 
than his hope of usefuhiess; adding, "Un- 
less I may live to be an instrument of good 
to others, it were better for me to die now." 

As his assurance was clear and unshaken, 
so he was very sensible of the goodness of 
the Lord to him in that respect. On the d;iy 
when his eyes were opened, he turned to me, 
and, in a low voice, said, " Wiiat a mercy it is 
to a man in my condition, to know his accept- 
ance ! I am completely satisfied of mine." 
On another occasion, speaking to the same 
purpo.se, he .said, " This bed would be a bed 
of misery, and it is so — but it is likewise a 
bed of joy and a bed of discipline. Was I to 
die this night, I know I should be happy. 
This assurance I hope is quite consistent 
with the word of God. It is built upon a 
sense of my own utter insufficiency, and the 
all-sufficiency of Christ." At the same time 
he said, " Brother, I have been building my 
glory upon a sandy foundation; I have la- 
bored night and day to perfect myself in 
things of no profit; I have saeriliced my 
health to these pursuits, and am now suffer- 
ing the consequence of my misspent labor. 
But how contemptible do the writers I. once 
highly valued now appear to me ! ' Yea, 
doubtless, I count all things loss and dung 
for the e.\cellency of the knowledge of Christ 
Jesus my Lord.' I must now go to a new 
school. I have many things to learn. I suc- 
ceeded in my former pursuits. I wanted to 
be highly applauded, and I was so^ I was 
flattered up to the height of my wishes: now, 
I must learn a new lesson." 

On the evening of the thirteenth, he said, 
" What comfort have I in this bed, miserable 
as I seem to be 1 Brother, I love to look at 
you. I see now who was right, and who was 
mistaken. But it seems wonderful that such 
a dispensation should be necessary to enforce 
what seems so very plain. I wish myself at 
Olney; you have a good river there, better 
than all the rivers of Damascus. Wh.nt a 
scene is passing before me ! Ideas upon these 
subjects crowd upon me faster than I can give 
them utterance. How plain do many te.\ts 
appear, to which, after consulting all the com- 
mentators, I could hardly affix a meaning; 
and now I have their true meaning without 
any comment at all. There is but one key to 
the New Testament; there is but one inter- 
preter. I cannot describe to you, nor shall 
ever be able to describe, what I felt in the 
moment when it was given to nie. May I 
make a good use of it I How I shudder when 
I think of the danger I have just escaped ! I 
had made up my mind upon these subjects, 
and was determined to haz.ard all upon the 
justness of my own opinions." 

Speaking of his illness, he said, he had been 
followed night and day from the very begin- 



ning of it with this text ; / shall not die, hul 
lice, and declare the zoorks of the Lord. This 
notice was fulfilled to him, though not in 
such a sense as my desires of his recovery 
prompted me to put upon it. His remarkable 
amendment soon appeared to be no more than 
a present supply of strength and spirits, that 
he might be able to speak of the better life 
which God had given him, which was no 
sooner done than he relap.sed as suddenly as 
he had revived. About this time he formed a 
purpose of receiving the sacrament, induceil 
to it principally by a desire of setting his seal 
to the truth, in presence of those who were 
strangers to the change which had taken place 
in his sentiments. It must have been admin- 
istered to him by the Master of the College, 
to whom he designed to have made this short 
declaration, " If I die, I die in the belief of the 
doctrines of the Reformation, and of the 
Church of England, as it was at the time of 
the Reformation." But, his strength declining 
apace, and his pains becoming more severe, he 
could never find a proper opportunity of doing 
it. His experience was rather peace than joy, 
if a distinction may be m.ade between joy and 
that heartfelt peace which he often spoke of 
in the most comfortable terms ; and which he 
expressed by a heavenly smile upon his coun- 
tenance under the bitterest bodily distress. 
His words upon this subject once were these, 
" How wonderful is it that God should look 
upon man, especially that he should look 
upon 7ne ! Yet he sees me, and takes notice 
of all that I suffer. I see him too ; he is 
present before me, and I hear him say, C'om« 
unlo me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden 
and I will give you resl.'^ JIatt. xi. 28. 

On the fonrfeenth, in the afternoon, I per- 
ceived that the strength and spirits which had 
been afforded him were suddenly withdrawn, 
so that by the next day his mind became weak, 
and his speech roving and faltering. But still, 
at intervahs, he was enabled to speak of di- 
vine things with great force and clearness. 
On the evening of the fifteenth, he said, 
'■ ' There is more joy in heaven over one sin- 
ner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine 
just persons who need no repentance.' That 
text has been sadly misunderstood by me as 
well as by other.s. Where is that just person 
to be found? Alas! what must have become 
of me, if I had died this day, se'nnight '. 
What slioiUd I have had to plead? My own 
righteousness 1 Tliat would have been of 
great service to me, to be sure. Well, whither 
next .' Why, to the mount.nins to fall upon us, 
and to the hills to cover us. I am not duly 
thankful for the mercy I have received. Per- 
haps I in.iy ascribe some part of my insensi- 
bility to my great weakness of body. I hojie 
at least that if I was better in health, it would 
be better with me in these respects also." 

The next day, perceiving that his under 



488 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



standing be!:ran to suffer by tlie extreme weak- 
ness of his body, be said, " I bave been vain 
of my understanding and of my aciiuirenients 
in tliis place ; and now God bas made me b'ttle 
better than an idiot, as mucli as to say, now be 
proud if you can. Well, wliile I have any 
senses left, my thoughts will be poured out 
in tlie praise of God. I bave an intere.st in 
Christ, in his blood and sufferings, and my sins 
are forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise 
him ? When my understanding fails me quite, 
as I think it will soon, then he will pity my 
weakness." 

Though the Lord intended that his warftire 
should be short, yet a warfare he was to liave, 
and to be exposed to a measure of conthct 
with his own corruptions. His pain being 
extreme, his powers of recollection much im- 
paired, and the Comforter withholding for a 
season liis sensible support, he was betrayed 
into a fretfulness and imp.atience of spirit 
which had never been permitted to show itself 
before. This appearance alarmed me, and, 
having an opportunity afforded me by every- 
body's absence, I said to him, " You were 
happier last Saturday than you are to-day. 
Are you entirely destitute of the consoLations 
you then spoke of! And do you not some- 
times feel comfort flowing into your heart 
from a sense of your acceptance with God V 
He replied, "Sometimes I do, but sometimes 
J am left to desperation." The same day, in 
the evening, he said, '-Brother, I believe you 
are often uneasy, lest what lately passed 
should come to nothing." I replied by asking 
him, whether, when he found bis patience and 
his temper tail, lie endeavored to pray for 
power against his corruptions ? He answered, 
'• Yes, a thousand times in a day. But I see 
myself odiously vile .and wicked. If I die in 
this illness, I beg you will pl.ace no other in- 
scription over me than such as may just men- 
tion my name and the parish where I was 
minister ; for that I ever had a being, and 
what sort of a being I had, cannot be too soon 
forgot. I was just beginning to be a deist, 
and had long desired to be so ; and I will own 
to you what I never confessed before, that my 
function and the duties of it were a weari- 
ness to me which I could not bear. Yet, 
wretched creature and beast as I was, I was 
esteemed religious, though I lived without 
God in the world." About this time, I re- 
minded him of the account of Janeway, which 
he once read at my desire. He said he had 
laughed at it in his own mind, and accounted 
it mere madness and folly. " Yet base as I 
am," said be, '■ I liave no doubt now but God 
has accepted me also, and forgiven me all my 
sins." 

I then asked him what he thought of my 
narrative ?* He replied, " I thought it strange, 

* Cowpor's Memoir of Himself. 



and ascribed much of it to the state in which 
you had been. When I came to visit you in 
Loudon, and found you in that deep distress, 
I would )ia\'e given the universe to have ad- 
ministered some comfort to you. You may 
remember that I tried every method of doing 
it. When I found that all my attempts were 
vain, I was shockc'd to the greatest degree. I 
began to consider your sufferings .as a judg- 
ment upon you, and my inability to alleviate 
them, as a judgment upon myself. When 
Mr. M.* came, he succeeded in a moment.' 
This surprised me ; but it does not surprise 
me now. He had the key to your heart, which 
I had not. That which filled me with disgust 
against my office as a minister, was the same 
ill success which attended me in my own 
parish. There I endeavored to soothe the 
afflicted, and to reform the unruly by warning 
and reproof; but all that I could say in either 
ease, was spoken to the wind, and attended 
with no effect." 

There is that in the nature of salvation by 
gr.ace, when it is truly and experimentally 
known, which prompts every person to think 
liimself the most extraordinary instance of its 
power. Accordingly, my brother insisted 
upon the precedence in this respect ; and upon 
comparing his case with mine, would by no 
means allow my deliverance to have been so 
wonderful as his own. He observed that, 
from the beginning, both his manner of life 
and his connexions had been such as had a 
natural tendency to blind bis eyes, and to 
confirm and rivet bis prejudices against the 
truth. Blameless in bis outward conduct, and 
having no open immorality to charge himself 
with, his acquaintance bad been with men of 
the same stamp, who trusted in themselves that 
they were righteous, and despised the doc- 
trines of the cross. Such were all who, from 
bis earliest days, he had been used to propose 
to himself as patterns for his imitation. Not 
to go farther back, such was the clergyman 
under whom he received the first rudiments 
of his education ; such was the schoolmaster, 
under whom he was prepared for the Univer- 
sity ; and such were all the most admired 
characters there, with whom he was most am- 
bitious of being connected. He lamented 
the dark and Christless condition of the place, 
where learning and morality were all in all, 
■and where, if a man was possessed of these 
qualifications, he neither doubted himself, nor 
did anybody else question, the safety of his 
state. He concluded, therefore, that to show 
the fallacy of such appear.ances, and to root 
out the prejudices whicli long familiarity with 
them b.ad fastened upon bis mind, required a 
more than ordinary exertion of divine power, 
and that the grace of God was more clearly 
manifested in such a work than in the con- 

* The Rev. Martin Madan. 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



489 



version of one like me, who had no outside 
righteousness to boast of, and wlio, if I was 
ignorant of the truth, was not, however, so 
desperately prejudiced against it. 

His tlioughts, I suppose, h.id been led to 
this subjeet, when, one afternoon, while I was 
writing by the fire-side, he thus addressed 
himself to the nurse, who sat at his bolster. 
" Nurse, I have lived three-and-thirty years, 
and I will tell you how I have spent them. 
When 1 was a boy, they taught me Latin; 
and because I was the son of a gentleman, 
they taught me Greek. These I learned un- 
der a sort of private tutor ; at the age of 
fourteen, or thereabouts, they sent me to a 
public school, where I learned more Latin 
and Greek, and, last of all, to this place, 
where I have been learning more Latin and 
Greek still. Now has not this been a blessed 
life, and much to the glory of God?" Then 
directing his speech to me, he said, "Brother, 
I was going to say I was born in such a year; 
but I correct myself: I would rather say, in 
such a year I came into the world. Vou 
know when I was born." 

As long as he expected to recover, the 
souls committed to his care were much upon 
his mind. One day, when none was present 
but myself, he prayed thus : — " O Lord, thou 
art good ; goodness is thy very essence, and 
thou art the fountain of wisdom. I am a 
poor worm, weak and foolish as a child. 
Thou iias entrusted many souls unto me ; 
and I have not been able to teach them, be- 
cause I knew thee not myself. Grant nie 
ability, O Lord, for I can do nothing without 
thee, and give me grace to be faitliful." 

In a time of severe and continual pain, he 
smiled in my face, and said, "Brother, I am 
as happy as a king." And, the day before 
he died, when I asked him what sort of a 
night he had luid, he replied, a " s.ad night, 
not a wink of sleep." I said, " Perhaps, 
though, your mind has been composed, and 
you have been enabled to pray ?" " Yes," 
said he, "I have endeavored to spend the 
hours in the thoughts of God and i)rayer: I 
have been much comforted, aiul all the com- 
fort I got came to me in this way." 

Tlie next morning I was called up to be 
witness of his last moments. I found him 
in a deep sleep, lying i)erfectly still, and 
seemingly free from pain. I stayed with 
him till they pressed me to quit liis room, 
and in about five minutes after I had left him 
he died ; sooner, indeed, than I expected, 
though for some days there had been no hopes 
of his recovery. His death at that time was 
rather extraordinary ; at le.ast, I thought it 
so ; for, when I took leave of him the night 
before, he did not seem worse or weaker than 
he h.nd been, and, for aught that appe.ired, 
niiglit have lasted many days : but the Lord, 
in whose sight the death of his saints is pre- 



cious, cut short his sufforing.s, and gave him 
a speedy and peaceful departure. 

He died at seven in the morning, on the 
20th of March, 1770. 

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From Thee doparlinir, they arc lost, and ro\'c 
.At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
From Tliee is all that soothes the life of man. 
His high endeavor and his glad success. 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But, oh! Thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown. 
Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, 
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. 
The Task, book v. 



The fraternal love and piety of Cowper 
are beautifully illustrated in this most inter- 
esting document. No sooner had he experi- 
enced the value of religion, and its inward 
peace and hope, in his own heart, than he 
feels solicitous to communicate the blessing 
to others. True piety is always diffusive. 
It does not, like the sordid miser, hoard up 
the treasure for self-enjoyment, but is en- 
riched by giving, and impoverished only by 
withholding. 

Friends, parents, kindred, first it will embrace, 
Our country next, and next all human race. 

The prejudices of his brother, and yet his 
mild and amiable spirit of forbearance ; the 
zeal of Cowper, and its final happy result, 
impart to this narrative a singular degree of 
interest. Others would have been deterred 
by apparent ditticulties ; but true zeal is full 
of faith, as well as of love, and does not eon- 
template man's resistance, but God's mighty 
power. 

The example of John Cowper furnishes 
also a remarkable evidence that a man may 
be distinguished by the highest endowments 
of human learning, and yet be ignorant of 
th.at knowledge which is emphatically called 
life eternal. 

The distinction between the knowledge 
th.it is derived from books, and the wisdom 
that Cometh from above, is drawn by Cowper 
with a happy and just discrimination. 

Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, 
Have ofttiaics no connexion — knowledge dwell? 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass. 
The mere materials witri which wisdom builds, 
'Tillsmooth"d. and squarM. and fitted to its place 
Does but cneumbcr whom it seems t' enrich. 
Knowledge is prouil that he has learn'd so much ; 
\Vi.sdom is humble that he knows no more. 

Tlic Task, book vi. 

It is im])ortant to know how far the powers 
of human reason extend in matters of re- 
ligion, and where they fail. Reason can e.x- 



490 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



amine the claims of a divine revelation, and 
determine its authority by the most conclu- 
sive arguments. It can expose error, and 
establish the truth ; attack infidelity within 
its own entrenchments, and carry its victori- 
ous arms into the very camp of the enemy. 
It can defend all the outworks of religion, 
and vindicate its insulted majesty. But at 
this point its powers begin to fail. It cannot 
confer a spirilual apprehension of the truth 
ill the understanding, nor a xpiritunl recep- 
tion of it in the heart. This is the province 
of grace. " No man knoweth the things of 
God, but the Spirit of God, ami he to ivliom 
the Spirit hath revealed them." " Not by might, 
nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith tlie 
Lord." Men of learning endeavor to attain 
to the knowledge of divine things, in the 
same manner as they acquire an insight into 
human things, that is, by human power and 
liuman teaching. Whereas divine things re- 
quire a divine power and divine teaching. 
"All thy children shall be taught of God." 
Not that human reason is superseded in its 
use. Man is always a rational and moral 
agent. But it is reason, conscious of its own 
weakness, simple in its views, and humble in 
its spirit, enlightened, guided, and regulated 
in all its researches by the grace and wisdom 
that is from above. John Cowper expresses 
the substance of this idea in the following 
emphatic words: — "I have learned that in a 
moment, which I could not have learned by 
reading many books for many years. I have 
often studied these points, and studied them 
with great attention, but was blinded by pre- 
judice; and unless He, who alone is worthy 
to unloose the seals, had opened the book to 
me, I had been blinded still." 

Tlie information supplied respecting John 
Cowper by preceding biographers is brief and 
scanty. The following are the particulars 
which the Editor has succeeded in obtaining. 
John Cowper was considered to be one of 
the best scholars in the university of Cam- 
bridge. In 1759, he obtained the Chancel- 
lor's gold medal, and in 1762 gained both the 
prizes for Masters of Arts. He was subse- 
quently elected Fellow of Bennet, and be- 
came private tutor to Lord Walsingham. 
He translated the four first books of the 
Henriade ; his brother William, it is said, 
the four next (Hayley states two cantos, 
only, and alleges Cowper's own authority for 
the fact) ; E. B. Green, Esq., a relative of Dr. 
Green, the m.aster of the college,* the ninth, 
and Robert Lloyd the tenth book. It ap- 
peared in Smollett s edition, in 1762, but the 
\niter has not been able to procure a copy. 
Ileaftewards engaged in an edition of Apol- 
lonius RhodiuSjf when his sedentary and 

* He wa-i .ifterw.ird3 Bishop of Lincoln. 
t TliL' [<iibjoct of this poem is the Argonautic expedition 
under Jasun. 



studious habits produced an imposthume in 
the liver, which brought him to his grave in 
the thirty-third year of his age. He was 
buried at Foxton in Cambridgeshire, of which 
place he was rector. 

Dr. Bennet, Bishop of Cloyne, in a letter 
addressed to Dr. Parr, bears the following 
honorable testimony to his merits. 

" TO THE REV. DE. PAKR. 

" Emanuel College, April 18, 1770. 
"We have lost the best classic and most 
liberal thinker in our university, Cowper of 
Ben'et. He sat so long at his studies, that 
the posture gave rise to an abscess in his 
liver, and he fell a victim to learning. The 
goddess has so few votaries here, that she 
resolved to take the best offering we had, 
and she employed Apollonius Rhodius to 
strike the blow. I write the author again, 
Apollonius Rhodius. Cowper had labored 
hard at an edition of him for several years, 
and applied so much to his favorite author, 
th.at it cost his life. I shall make a bold 
push for his papers. Yet, what omens I 
have I Mclancthon did but think of a trans- 
lation, and he died. Hoeltzlinus owns he 
wrote tlio latter part of the annotations, 
manu kssissima et corpore imbccillo, and 
died before he put the last hand to them. 
Cowper colKates all the editions, makes a 
new translation, and follows his predecessors. 
One would tliink that by some unknown fate, 
or by some curse of his m.aster, Callimachus, 
our poet was doomed to remain in obscurity. 
His enemies may say, that the dulness of 
his verses bears some resemblance to the 
torpedo, and benumbs or kills whatever 
touches it." — See Dr. Parr's Works, vol. 
vh. p. 75. 

The following elegy was also composed in 
honor of his memory by one of his fellow 
collegians, which evinces the high sense en- 
tertained of his character and classical attain- 
ments. 

ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OP THE RET. JOHN COWPER, OP 

CORPUS CHRISTI COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 

BY A PELLOW COLLEGIAN. 

Where art Ihou, Moschus, and where arc we all 1 
Thou from high Helicon's muse-haunted hill 
Advanc'd to Sion's mount celestial : 
Encumber'd we with earth and sorrow still. 

Before the throne thy golden lyre is strung, 
Seraphic descant fills thy raptur'd mind : 
On Camus' willows pale our harps are hung; 
Our footsteps linger on his banks behind. 

The chosen Lawgiver from Pisgah's hill 

His wond'ring eyes around in transport threw : 

On earthly Canaan having gaz'd his fill. 

To heavenly Canaan's glories quick withdrew. 



LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 



491 



So nurst in sacred and in classic lore, 
With varied science at its fountain fraught, 
From human knowledge to th' pxhaustless store 
Of heaven he stole to taste the fuller draught. 

What boots the beauty of the classic page, 
And what philosophy's sublimcr rule. 
What all th' advances of maturing age, 
If dies the wise man as departs the fooll 

Master of Greece's thundering eloquence. 
The force of Roman grace to him was known ; 
The well-turn'd period, join'd with manly sense : 
Sage criticism raark'd him for her own. 

Ah ! what avails the power of harmony, 
The poet's melody, the critic's skill ! 
The verse may live, yet must the maker die; 
Such is stern .itropos's solemn will. 

Sweet bard of Rhodes,* bright star of Egypt's 

court, 
Whom Ptolemy's discerning bounty drew 
To guard fair science in the learned resort, 
Thy muse alone can pay the tribute due. 

Thy muse, that paints Medea's frantic love. 
And all the transports of the enamor'd maid, 
Who dared each strongest obstacle remove, 
Her reason and her art by love betray 'd. 

While hardy Jason ploughs old Ocean's plain, 
First of the Greeks to tempt Barbarian seas, 
With him we share the dangers of the main, 
Nor dread the crash of the Symplegades. 

Vain wish ! thy deathless heroes should commend 
Thy verse to fame, and bid it sweeter sound. 
He who thy name's revival did intend, 
In bloom of youth is buried under ground.f 

So, nested on the rock, the parent dove 
Sees down the cleft her callow offspring fall ; 
Full little may its chirping plaints behove ; 
She only hears, but cannot help its call.| 

Like the fair swan of fame, the grateful muse 
Assiduous tends on Lethe's barren bank. 
To raise the name that envious time would lose, 
Where many millions erst forever sank. 

While yet I wait, thou ever-honor'd shade, 
Some better bard should the memorial rear. 
The debt to friendship due by me be paid. 
Weak in poetic fire, in friendship's zeal sincere. 

We add the letter addressed by Cowper to 
his friend Mr. Uinvin on this occasion. 

TO THE REV. «aLLIAM UNWIN. 

March 31, 1770. 

My dear Friend. — I .am glad that the Lord 
made you a fellow-laborer with us in praying 
my dear brother out of darkness into light. 
It was a blessed work : and when it shall be 
your turn to die in the Lord, .ind to rest from 

• Annllonius Uhodiiis. He had the charge of the ccle- 
bnitea library at .\lexandria in the time of Ttolemy. 

t John t'owper. 

X The idea in thi^ stanza is taken from the 4lh book of 
Apollunius, line 1299. 



a\\ your labors, that work shall follow you. 
I once entertained hopes of his recovery : 
from the moment when it pleased God to 
give him light in his soul, there was, for four 
days, such a visible amendment in his body 
as surprised us all. Dr. Glynn himself was 
puzzled, and began to think that all his 
threatening conjectures would fail of their 
accomplishment. I am well sati-sfied tiiat ii 
was thus ordered, not for his own sake, l)tit 
for the sake of us, who had been so deeply 
concerned for his spiritual welfare, that he 
might be able to give such evident proof of 
the work of God upon his soul as should 
leave no doubt behind it. As to his friends 
at Cambridge, they knew nothing of the mat- 
ter, lie never spoke of these things but to 
myself; nor to me, when others were within 
hearing, except that he sometimes would 
speak in the presence of the nurse. He 
knew well to make the distinction between 
those who could understand him and those 
who could not ; and that he was not in cir- 
cumstances to maintain sueli a controversy 
as a declaration of his new views .and senti- 
ments would have exposed him to. Just 
.after his death, I spoke of tliis ch.ange to a 
dear friend of his, a fellow of the college, 
who had attended him through all liis sick- 
ness with assiduity and tenderness. But he 
did not understand me. 

I now proceed to mention such particulars 
as I can recollect ; and which I had not op- 
portunity to insert in my letters to Olney ; 
for I left Cambridge suddenly, and sooner 
than I expected. He was deeply impressed 
with a sense of the difficulties he should 
have to encounter, if it should please God to 
raise him again. He saw the necessity of 
being faithful, and the opposition he should 
expose him.self to by being so. Under the 
weight of these thoughts, he one day broke 
out in the following pr.ayer, when only my- 
self was with him. "O Lord, thou art light; 
and in thee is no darkness at all. Thou art 
the fountain of all wisdom, and it is essen- 
tial to thee to be good and gracious. I am a 
child ; O Lord, te.ach me how I shall conduct 
myself! Give me the wisdom of the serpent 
with the harmlessness of the dove ! Bless 
the souls thou hast committed to the care of 
thy helpless miserable creature, who has no 
wisdom or knowledge of his own, and make 
me faithful to them, for thy mercy's sake!" 
Another time he said, '■ How wonderful it is, 
that God should look upon man ; and how 
much more wonderful that he should look 
upon sueli a worm as I am ! Yet he does 
look upon me. and t.akes the c.xactest notice 
of all my suff'erings. He is present, .and I 
see him (I mean, by faith), and he stretches 
out his arms towards me," — and he then 
stretched out his own — "and he says, 'Come 
unto me all ye that arc weary and heavy 



492 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



laden, and I will give you rest !' " He smiled 
and wept, when lie spoke these words. When 
he expressed himselfupon these subjects, there 
was a weight and dignity in his manner such 
as I never saw before. He spoke with the 
greatest deliberation, making a pause at the 
end of every sentence ; and there was some- 
thing in his air and in the tone of his voice 
inexpressibly solemn, unlike himself, and un- 
like wh.at I h.id ever seen in another. 

This h.ad God wrought. I have praised 
him for his marvellous act, and have felt a 
joy of heart upon the subject of my brother's 
death, such as I never felt but in my own 
conversion. He is now before the throne ; 
and yet a little while and we shall meet, never 
mo4;e to be divided. Yours, my very dear 
friend, with my affectionate respects to your- 
self and yours, W. C. 

Postscript. — A day or two before his death, 
he grew so weak and was so very ill, that he 
required continual attendance, so that he had 
neither strength nor opportunity to say much 
to me. Only the day before, he said he had 
had a sleepless, but a composed and quiet 
night. I asked him, if he had been able to 
collect his thoughts. He replied, " All night 
long I have endeavored to think upon God 
and to continue in prayer. I had great peace 
and comfort; and what comfort I had came 
in that way." When I saw him the next 
morning at seven o'clock he was dying, fast 
asleep, and exempted, in :dl appearance, from 
the sense of those pangs which accompany 
dissolution. I shall be glad to hear from 
you, my dear friend, when you can find time 
to write, and are so inclined. The death of 
my beloved brother teems with many useful 
lessons. May God seal the instruction upon 
our hearts ! 



Besides the documents already inserted, 
Cowper translated the narrative of Blr. Van 
Lier, a minister of the Reformed Church, at 
the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Van Lier was 
born in Holland, in the year 1764; his mother 
was pious, and brought liim up in the prin- 
ciples of true religion, endeavoring from his 
early youth to direct his mind to the ministry. 
After the usual course of education, he en- 
tered at the University, where, though he did 
not neglect his studies, he forgot his God. 
His talents seem to have been considerable, 
his imagination ardent, but his passions not 
under sufHcient control ; and, with all the ele- 
ments that might have formed a great char- 
acter, by the misapplication of his time, op- 
portunities, and fiiculties, he became vicious, 
and subsequently a sceptic. God, in mercy, 
exercised him with a series of trials, but the 
impression was always ultim.ately eft'aced — 
till at length the blow reached him which 



lacerated his heart, extinguished all his hopes 
of earthly happiness, and thus finally brought 
him to God. Among the excellent books 
that contributed to dispel his errors, he speci- 
fied the " Cardiphonia" of Newton with grate- 
ful acknowledgment. It is justly considered 
the best of all his works, and has been made 
eminently useful. Mr. Van Lier subsequently 
wrote a narrative, in Latin, containing an ac- 
count of his conversion, and of all the re- 
markable events of his life. This narrative 
lie addressed to Newton, at whose request it 
was translated by Cowper. It was published 
under the title of " The Power of Grace il- 
lustr.'ited." Interesting as are its contents, 
yet, as they comprise nearly two hundred 
pages, we find it impossible to allow space 
for its insertion, though it is well entitled to 
appear in a separate form. 

He concludes his narrative in these words : 
"O h.appy and glorious hour, when I shall be 
delivered from all trouble and sin, from this 
body of death, from the wicked world, and 
from the snares of Satan ! when I shall ap- 
pear before my Saviour witiiout spot, and 
sh.all so behold his glory, and be filled with 
his presence, as to be wlioUy and forever en- 
gaged in adoration, .admiration, gratitude, and 
love !" 

As we are now drawing towards the con- 
clusion of tills undertaking, some reference 
is due to names once honored by Cowper's 
friendship, and perpetuated in his works. A 
distingnished place is due to the Rev. Wil- 
liam Cawthorne Unwin. His death has been 
recorded in a former volume, as well as his 
burial in the cathedral at Winchester. A 
Latin epitaph was composed on this occ.ision 
by Cowjier, but objected to by a relative of 
the ftimily, because it adverted to his mother's 
early prayers that God might incline his heart 
to the ministry. We subjoin the epitaph 
which replaced the pious and classical com- 
position of Cowper. 

IN MEMORY OF THE 

KEV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE tJKWIN, M.A. 

RECTOR OF STOCK, IN ESSEX. 

He was educated at the Charter-house, in Lon- 
don, under the Rev. Dr. Crusius ; and, having 
gone through the education of that school, he 
was at an early period adcnitted to Christ's College, 
Cambridge. He died in this city, tlie 2;)th of 
Nov., 17Hi!, aged forty-one years, leaving a widow 
and three young children. 

(The above is on a flat stone in the cathedi-al.) 

And is this the memorial of the interesting 
and pious Unwin? Shall no nionuinental 
tablet record that he was " the endeared and 
valued friend of Cowper?" We h.ave seldom 
seen so cold and jejune an epitaph to com- 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



493 



mcmorate a man distiiii)ruisliod by so many 
virtues, and associated witli siicli interesting 
recollections. We are happy in being en- 
abled to furnish a testimony more worthy of 
him in the following letter, addressed by 
Cowper to the present Lord Carrington. 

TO ROBERT SJIITII, ESQ.* 
WL'Stiin-I'ndt'nvooiI. near OIncy, Dec. 9, 178G. 

My dear Sir, — VVe ha\e indeed .suffered a 
great loss by the death of our friend Unwin; 
and the shock tliat attended it was the more 
severe, as fill within a few liours of his de- 
cease there seemed to be no very alarming 
symptoms. All the account that we re- 
ceived f'nim Mr. Henry Thornton, who acted 
like a true friend on the occasion, and with a 
tenderness toward all concerned tliat docs 
him great honor, encouraged our hopes of 
his recovery ; and Jlrs. Uuwin herself found 
him on her arrival at Winchester so cheerful, 
and in appearance so likely to live, that her 
letter also seemed to promise us all that we 
could wish on the subject. But an unex- 
pected turn in his distemper, which suddenly 
seized his bowels, dashed all our hopes, and 
deprived us almost inunedialely of a man 
whom we must ever regret. His mind hav- 
ing been from his infancy deeply tinctured 
with religious sentiments, he was always im- 
pressed with a sense of the importance of the 
great change of all ; and, on former occasions, 
when at any time he found himself indisposed, 
wasconsequently subject to distressing alarms 
and apprehensions. But in this last instance 
liis mind was from the first composed and 
easy ; his fears were taken away, and suc- 
ceeded by such a resignation as warrants us 
in saying, "that God made all his bed in his 
sickness.'' I believe it i.'s always thu.s, where 
the heart, though upright towards God, as 
Unwin's assuredly was, is yet troubled with 
the fear of death. When death indeed comes, 
he is either welcome, or at least has lost his 
sting. 

I have known many such instances, and 
his mother, from the moment that she learned 
with what tranquillity he was favored in his 
last illness, for th.it very reason e.xpecfed it 
would be his last. Yet not with so much 
certainty, but that the favorable accounts of 
him at length, in a great measure, superseded 
that persuasion. 

She begs me to assure you, my dear sir, 
how sensible she is, as well as myself, of the 
kindness of your inijuiries. She sutTers this 
stroke, not with more patience and submis- 
sioii than 1 expected, for I never knew her 
hurried by any affliction into the loss of 
either, but in appearance at least, and at 
present, with less injury to health than I ap- 
prehended. She observed to me, after read- 

• Altcrwardii croated Lord Carrington. 



ing your kind letter, that though it was a 
proof of the greatness of her loss, yet it af- 
forded her pleasure, though a melancholy 
one, to see how mncli her son had been loved 
and valued by such a person as yourself. 

Mrs. Unwin wrote to her daughter-in-law, 
to invite her and the family hither, hoping 
that a change of scene, and a situation so 
pleasant as this, may be of service to her. 
but we have not yet received her answer. I 
have good hope, hovve\er, that, great as her 
affliction must be, she will yet be able to 
support it, for she well knows whither to re- 
sort for consolation. 

The virtues and amiable qualities of our 
friends are the things for which we most 
wisli to keep them ; but they are, on the 
other hand, the very things that in particular 
ought to reconcile us to their departure. We 
find ourselves sometimes connected with, and 
engaged in alTecfion, too, to a person of 
wOiose readiness and fitness for another life 
we camiot have the highest oi)inion. The 
death of such men has a bitterness in it, 
both to themselves and survivor.s, which, 
thank God, is not to be found in the death of 
Unwin. 

I know, my dear sir, how much you valued 
him, and I know also, how much he valued 
you. With respect to him, all is well; and 
of you, if 1 should survive you, which, per- 
haps, is not very probable, 1 shall say the 
same. 

In the meantime, believe me, with the warm- 
est wishes for your health and happiness, and 
with Mrs. Unwin's affectionate respects. 
Yours, my dear sir. 

Most faithfully, W. C. 

Josepli Ilill, Esq., survived Cowper many 
years, and lived to an advanced age. He 
formerly resided in Great Queen Street, and 
afterwards in Saville Row, and was eminent 
in his profession. His widow survived him, 
and died in the year 1824. The letters ad- 
dressed to him by Cowper were arranged by 
Ur. Johnson, and ornamented with a suitable 
binding. They were finally left as an heir- 
loom at Wargrave, near Henley. .Joseph 
Jekyll, Esq., the barrister, once celebrated 
for his wit and humor, succeeded to that 
properly, and still survives at the moment in 
which we are writing. 

Samuel Rose, Esq., after a comparatively 
short career of professional eminence, was 
seized with a rheumatic fever, which he 
caught at Horsham, in attending the Sussex 
sessions, in 1804. He died in the thirty- 
eighth year of his age, declaring to those 
around him, " I have lived long enough to 
review my grounds for confidence, and I have 
unspeakable comfort in assuring those I love 
that I am daily more reconciled iti leaving 
the world now than at a I.Ucr period." 



494 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Cowper's sentiments of him are expresscd 
in tlie following letter. 

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 2, 17S8. 

My dear Friend, — I told you lately, that I 
had an ambition to introduce to your ac- 
quaintance my valuable friend, Mr. Rose. 
He is now before you. You will find him a 
person of genteel manners and agreeable 
conversation. As to his other virtues and 
good qualities, which are many, and such as 
are not often found in men of his years, I 
consign them over to your own discernment, 
perfectly sure that none of them will escape 
you. I give you joy of each other, and re- 
main, my dear old friend, most truly yours, 

W. C. 

In recalling the name of Lady Austen, it 
is sufhcient to entitle her to grateful remem- 
brance, that it is to her we are indebted for 
the first suggestion of the poem of " The 
Task," that lasting monument of the fame of 
Cowper. It has also been recorded that she 
subsequently furnished tlie materials for the 
story of John Gilpin. 

Her maiden name was Richardson; she 
was married very early in life to Sir Robert 
Austen, Baronet, and resided with him in 
France, where he died. After this event, she 
lived with her sister Mrs. Jones, the wife of 
the Rev. Mr. Jones, minister of Clifton, near 
OIney. It was thus that her intercourse 
commenced with Cowper. In a subsequent 
period, she was married to a native of France, 
M. de Tarditf, a gentlem.an, and a poet, who 
has e.\pressed, in some elegant French verses, 
his just and deep sense of her .iccomplished, 
endearing character. In visiting Paris with 
him in the course of the summer of 1802, 
she .s.ank under the fatigue of the excursion, 
and died in that city on the 12th of August. 
It is due to the memory of this lady to res- 
cue her name from a surmise injurious to her 
sincerity and honor ; and the Editor rejoices 
that he possesses the means of affording her 
what he conceives to be an ample justifica- 
tion. In the published correspondence of 
the late respected Alexander Knox, Esq., a 
doubt is expressed how far she is not charge- 
jible with endeavoring to supplant Mrs. Unwin 
in the affections of Cowper. It is already 
recorded th.at a breach occurred between the 
two ladies, and that the poet, with a sensi- 
tiveness and delicacy that reflect the highest 
credit on his feelings and judgment, relin- 
quished the society of Lady Austen from 
that period. They never met again. There 
is no direct charge conveyed by Mr. Knox, 
but there is evidently expressed the language 
of doubt and surmise. Local impressions 
are ofien the best iiiter^nvtation of (|uestion- 
able occurrences. With I his view the Editor 



has endeavored to trace the nature of the 
rupture, on the spot, by a communication 
with surviving parties. From these sources 
of inquiry it appears that Lady Austen was 
a woman of great wit and vivacity, and pos- 
sessed the power of exciting much interest 
by her manner and conversation — th.at Sirs. 
Unwin, who was of a more sedate and quiet 
character, seeing the ascendancy that Lady 
Austen thus acquired, became jealous, and 
that a rupture was the consequence. Mr. 
Andrews, an intelligent inhabitant of Olney, 
who is my informant, assured me that such 
was the substance of the case, and tliat the 
rest was mere surmise and conjecture. On 
my asking him whether he knew the impres- 
sions on Mr. Scott's mind with regard to 
this event, he added, " that he himself asked 
Mr. Scott the question, and that his reply 
was, ' Who can be surprised that two women 
should be continually in the society of one 
man, and quarrel sooner or later with each 
other?' " The blunt and honest reply of Mr. 
Scott we apprehend to be the best commen- 
tary on the tr.ansaction. Tliere may be jeal- 
ousies in friendship as well as in love ; and 
the possibility of female rivalshipis suflicicnt 
to account for the rupture, without the inter- 
vention of either friendship or love. 

From Mrs. Livius, of Bedford, formerly Miss 
Barhani,* and intimate with Newton, Cowper, 
and Lady Austen, I learn that, tliough tlie 
vivacity and manner of Lady Austen weak- 
ened the belief of the depth of her personal 
religion, yet Mrs. Livius never entertained 
any doubt of its reality. Her own deep per- 
sonal piety during a long life, and her just 
discrimination of character, are suflicient to 
give weight and authority to her judgment. 

I take this opportunity of expressing her 
conviction- that the loss of Lady Austen's so- 
ciety was a great privation to Cowper: that 
she both enlivened his spirits and stimulated 
his genius, and that the jealou-sy of Mrs. Un- 
win operated injuriously by compelling him 
to relinquish so innocent a source of gratifi- 
cation. Hayley, in some lines written on 
the occasion of her death, speaks of her as 
one who 

Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame ; 
Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask, 
And from the mmd of Cowper — call'd " The 
Task." 

Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed 
in the year 1806, aged seventy-five, the poet 
always spoke in the language of unfeigned 
esteem and affection. 

Sir George Throckmorton's death has been 

* Sisler of the late Joseph Foster Barhani, Esq. I can- 
not mention this ender.red character, with whom I have 
the privik't^e of Ijcin;,' so nearly connected, without rr- 
uording niy atTectionate regard, and hiyh estimation of 
her piety and virtues. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



495 



already recorded, and witli this event tlie 
genius of tlic place may be said to have de- 
serted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion 
exists no longer. His surviving estimable 
widow, the Catharina of Cowper, resides at 
Northampton. 

Lady Hcsketh, whose affectionate kindness 
to the poet must liave endeared her to every 
reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy- 
four. 

To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. 
Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already 
been borne in the course of this work. Ik- 
was cousin to the poet, by one remove, which 
was the reason why he was usually designa- 
ted as Cowper's kinsman^ his mother having 
been the daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, 
rector of Catlield, Norfolk, own brother to 
Co\vper"s mother. His unremitting and 
watchful care over the poet, for several suc- 
cessive years, and during a period marked by 
a painful and protracted malady, his generous 
sacrifice of his time, and of every personal 
consideration, that he might administer to 
the peace and comfort of his afflicted friend — 
his .afTectionate sympathy, and uniform for- 
getfulness of self, in all tlie various relations 
of life — these virtues have justly claimed for 
Dr. .Tohn.son the esteem and love of his 
friends, and the honorable distinction of be- 
ing ever identified with the endeared name 
of Cowper. He was rector of the united 
parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the 
county of Norfolk, where he preached the 
doctrines of the Gospel with fidelity, and 
adorned them by the Christian tenor of his 
life and conduct." He married Miss Livius, 
daughter of the late George Livius, Esq., 
formerly at the head of the commissariat, 
in India, during tlic government of Warren 
Hastings. The Editor was connected with 
him by marrying the sister of Mrs. Johnson. 
He departed in tiie autumn of the year 1833, 
after a short illness, and was followed to the 
grave by a crowded assemblage of his parish- 
ioners, to whom he was endeared by his 
virtues. He left his estim.able widow and 
four surviving children to lament his loss. 
Cowper was engraved on his heart, aiKl his 
Poems minutely impressed on his memory. 
Both, therefore, became a. frenuent theme 
of conversation ; and it is to the.se sources 
of information, that the writer is indi'bted 
for the knowledge of many facts and inci- 
dents th.at arc incorporated in the present 
edition. 

The value which Cowper attached to the 
esteem of the Rev. W. Bull, the friend and 
travelling companion of John Thornton, Esq., 
may be seen in the following letter. It 
alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. 
Bull on the publication of his first volume of 
poems. 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BITLL. 

March 24, 1783. 
Your letter gave me great pleasure, both 
as a testimony of your approbation and of 
your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing 
you, and such as you ; and though I must 
confess that, at the same time, I cast a side- 
long glance at the good liking of the world 
at large, I believe I can say it was more for 
the sake of their advantage and instruction 
than their praise. They are children; if we 
give them physic, we must sweeten the rim 
of the cup with honey — if my book is so far 
honored as to be made the vehicle of true 
knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall 
rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has 
procured me a proof of your esteem. 

Yours, most truly, W. C. 

Mr. Bull was distinguished by no common 
powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagin.-i- 
tion. It was at his suggestion that Cowper 
engaged in translating the poems of Madame 
Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes 
and consolations of the Gospel, and left a 
son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his 
father's virtues. 



Wherever men have acquired celebrity by 
those powers of genius with which Provi- 
dence has seen fit to discrimin.ate them, a 
curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter 
traits of person, habit, and real character. 
We wish to realize the portrait before our 
eyes, to see how far all the component parts 
are in harmony with each other; or whether 
the elevation of mind which r.aises them 
beyond the general standard. is perceptible 
in the occurrences of common life. Tell 
me, said an inquirer, %vriting from America, 
what was the figure of Cowper, what the 
character of his countenance, the expression 
of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house 
he lived in, whether its aspect was north or 
south, &c. Tliis is amusing, but it shows 
the power of sympathy with which we are 
drawn to w'hatevcr commands our admira- 
tion, and excites the emotions of esteem and 
love. 

The person and mind of Cowper seem to 
have been formed with equal kindness by na- 
ture ; and it may be questioned if she ever 
bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodi- 
gality, all the requisites to conciliate afl'ection 
and to inspire respect. 

He is said to have been handsome in his 
youth. His features strongly expressed the 
powers of his mind and all the sensibility of 
his heart ; and even in his declining years, 
time seemed to have spared much of its rav- 
ages, though his mind was harassed by un- 
ceasing nervous excitement. 



496 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



He was of a middle stature, rather strong 
than dehcate in the form of his hmbs ; the 
color of his hair was a light brown, that of 
his eyes a bluish grey, and his complexion 
ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not 
finical : in his diet temperate, and not dainty. 

He had an air of pensive reserve in his 
deportment, and his extreme shyness some- 
times produced in his manners an indescrib- 
able mi.xture of awkwardness and dignity ; 
but no person could be more truly graceful, 
when he was in perfect health, and perfectly 
pleased with his society. Towards women, 
in particular, his behavior and conversation 
were delicate and fascinating in the higliest 
degree. 

There was a simplicity of manner and char- 
acter in Cowper which always charms, and 
is often the attribute of real genius. He was 
singularly calculated to e.xcite emotions of 
esteem and love by those qualities that win 
confidence and inspire sympathy. In friend- 
ship he was uniformly faithful; and, if the 
events of life had not disappointed his fond- 
est hopes, no man would have been more 
eminently adapted for the endearments of 
domestic life. 

His daily habits of study and exercise are 
sn minutely and agreeably delineated in his 
letters, that they present a perfect portrait of 
liis domestic character. 

His voice conspired with his features to 
announce to all who saw and heard him the 
extreme sensibility of his heart ; and in read- 
ing aloud he furnished the chief delight of 
those social, enchanting winter evenings, 
which he has described so happily in the 
fourth book of " The Task." 

Secluded from the world as he had long 
been, he yet retained in advanced life sin- 
gular talents for conversation ; and his re- 
marks were uniformly distinguislied by mild 
and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of 
delicate h^jpor, varied by solid and serious 
good sense, and those united charms of a 
cultivated liiind, which he has himself very 
happily described in drawing the character 
of a venerable friend : 

Grave without dullness, learned without pride. 

Exact, yet not precise : though meek, keen-eyed ; 

Who, when occasion justified its use, 

Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce ; 

Could fetch from records of an earlier age. 

Or from philosophy's enlightened page, 

His rich materials, and regale your ear 

^^'ith strains it was a privilege to hear. 

Yet, above all, his luxury supreme, 

And his chief glory, was the gospel theme : 

Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 

But to treat justly what he lov'd so well. 

But the traits of his character are nowhere 
developed with happier effect than in his own 
writings, and especially in his poems. From 



these we shall make a few extracts, and suf- 
fer him to draw the portrait for himself. 

His admiration of the works of Nature : 

I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan, 
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss 
But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free, 
My very dreams were rural ; rural too 
The first-born eflorls of my youthful muse, 
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells, 
Ere yet her car was mistress of their pow'rs. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre was 

tun'd 
To Nature's praises. Task; book iv. 

The love of Nature's works 
Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
Infus'd at the creation of the kind. 

This obtains in all, 
That all discern a beauty in his works, [form'd 
And all can taste them : minds that have been 
And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, 
But none without some relish, none unmov'd. 
It is a ffame that dies not even there 
VVhere nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds. 
Nor habits of luxurious city-Ufe, 
Whatever else they smother of true worth 
In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 
The vdlas with which London stands begirt, 
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, 
Prove it, A breath of unadult'rate air. 
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer 
The citizen, and brace his languid frame. 

Book iv. 

God seen, and adored, in the works of 
Nature : 

Not a flow'r 
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues. 
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, 
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 

Book vi. 

His fondness for retirement : 

Since then, with few associates, in remote 
.■VnJ silent woods I wander, far from those 
My former partners of the peopled scene ; 
With few associates, and not wishing more. 
Here much I ruminate, as much I may, 
With other views of men and manners now 
Than once, and others of a life to come. 
I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray, 
Each in his own delusions ; they are lost 
In chase of iiincied happiness, still woo'd 
.\nd never won. Dream atler dream ensues; 
.\nd still they dream that they shall slill succeed, 
.\nd still are disappointed. Rings the world 
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, 
Am] add two-thirds of the remaining half 
And find the total of their hopes and fears 
Dreams, empty dreams. 

Book iii. 
His love for his country ; 

England, with all thy faults I love thee still — 
My country I and, while yet a nook is lefl, 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



497 



Where English minds an J manners may be found, 
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Tho' thy clime 
Be fiekle. and thy year most l>art deform'd 
\Vith drippini; rains, or witherM by a frost, 
I would not yet exohanixe thy sullen skies. 
And fields without a (lower, lor warmer France 
\Vith all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's <jroves 
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. 

Book ii. 

Ills htimaiio and generous feelings: 

I was born of woman, and drew milk 
As sweet as diarity from human breasts. 
I think, articulate. I lauixh and weep, 
And cxerei.se all functions of a man. 
How then should I and any man that lives 
Be strangers to each other 'i Pierce my vein. 
Take oC the crimson stream meand'ring there. 
And catechise it well ; apply thy glass. 
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood 
Congenial with thine own. 

Book iii. 

Hi.s love of liberty : 

Oh Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream. 
The poet's muse, his passion and his theme ; 
Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse ; 
Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 
Heroic song front thy liree touch acquires 
Its clearest tone, the rai)ture it-inspires: 
Place me where winter breathes his keenest air. 
And I will sing, if liberty be there; 
And I will sing at liberty's dear feet. 
In Afric's torrid elime, or India's fiercest heat. 

Tabh Tali. 

'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'r 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; 
And we are weeds without it. 

Task, book v. 

Ills depressive malady, and the source of 
its cure : 

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since ; with many an arrow deep infix'd 
My panting side was charg'd, when I withilrew 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I Ibund by One, who had himself 
Been hurt by thi' archers. In his side be bore. 
And in his hands anil leet, the cruel scars.* 
With gentle force soliciting the darts [live. 

He drew Ihcm forth, and heal'd, and bade me 

Book iii 

The employment of his time, and design 
of his life and writings: 

Me therefore studious of laborious case. 

Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, 

Not waste it. and aware that human life 

!■( but a loan to be repaid with use, 

U'hcn lie sliall e,nll his debtors to account, 

Troai who)n are all our blcssinjn ; business finds 

lien here : while sedulous I seek f improve, 

At least necflect not. or leave unemploy'd 

The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack 

Too oil. and much impeded in its work 

By causes not to be divulg'd in vain. 

To its just jioint — tlie scrrice of mankind. 

Book iii. 

* The Sarioiir. 



But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek. 
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, 
If he regard not, though divine the theme. 
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime 
.4nd idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre. 
To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart 
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain 
Whose approbation prosper — even mine. 

Book vi. 

The office of doing justice to the poetical 
genius of Cowper has been assigned to an 
individual so wcdl i|iialilied to execute it with 
taste and ability, that the Editor begs thus 
publicly to record his acknowledgments and 
his unmingled satisfaction. The bowers of 
the muses are not unknown to the Rev. John 
Cunningham, and, in contemplating the po- 
etical labors of others, he might, with a small 
variation, justly apply to himself the well- 
known e.xclamation, "Ed anch'io son pit- 
tore.'"* 

All, therefore, that seems necessary, is 
.simply to illustrate the beauties of Cowper's 
poetry in the same manner as we have e.\- 
hibited his personal character. We shall 
present a brief series of poetical portraits. 

The following portrait of Lord Chatham 
is drawn with great force and spirit : 

In him Demo.sthcnes was heard again ; 
.Vnd freedom taught hiai her Athenian strain. 
.She clothed him with authority and awe, 
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action, full of grace. 
.Inil all his country beaming in his face. 
He stood, as some iniaiitable hand 
Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 
No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
And every venal stickler for the yoke 
Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 

TahU Talk. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds : 

There, touch'd by Reynolds a dull blank becomes 
\ lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 
All her reflected features. 

Bacon tite sculptor : 

Bacon there 
Gives more than female beauty to a stone, 
.4nd Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.f 

John Thornton, Esq. : 

Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds 
.•V stream of liberal and heroic deeds ; 
The swell of pity, not to be confined 
Within the scanty limits of the mind. 
Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sand? 
.•V rich deposit, on the bordering lands: 
These have an ear for his paternal call. 
Who make some rich for the supply of all ; 

* Altribaled to Corrcggio, afler coiilemplating the 
works of Riiplutel. 

t Allatlin',' Ut Iho uionumcrit of I.or.I Chatham, ia West- 
minster AUhe)'. 

32 



498 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ, 
-lind Thornton is Ikmiliar with the joy. 

Charity. 

The martyrs of the Reformation : 

Their blood is shed 
In confirmation of the noblest claim, 
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, 
'To walk with God, to be divinely free. 
To soar and to anticipate the skies. 
Vet few remember them. They liv'd unknown. 
Till persecution dragg'd tliem into fame. 
And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flew 
— No marble tells us whither. With their names 
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song; 
And history, so warm on meaner themes. 
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, 
Uut gives the glorious suff rers little praise. 

Task, book v. 

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress : 

thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
Rack to theseason of life's happy spring, 

1 pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget ; 
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth ahke prevail ; 
Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple 

style, 
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord, 
Speaking in parables his slighted word : 
I name thee not. lest so despis'd a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame : 
Yet, e'en in transitory life's late day. 
That mingles all my brown with sober grey. 
Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 

'Pirocinium. 

Brown, the rural designer :"* 

Lo ! he comes — • 
Th' omnipotent magician. Brown, appears. 
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode 
Of our forefathers, a grave whiskcr'd race 
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, 
But in a distant spot ; where more expos'd 
It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, 
And agueish east, till time shall have transform'd 
Those naked acres to a shclt'ring grove. 
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn. 
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise. 
And streams, as if created for his use. 
Pursue the track of his directing wand. 
Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, 
Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades. 
E'en as he bids, Th' enraptur'd owner smiles. 
'Tis finish'd. And yet, finish'd as it seems. 
Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, 
A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. 

The Ta^k; book iii. 

London : 

Oh ! thou resort and mart of all the earth, 
Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind. 
And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
Much that I love and much that I admire, 

♦ Brown, in Cowpcr's time, was ttie great designer in 
ttie art of laying out grounds lor llie nobility and gentry. 



And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair. 
That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh. 
And I can weep, can hope, and yet despond, 
Feel wrath ami pity when I think on thee ! 
Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once, 
And thou hast many righteous. Well for thee — 
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
And therclbre more obnoxious at this hour, 
Than Sodom in her day had power to be. 
For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain. 

THE CONTRAST. 

Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye. 
With which she gazes at yon burning disk 
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots 1 
In London. Where her implements exact, 
With which she calculates, coLnputes, and scans 
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now 
Measures an atom, and now girds a world ] 
In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 
So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 
As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 
Increasing London ■? Babylon of old 
Not more the glory of the earth than she, 
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. 

Book i. 

The gin-palace : 

Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds. 

Once simple, are initiated in arts, 

Whicli some may practise with politer grace. 

But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learn 

The road that leads from competence and peace, 

To indigence, and rapine, till at last 

Society, grown weary of the load. 

Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 

But censure profits little ; vain th' attempt 

To advertise in verse a public pest, 

That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds 

His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use, 

Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result 

Of all this riot, and ten thousand casks. 

Forever dribbling out their base contents, 

Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state. 

Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 

Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! 

Gloriously drunk, obey th' important call ! 

Her cause demands the assistance of your 

throats ; 
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 

Task book iv. 

We add a few short passages: 

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude I 
But grant me still a friend in my retreat 
Whom 1 may whisper — solitude is sweet. 

Not to understand a treasure's worth 
Till time has stolen away the slighted good 
Is cause of half the poverty we feel. 
And makes the world the wilderness it is. 

Not a year but pilfers as he goes 
Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep. 

When one that holds communion with the skies 
Has fiird his urn where these pure waters rise. 
And once more mingles with us meaner things, 
'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings; 
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, 
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



499 



We must not omit !i most splendid speci- 
men of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the 
"Yardley Oak." It is an uiilinislied poem, 
and supposed to have heen written in the 
year 1791, and laid aside, without ever hav- 
ing been resumed, when his attention was 
engrossed with tlie edition of Milton. What- 
ever may be the history of this admirable 
fracTuient, it has justly acquired for Cowper 
the reputation of having produced one of the 
richest and most highly finished pieces of 
versification that ever flowed from the pen 
of a poet. Its existence even was unknown 
both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the 
latter discovered it buried in a mass of pa- 
pers. We subjoin in a note a letter ad- 
dressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, contain- 
ing further particulars.* 

Though this fragment is inserted among 
the poems, we extract the following passages, 
as expressive of the vigor and inspiration of 
true poetic genius. 

Thou wasl a bauble once, a cup and ball 
Which babes might play wilh ; and the thievish 

. jay. 

Seeking her food, with case might have purloin'd 

The nulnirn nut that held thee, swallowing down 

Thy yet closc-foliled latitude of houi;hs 

Am\ all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 

But Pale thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 

Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 

Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, 

With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd 

The .soft receptacle, in which, secure. 

Thy rudiments sliouKI sleep the winter through. 

So Fancy dreams. 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the 

woods ; 
.\nd Time hath made thee what thou art— a cave 
For owls to roost in ! Once thy spreading boughs 
O'erhung the champaign : and the numerous 

flocks. 
That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. 

* " January 6, 1804. 
" Among our ilear Cowper's papers, I found tlio fol- 
lawinc: memoninduni: 

TaRDLBY oak is OIRTH, FBKT 22, INCIIKS 61. 
THB OAK AT TARDLKT LOPnS, f BET 28, tNCHBS 5. 

As to V'jirdlpy Oak. il stanrts in Yardlcy Chase, where 
the Tarls of .N'nrthamplnn tiave a fine scat. It WiVt n 
favctrite wallt of our tltvir Cowper, anil he once carried 
me to see ttiat oalv. I believe il is five mites at least 
from Wi'ston Lodire. It is indeed a nobie tree, pcr- 
ft-ctly sound, and stands in an open part of tlio Chuse, 
Willi onty one or two others near il, .so as to be seen to 
advanlaife. 

" With respect to the oak al Yardley I><Mli;e, that is 
quite in dfcay— a polljrd, and atmo«l tiotlow. ^ I took an 
excrt.scence from ii in the year ITtH, and if I misLake not, 
Cowper told me il is said to have been an oak in the time 
of the Conqueror. This jjiUer oak is on the road to the 
former, but not above half so far from Weston I.od£?e, 
tn'intt only just beyond Kiliick and Diierlederry. Tliis is 
alt I can tell you about llie oaks. They were old ac- 
rpiainlance.s. and threat favorili's of the Ijard. How re- 
joiced I am to bear thai lie ha-s immorUilized one of them 
in blank verse! \Vbere could those one hundred and 
sixty H»ne lines lie hid? 'I'ill this very day I never beard 
of their existence, nor suspected IL" 



No flock frequents thee now. 

While tlitis through all the stages thou hast 

pusli'd 
Of trecship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; tlien sapling ; and as cent'ry roll'd 
Slow aOer century, a giant bulk 
or girth enormous wilh moss-cushion'd root 
UpheavM above the soil, and sides emhoss'd 
With |ironiinent wens globose— till at the last, 
The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

Time was when, settling on thy leaf a fly 
Could shake thee to the root— and time has been 
When tempests could not.* 

With these acknowledged claims to pop- 
ular favor, it is pleasing to reflect on the 
singular moderation of t'owper amidst the 
snares of literary fame. His motives seem 
to have been pure and simple, and his main 
design to elevate the character of the age, 
and to glorify God. He was not insensible 
to the value of ajiplause, when conferred by a 
liberal and powerful mind, but even in this 
instance it was a subdued and chastened feel- 
ing. A more pleasing evidence could not be 
adduced than when Hayley, in one of his 
visits to Wesfon, brought a recent newspa- 
per containing a speech of Mr. Fo.v, in which 
that distinguished orator had quoted the fol- 
lowing impressive verses on the Bastille, in 
the House of Commons. 

Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts: 

Ye dungeons, and ye cages of ilespair, 

That monarchs have supplied from age to age 

With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears, 

The sighs and groans of miserable men! 

There's not an English heart that would not leap, 

To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know, 

That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd 

In tbrging chains tor us, themselves were free.f 

Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid sat- 
isfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.| 

* The late Samuel Whilbread, Esq., was an enthusiaa- 
lic admirer of the poetry of Cowper, and solicitous to 
obtain a relic of the Yardley Oak. Mr Bull, of Newport 
I iignel, promised to send a siiecimeii, bul some little 
delay having occurred, Mr. Whilbread addressed to him 
the lollowiuz verses, which, emanalini; from such a man, 
and nol havin; met the public eye,' will, we are per- 
suaded, be considered as a lilerary curioaily, and of no 
meiin merit. 

"Send me llie precious bit of oak. 
Which your own hand so fondly took 
From oir the consecrnled tree, 
A relic dear Ut you and me. 

• To many 'twould a bauble prove 
Nor worth Ibe keepiie;.— Thosi^ who love 
The teemintr nran<t [lotiic mind. 
Which (Jod lhou'.(ht lit in chains lo bind. 
Of dreadful, dark d.-^pairini- doom; 
■^et leU witbiri sueh aTni>t.- room. 
For coruscations strong.' :iii(l ltri'.?lit: 
Such beams of everlaslimc lik'lit. 
As make men envy, love, and dread. 
The slniclure of that wondrous head. 
Must prize a bit of Judith's stem, 
That brouLcht lo liKbt that precious cem— 
The friujiui'iit : which in verse sublime 
Records luT honors to all time." 

t These lines were written prophetically, and previ- 
ously lo the event. 
t The late Lord Erskine was a frequent reciter of pa»- 



500 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



We have mentioned how little Cowper 
was elated by praise. We shall now state 
how mucli he was depressed by unjust cen- 
sure. His first volume of poems had been 
severely criticised by the Analytical Review. 
His t'eclings are recorded in the followinij 
(hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thorn- 
ton, Esq. 

Olue.v, May 21, ITlfi. 

Dear Sir, — Vou have my sincere thanks 
I'or yonr obliginjr communication, both of my 
boolv to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of 
it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I 
understand have spoken or it with contempt 
enough ; but, wliile gentlemen of taste and 
candor have more favorable tlioughts of it, 
I see reason to be less concerned than I have 
been about their judgment, liastily framed 
perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice 
against the subjects of which it treats. 

Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's 
sentiments reached me very seasonably, just 
when, in a fit of despondence, to which no 
man is naturally more inclined, I had begun 
to regret the pulilication of it, and liad con- 
sequently resolved to write no more. For 
if a man has the fortune to please none but 
his friends and their connexions, he has rea- 
son enough to conclude that he is indebted 
for the measure of success he meets with, not 
to the real value of his book, but to the par- 
tiality of the few that approve it. But I now 
feci myself dift'ercntly afi'ected towards my 
favorite Employment ; for which sudden 
change in my sentiments I may thank you 
and your correspondent in France, his entire 
un.aequaintedness with mc, a man whom he 
ne\er saw, nor will see, liis character as a 
man of sense and condition, and his acknow- 
ledged merit as an ingenious and elegant 
writer, and especially his having arrived at 
an age when men are not to be pleased they 
know not why, are so many circumstances 

sages from Cowper's poems. Tlie Editor is indebted to 
K. H. "Barker, Esq., ol' Tlietlbrd, for the following anec- ! 
dote whicli was communicated to liim by .losepli Jekyll, I 
Ksq., the eminent counsellor. ' ' I 

Ml*. Jekyll was dininsj with Lord Oxford, and among 
the company were Dl'. Parr, Home Tooke. Lord Erskine, 
and Mr. W. Scott (brother to Lady Oxt'onl). Lord Er- 
skine recited, in his admirable niaiiner, the verses of ; 
Cowper at)oul the Ci/'(/r/>, without saying whose they i 
were ; Dr. Parr expressed great admiration of the verses, i 
and said that he had never heard of them or seen them ; 
before ; he inquired whose they were V H. Tooke said. 
'■ Why, Cowper's." Dr. Parr said he had never read 
Cowper's poems. " Not read Cowpcr's poems ?" said 
Morne Tooke, *^ and you never will, I suppose, Di-. Parr, 
till they are turned into Creek V" When the company 
went into the drawing-room. Lady Oxford presented , 
Dr. Parr with a small edition of Cowper's Poems, and 
Mr. .lekyll was desii-ed by her ladyship to write in the 
liouk, ''from the Countess of Oxford to Dr. Parr." i 
Ibirne Tooke wrote also underneath, " Wlio never read 
tlte book," and signed his name to it: all present signed [ 
their names and added some renuirk, and among the rest 
W. Scott. At the sale of Dr. Parr's books, this volume 
fetched about five pounds, being considered valuable luid 
curious, as the W. Scott signed was supposetl to have 1 
been Sir W. Scott (since Lord Stowell). Lord Stowell 
jtfterwards took great pains to (x)ntradicl the I'cporl. 1 



that give a value to his commendations, and 
make them the most flattering a poor poet 
could receive, quite out of conceit with 
himself, and quite out of heart with his 
occupations. 

If you think it worth your while, when yon 
write ne.xt to the Doctor, to inform him how 
much he has encouraged me by his approba- 
tion, and to add my respects to him, you will 
oblige me still further; for next to the plea- 
sure it would atford me to hear that it has 
been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, 
so far as my volume is in question, than to 
hear it lias pleased the judicious. 

Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respect- 
ful compliments. 

I am, dear sir, 
Your affectionate and most obedient servant, 

W. C. 

To John Thornton, Esq^. 
Clapham, Surrey. 

Through this harsh and unwarrantable ex- 
ercise of criticism, the world might never 
have possessed the immortal poem of " The 
Task," if an American Philosopher had not 
iiwarded that honorable meed of just prai>!e 
and commendation, wliich an English critic 
thought jiroper to withhold. 

But it is nut merely the poetic claims of 
Cowper which have earned for him so just a 
title to public gratitude and praise. It would 
be unjust not to bestow particular notice on 
a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and 
one that friendship ought especially to honor, 
as she is indebted to it for a considerable 
portion of her liappiest sources of delight — 
we mean the talent of writing letter.s. 

Those of Pope are generally considered to 
be too labored, and deficient in ease. Swift 
is frequently ill-nalured and offensive. Gray 
is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either 
in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmtli 
of afi'ection. 

The letters of Cowper are not distinguished 
by any remarkable superiority of thought or 
diction; it is rather the easy and graceful 
flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic 
love of nature, his touching representations 
of common and domestic life, and above all. 
the ingenuous disclosure of tlio recesses of 
his own heart, that constitute llieir charm 
and excellence. They form a kind of bio- 
griiphical sketch, drawn by liis own hand. 
His poetry proclaims the author, his corre- 
spondence depicts the man. We see him in 
his walks, in the privacy of his study, in his 
daily occnp.ations, amid the endearments of 
home, and with all the qualities that inspire 
friendship, and awaken confidence and love. 
We learn what he thought, what he said, his 
views of men and manner.s, his personal 
habits and history. His ideas usually fli>w 
without premeditation. All is natural and 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



501 



easy. There is no display, no evidence of 
conscious suporiority, no eonecaltnent of his 
re:il sciitinu'iits. Hi: writes iis lie feels ;mci 
tliiiiUs, and wllli suoli an air of Initli and 
frankness, thai lie seems to stamp upon the 
letter the image of his mind, with the same 
fulelity of resemhlanee that the canvass re- 
presents his external form and features. VVc 
see in them the sterling good sense of a man. 
the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and 
the winning softness and delicacy of a wo- 
man's feelings. He can write upon any sub- 
ject, or write witlioiit one. He can embellish 
what is real by the graces of his imagination, 
or invest what is imaginary with the sem- 
blance of reality. He can smile or he can 
weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with 
fervor on the loveliness of nature, Uilk 
about his tame hares, or cast the overllow- 
ings of an atfcctionate heart at the shrine of 
friendship. His correspondence is a wreath 
of many Howers. His letters will ahv.ays be 
read with delight and interest, and by many, 
perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals 
of his poems. They are justly entitled to 
the culoginm which we know to have been 
pronounced upon them by Cliarles Fox, — 
that of being '• the best specimens of episto- 
lary e.veellenec in the English langu.age." 

Among men distinguished by classical tiste 
and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever 
be considered as elegant specimens of com- 
position, and formed after the best models of 
antiquity. 

There is one exqnisite little gem, in Latin 
haxameters, entitled "Votura," beginning 
thus : 

O matutini rores, aurfieque salubros, 

wliicli we believe has never received an Eng- 
lish dress. A gentleman of literary taste has 
kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, 
which we are hapjiy to subjoin in a note.* 
We trust the author will excuse the insertion 
of his name. 

We have thus endeavored to exhibit the 
singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and 

• THE WISH. 

" Ye vcrdiint hills, yo soft umbniqcous vale.s, 
FiiimM by liijlil Zi-pIiyrN hoaKhMri^pirinp Rales; 
\'c wood*, whow boughs in rieli luxuriance wave; 
Vo sparkling rivvilcts, whope walt-rs lave 
Tlio!*!' mt'ad*. whcro crsl. at morning's dewy prime, 
(Reckless of shoals brne-ith the sirenm of time,) 
My viigraitt feel yo\ir llowery mari^in i)ressM, 
Whilst Heaven Kave buck the sunshine in my breasy — 
O, would the jiowi-i's thiit rule my wiiywai-d lot 
Restore me to the louo paternal cot I 
There, far from lolly, fraud's ensiiarint; wiles. 
The wiirld's dark fiuwn. or still more dani^Tous smiles, 
I^et peiiceful dutit','^ jifaceful hours eii^afj;e; 
1111, windini,' •_'i'[ttly down the slope of age. 
Tranquil I mark liie'^ swift derliiiin;; day 
Flinj? dtM?per shades athwait my lesst^ninif way 
Ami pleased, at last put otT this mortal cotl, 
A^ain to min'^le with it kindred soil 
Beneath the trrassy turf, or silent stone ; 
L'useen the path 1 trod, my resting-place unknown." 

T. Ostler. 



the combination of powers not often united 
in tlie same mind. All that now remains is 
to consider the consecration of these faculties 
to high and holy ends; and the influence of 
his writings on the literary, the moral, and 
religious cliar.actcr of his age. 

The great end and aim which he proposed 
to himself as an author has already been 
illustrated from his writings ; we add one 
more passage to show the sanctity of his 
character. 

Since the dear hour that brau*jht me to thy foot. 
And cut up till my follies by tlie root, 
I never tru.stcd in an arm liut thine, 
Nor hoped, hut in thy righteousness divine. 
My prayers and alms, imperfect and deiiled. 
Were but tile feeble elTorts of a child ; 
Howe'er i);rform'd. it was their brightest part. 
That they proceeded tVom a gratctul heart. 
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, 
Forgive their evil, and accept their good. 
I cast them at thy feet — ray only plea 
Is what it was — dependence upon tliee : 
VVtiile struggling in the vale of tears below, 
That never tailed, nor sliail it tail mc now. 

Truth. 

We confess that w-e are edified by this 
simple, yet sublime and holy piety. 

It was fnun this source that Cowper drew 
the in.ateriids that have given to his writings 
the ehar;tcter of so elevated a monility. Too 
seldom, alas! have poets consecrated their 
pow'ers to the cause of divine truth. In mod- 
ern times, especially, we have witnessed a 
voluptuous imagery and appeal to the p.as- 
sions, in some highly-gifted writers, which 
have contributed to undermine public moral- 
ity, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. 
But it is the honorable distinction of Cow- 
per's poetry, that nothing is to be found to 
excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor 
a single line that requires to be blotted out. 
He has done much to introduce a purer and 
more exalted ta -.te ; he is the poet of nature, 
the poet of the heart and conscience, tind, 
what is a still higher praise, the poet of 
Christianity. He mingled the waters of 
Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam, 
and planted the cross amid the bowers of the 
muses. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that 
religion is not susceptible of poetry.* If this 

* The reiksons which he assiyna, in justification of this 
opinion, are llius spixilied. 

" Let no pious ear be otTended if I advance, in opposi- 
tion to many authorities, that poelical devotion cannot 
ol'Ien please. The doctrines ot religion may indeed be 
defended in a didactic p(*ein ; and he who hits the huppy 
power of arguint; in verse will not lose it because his sub- 
ject is sacre<l. A poet may describe the beauty and tlie 
grandeur of nature, the ilowers of the sprint,', and the 
harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the 
revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his 
works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside. The 
subject of the disputation is not [liety, but the motives to 
piety ; thai of the description is not (iod, but the works 
of God. 

"Ckintemplative piety, or the intercouse between God 
and the humiiu soul, cannot lie po>-tical. Man, admitted 
to iioplorc the mercyof his Creator, and plead the merits 



502 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



be true, it can arise only from Ihe want of 
religious autliors and relitfious readers. But 
■we venture to deny the position, and to 
maintain that religion ennobles whatever it 
touches. In architecture, what building over 
rivaliod the magnificence of the temple of 
Jerusalem, St, Peter's in Rome, or the im- 
posing grandeur of St. Paul's ? In painting, 
what power of art can surpass the Transfig- 
uration of a Raphael, the Eece Homo of a 
Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the 
Cross in a Rubeus ? In poetry, whore shall 
we find a nobler production of human genius 
than the Paradise Lost? Again, let us listen 
to the language of the pious Fenelon : 

" No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable 
to the Psalms. That which begins, ' The 
God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, .and hath 
called up the earth,' e.xceeds whatever human 
imagination has produced. Neither Homer, 
nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describ- 

of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry 
can confer. 

" The essence of poetry is invention ; snch invention 
as, by producing something nnexpecled, surprises and 
delights. The topics of devotion are few, and being few 
are universally linown ; but, few as they are, they can 
be m.ade no more ; they can receive no grace from nov- 
elty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of ex- 
pression. 

'' Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to 
the mind than the things themselves afford. This etfect 
proceeds from the display of those parts of natm'e which 
attract, and the concealment of those which repel the im- 
agination. But Religion must be shown as it is: sup- 
pression and addition equally corrupt it ; and such as it 
is, it is known already. 

" From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good 
poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his compre- 
hension and elevation of his fancy ; but this is rarely to 
be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. What- 
ever is gi-eat, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in 
the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot 
be exalted; Infinity cannot be amplified; Perfection can- 
not be improved. 

"The employments of pious nudilalion are Faith, 
Thanksgiving, Repenfance, and Supplicalinn. Faith, in- 
variably imiforra, cannot be invested by fancy with dec- 
orations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy 
effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is 
confined to a few modes, and is to be felt, rather than 
expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of 
the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. 
Supplication of man to roan may diffuse itself through 
many topics of persuasion ; but supplication to God can 
only cry tor mercy. 

" Of sentiments purely i-eligious it will be found that 
the most simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry 
loses its lustre anti its power, because it is applied to 
the decoration of something more excellent than itself. 
All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and 
delight the ear, and for these purposes it may be very 
useful ; but it supplies nothing to the mind. The ideas 
of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too 
sacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament ; to re- 
commend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a 
concave mirror the sidereal hemisphere."— See Life of 
Waller. 

These remarks seem to be founded on very erroneous 
principles ; but having already offered otir sentiments, 
we forbear any further comment, except to state that we 
profess to belong to the school of Cowper; that we par- 
ticipate in the expression of his regret, 

*^ Pity that Religion has .so seldom foimd 
A skilful gnide into poetic ground :" 

and that wc cordially share in his conviction, 

*' The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray. 
And every Muse attend her on her way." 

Table Talk. 



iiig the majesty of God, in whose presence 
empires are as :t grain of sand, and the whole 
universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and 
removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when 
he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the 
softness and sweetness of an eclogue; at 
others, he soars above mortal conception. 
But wh.at is there in profane antiquity com- 
parable to the wailings of Jereini.ah, when he 
mourns over the calamities of his people? or 
to Nahum, when he foresees in spirit the 
downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an 
innumerable army? We almost behold the 
formidable ho.st, and hear the arms and the 
chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Bel- 
shazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall 
upon him ; compare it with the most sublime 
passages of pagan antiquity; you find noth- 
ing comparable to it. It must be added Ih.at, 
in the Scriptures, everything sustains itself; 
whether we consider the historical, the legal, 
or the poetical part of it, the proper character 
appears in all." 

It would be singular, if a subject which 
unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the 
invisible world, and which is to be a theme 
of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, 
could inspire no ardor in a poet's soul ; and 
if the wings of imagination could take flight 
to every \\orld save to that which is eternal. 
We leave our Montgomeries to refute so 
gross an error, and appeal with confidence to 
tlie page of Cowper. 

We quote the following passage, to show 
that religion can not only supply the noblest 
theme, but also communicate a corresponding 
sublimity of thought and language. It is the 
glowing and poetical description of the mil- 
lennial period, commencing with — 



Sweet is the harp of prophecy. 



room only for the concluding por- 



We have 
tion : — 

One song employs all nations, and all cry, 
" Worthy the Lamb, for he was .slain for us V 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
Shout to each other, and the mountain tops 
From distant mountains catch the tlying joy ; 
Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. 
Behold the measure of the promise fiU'd ; 
.Sec Salem built, the labor of a God ! 
Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; 
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 
Flock to that light ; the "lory of all lands 
Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy, 
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, 
Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ; 
The looms of Ormus, and the mines of InJ, 
And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. 
Praise is in all her gates : upon her walls, 
And in her streets, and in her spacious courts. 
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
Kneels with the native of the farthest west ; 
And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand. 
And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



503 



Into all lands. From every clinic they come 
To see thy beauty, and to share tliy joy, 

Sion ! An assembly such as Karth 

Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. 
Task, book vi. 

By this devotional strain of poetry, so 
adiiptcd to till! spirit of the present ago, Cow- 
per is rapidly acconiplisliing a revolution in 
the publie taste, and creating a new race of 
readers. He is purifying the literary atmo- 
sphere from its noxious vapors. The muse 
lias too long taken her flight downiranlx ; 
Cowpcr leads her to hold communion with the 
skies. He has taught us that literary celeb- 
rity, acquired at the cost of public morals, is 
but an inglorious triumph, and merits no 
better title than that of splendid infamy. His 
page has fully proved that the varied tield of 
nature, the scenes of domestic life, and the 
rich domain of moral and religious truth, are 
sulticiently ample for the e.>:ercise of poetic 
taste and fancy; while they never fail to 
tranquillize the mind, to invigorate the princi- 
ples, and to enlarge the bounds of virtuous 
pleasure. 

The writings of Cowper have also been 
highly beneficial to the church of England. 
If he has been a severe, he has also been a 
faithful monitor. We allude to sucli passages 
as the follosving — 

There .stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
The Ictrate of the skies ! — His theme divine, 
His olfice sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 
Us thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. 
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart, 
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete 
or heavenly temper, turnishes with arms 
Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule 
or holy disciphne, to glorious war, 
The sacramental host of God's elect I [were ! 
Are all such teachers 1 Would to heaven all 
7'asi, book ii. 

1 venerate the man, whose heart is warm, 
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and 

whose life. 
Coincident, exhibit Ificid proof 
Tliat he is honest in the sacred cause. 
To such I render more than mere respect. 
Whose actions say that they respect themselves. 
But, loose in morals, and in manners vain. 
In conversation frivolous, in dress 
Kxtremc — 

From surh apostles, ye mitred heads. 
Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands 
On skulls that cannot teach and will not learn. 

There was a period when the chase was not 
considered to be incompatible with the func- 
tions of the sacred ofhce. On this subject 
Cowper exclaims, with just and indignant 
feeling — 

Is this the path of sanctity 7 Is this 

To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss 1 



Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet, 
.Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmouth-street! 
The sacred function in your hands is made — 
Sad sacrilege I no function, but a trade ! 

'IVie Progress of Error. 

The danger of popular applause : 

O popular applause ! what heart of man 

Is proot" against thy sweet seducing charms "? 

The wisest and the best teel urgent need 

Ot' all their caution in the gentlest gales; 

But, swell'd into a gust — wlio then, alas! 

With all his canvas set, and inexpert. 

And there tore heedless, can withstand thy power 1 

Ah, spare your idol ! think him human still. 

Charms he may have, but he has frailties too ! 

Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. 

These rebukes, pungent as they arc, were 
needed. The works of Mrs. Hannah More 
bear unquestionable testimony to this fact. 
But we may now record with gratitude a very 
perceptible change, and appeal to the eviden- 
ces of reviving piety among all classes of the 
clergy. 

Though the singular and mysterious malady 
of Cowper has been the occasion of repeated 
remark, yet we cannot dismiss the subject 
without a few concluding retiections. 

In contrasting with his other letters {lie 
correspondence with Newton, the chosen de- 
positary of all his secret woe, it is difficult to 
recognise in the wfiter the same identity of 
character. His mind appears to have under- 
gone some transforming process, and the gay 
and lively tints of his sportive imagination to 
be suddenly shrouded in the gloom of a mys- 
terious and appalling darkness. We seem to 
enter into the regions of sorrow and despair, 
and to trace the terrific inscription so finely 
drawn by the poet, in his celebrated " Inferno ;" 

" Voi ch' entrate lasciate ogni speranza."* 

Ye who enter here leave all hope behind. 

In contemplating this afflicting dispensa- 
tion, and referring every event, as we must, 
to the ajipoiiitment or permissive providence 
of God, we fei'l constrained to e.\claim with 
the patriarch, " The Ihumlrr if hix power wlw 
can understaiul r-\ But life, as Bishop Hall 
observes, is made up of perturbations ; and 
those seem most subject to their occurrence 
wlio are distinguished by the gifts of rank, 
fortune, or genius. 8uch is the discipline 
whicli the moral Governor of the world sees 
fit to employ for the purification of their po,s- 
sessorsl In recording the lot of genius, 
Milton, it is known, was blind. Pope w.as af- 
llictod with sickness, and Tasso, Swift, Smart, 
and Collins, were exposed to the aberrations 
of reason. " Moralists," says Dr. Johnson, 
" talk of the uncertainty of fortune, and of 

* See ttip " Inlerno" of Dante, where tills motto is in- 
scribed over the entrance into the abodes of woe. 
t Jol) xxvl. 14. 



504 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



the transitoriiiess of beauty; but it is 3-et 
more dreadful to consider tliat the powers of 
the mind are equally liable to change — that 
understanding may make its appearance and 
depart, that it may blaze and expire." It 
seems as if the mind were too cthere.'sl to be 
confined within the bomids of its earthly 
prison, or that the too frequent and intense 
exercise of thought disturbs tlie digestive or- 
gans, and lays the foundation of hypoclion- 
drical feelings, wliieh cloud the serenity of the 
soul. It is painful to reflect how much our 
sensations of comfort and happiness depend 
on the even flow and circulation of the blood. 
But the connexion of physical and moral 
causes has been the subject of philosophical 
remark in all ages. The somewhat analogous 
case of the celebrated Dr. Johnson seems to 
have been overlooked by the preceding biog- 
raphers of Cowper. "The morbid melan- 
choly," ob.serves Boswell, " which was lurking 
in his constitution, and to which we may as- 
cribe those peculiarities, and that aversion to 
regular life, which, at a very early period, 
marked his einiracter, gathered such strengtli 
iu his twentieth year, as to afflict him in a 
dreadful manner. Wliile he was at Lichfield, 
in the college vacation, in 1729, he felt him- 
self overwhelmed with a horrible hypochon- 
dria, with perpetual irritation, fretfuluess, and 
impatience; and with a dejection, gloom, and 
despair, which made existence misery. From 
this dismal malady he never afterwards was 
perfectly relieved ; and all his labors, and all 
his enjoyments, were but temporary interrup- 
tions of its baleful influence.". 

Let those to whom Providence has assigned 
a humbler patli, learn tlie duty of content- 
ment, and be thankful that if they are rfenied 
the honors attendant on rank and genius, they 
are at least exempted from its trials. For 
where there are heights, there are depths ; and 
he who occupies tlie summit is often seen de- 
scending into the valley of humiliation. 

That a similar morbid temperament may be 
traced in the case of Cowper is indisputable ; 
nor can a more conclusive evidence be ad- 
duced than the words of his own memoir: — 
" I was struck, not long after niy settlement in 
the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, 
as none but they who have felt the same can 
have the least conception of. Day and night 
I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, 
and rising up in despair."* In liis subsequent 
attack, religion became an adjunct, not a cause, 
for he describes himself at that period as 
having lived witliout religion. The impres- 
sion under which he labored was therefore 
manifestly not suggested by a theological 
creed, but was the delusion of a distempered 
fancy. Every other view is founded on mis- 
conception, and must inevitably tend to mis- 
lead the public. 

* See page 469. 



Before we conclude the life of Cowper, 
there are some important reflections, arising 
from his unhappy malady, which we beg to 
impress on the attention of the reader. 

The fruitful source of all his misery W'as 
the indulgence of an over-excited state of 
feeling. His mind was never quiescent. Oc- 
currences, wliich an ordinary degree of self- 
possession would have met with calmness, or 
passive indifference, were to him the subject 
of mental agony and distress. His imagina- 
tion gave magnitude to trifles, till what was 
at first ideal, at length assumed the character 
of a terrible reality. He was always antici- 
pating evil ; .and so powerful is the influence 
of fiincy, that what we dread, \ve seldom fail 
to realize. Thus Swift lived in the constant 
fear of mental imbecility, and at length in- 
curred the calamity. We scarcely know a 
spectacle more pitiable, and yet more repre- 
hensible. For what is the use of reason, if 
we reject its dictates? or the promise of the 
Spirit to help our infirmities, if we neverthe- 
less yield to their sway ? How important in 
the education of youth to repress the first 
symptoms of nervous irritability, to invigo- 
rate the principles, and to train the mind to 
habits of self-diseipline, and firm reliance upon 
God ! The fjir greater proportion of human 
trials originate not in the appointment of 
Providence, but may be traced to the want 
of a well-ordered and duly regulated mind; 
to the ascendency of passion, and to the ab- 
sence of mental and moral energy. It is 
possible to indulge in a state of mind that 
sh.all rob every blessing of luilf its enjoyment, 
and give to every trial a double portion of 
bitterness. 

We turn with delight to a more edifying 
feature in his character — 

His submission under this dark dispensation. 

It is easy to exhibit the triumphs of faith 
in moments of exultation and joy ; but the 
vivid energy of true faith is never more 
powerfully exemplified, than when it is left to 
its own naked exercise, unaided by the influ- 
ence of exciting causes. It is amid the deso- 
lation of hope, and when the iron enters into 
the soul — it is amid paiii, depression, and 
sorrow, when the eye is suffused with tears 
and every nerve vibrafes with emotion — to be 
able to exclaim at such a moment, " Here I 
am, let him do with me as seemeth him 
good ;"* this is indeed the faith wliich is of 
the operation of the Sjiirif, which none but 
God can give, and which will finally lead to a 
triumphant crown. 

That the mind should still indulge its sor- 
rows, in moments of awakened feeling, is 
natural. On this subject we know notliing 
more touching than the manner in which 
Cowper parodies and appropriates to himself 

» Letter to Newton, May SO, 1786. 



LIFE OP COWPER. 



505 



Milton's affecting lamentation ovor his own 
blindness:* 

Seasons return, but not to me returns 
God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day, 
Or si^ht of cliccrin;T truth, or pardon seai'd, 
Or joy, or hope, or Jesus' face divine ; 
But cloud, &c. 

To this quotation we might add the affecting 
conclusion of the poem of "The Castaway." 

\Vc pcrish'd each alone: 
But I beneath a rou<Thcr sea, 
And whclm'd in deeper gulfs than hc.f 

The merrulhiii Providence nf God is no 
less discerniMe in this eienl. 

The severest trials are not without their 
alleviation, nor the accompaniment of some 
gr.icious purpose. II:id it not been for Cow- 
per's visitation, the world miglit never liave 
been presented wilh The Ta.sk, nor the Church 
of Christ been edified wilh the Olncy Hymns. 
He was constrained to write, in order to di- 
vert his melancholy. '■ Despair,"' he observes, 
" nrnde amusement necessary, and I found 
poetry the most agreeable amusement.''^ " In 
such a situation of mind, encompassed by the 
midnight of jib.solute despair, and a thou.sand 
times filled with unspeakable horror, I first 
commenced an author. Distress drove me to 
it; and the impossibility of subsisting with- 
out some employment, still recommends it."j 
How wonderful are the ways of God, and 
what a ]>owerful commentary on Cowper's 
own celebrated hymn — 

God moves in a mysterious way, &c. 

It will probably be found, at the last great 
day, that the darkest dispensations were the 
most essential links in the chain of provi- 
dential dealings; and that what we least un- 
derstood, and often contemplated with solemn 
awe on earth, will form the subject of never- 
ceasing praise in eternity. 

Whatever irere the trials nf Cowper, they 
are now lerminaled. 

It will be remembered tlnit his kinsman 
.saw, or thought he s:iw, in the features of 
his deceased friend, "an e.\prcssion of calm- 
ness and composure, mingled, as it were, 
wnth holy snrpri.se."il We would not .attach 
too much imporlaneo to a look, but rather 
rest our hopes of Cowper's hajipiness on the 
covenanted mercy and f.iitlifulness of God. 
Still the supposition is natural and soothing; 
and we by no means think it improbable that 
the disembodied spirit might communicate to 
the earthly lineaments, in the moment of de- 
parture, the impression of its own heavenly 
joy. And Ol what must have been the e.\- 

* P.-irndiso TjO»t, book iii. 

t See p. 404. 

t Letter to .Vewlon. Ail?. G. IT.*.'!. 

4 Unter to Newtuil, .May SO, 1780. 

n See pa^'e 453. 



pression of th:it surprise and joy, when, as 
ins immortal spirit ascended to liim that gave 
it, instead of beholding the averted eye of 
an offended God, he recognized the radiant 
smiles of his reconciled countenance, and the 
caresses of his tenderness and love — when 
all he:iven burst upon his a.stonished view ; 
and when^ amid angels, :ind archangel.s, and 
the spirits of just men made perfect, ho was 
invited to be:ir his part in tlie glorious song 
of the redeemed, IViou art irorlhij, O Lord, 
to receive glory, and honor, and power ; for 
thou hast redeemed us to Clod by thy blood, 
and hast ?nade us unto our God kings and 
jmests forever and ever. • 

iJut it is time to close our remarks on the 
Life and Writings of Cowper. It is a name 
that has long entwined itself around the 
affections of our heart, and appe:iled, from 
early d:ivs, both to conscience and feeling. 
We lament our inadenuacy to fulfil all the 
duties of the present iniport:int undert;iking, 
but the motives which have powerfully urged 
us to engaged in it are founded on a w isli to 
exhibit Cowjjcr in accord:ince with his own 
Christian character and principles ; to vindi- 
cate him from prevailing misconceptions; and 
in imputing the gloom of depression, under 
which he labored, to its true causes, so to 
treat this delic:ite subject as to m.ike it the 
occasion of .symp:ithizing interest, and not of 
revolting and agonized feelings. The private 
correspondence, in this respect, is iuvalu;ible, 
and absolutely essential to the clear elucida- 
tion of his case. Other documents have also 
been inserted that never appeared in any 
previous biography of Cowper; and private 
sources of information have been explored, 
not easily accessible to other intjuircrs. We 
trust this object has been attained, and the 
hope of so important a result is a source of 
cheering consolation. The history of Cow- 
per is fruitful in the p:ithetic, the sublime, 
and the terrible, so as to produce an effect 
that seems almost to re;Uize the fictions of 
romance. A life composed of such materials 
cannot fail to command attention. It pos- 
sesses all the bolder lineaments of ch.araeter, 
relieved by the familiar, the tender, the sj)ort- 
ive, and tlu> gay. Kmotions are thus excited 
in which the heart loves to indulge; for who 
does not delight alternately in the calmness 
of repose, and in the excitement of awakened 
feeling ? 

But, independently of the interest created 
by the events of Cowper's life, there is some- 
thing .singularly impressive in the mecliaiiism 
of his mind. It is so curiously wrought, and 
wonderfully made, as to form a suljject for 
conteinphttion to the philo.sopher, the Chris- 
tian, and the medical observer. The union 
of these several qualifications seems neces- 
sary to analyze the interior springs of thought 
and action, to mark the character of God's 



506 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



providential dealings, and to trace the influ- 
ence of morbid temperament on the powers 
of the intellect and the passions of the soul. 
His mind presents the most wonderful com- 
binations of the grave and the gay, the social 
.nnd the retired, ministering to the spiritual 
joy of others, yet enveloped in the gloom of 
darlcness, enchained witli fetters, yet vigorous 
and free, soaring to the heights of Zion, yet 
precipit.ited to the depths below. It resem- 
bles a beautiful landscape, ovei-shadowed by 
a darii and impending cloud. Every moment 
we expect the cloud to burst on the head of 
the devoted suHerer; and the awful anticip.a- 
tion would be fulfilled, were it not th^ a 
divine hand, wln'ch guides every event, and 
without whicli not even a sparrow falls to the 
ground, interposes and arrests the .shock. 
Upwards of twenty years expired, during 
which he was thus graciously uplield. He 
then began to sink under his accumulated 
sorrows. But it is worthy of observation, 
that during this period Jiis mind never suf- 
fered a total alienation. It was a partial 
eclipse, not night, nor yet day. He lived 
long enougli, both for himself and others, 



sufficient to discharge all the claims of an 
affectionate friendship, and to raise to him- 
self an imperishable name on the noble foun- 
dation of moral virtue. At length, when he 
stood alone, as it were, like a column in the 
melancholy waste ; when he was his own 
world, and the solitary agent, around wln'ch 
clung the sensations of a heart always full, 
and the reflections of a mind unconscious of 
a pause — he died. But his last days and 
moments were soothed by the offices of 
Christian kindness and the most disinterested 
regard. His beloved kinsman never left him 
till he had closed his eyes in de.atli, and till 
the disembodied spirit, at length, found the 
rest in heaven, which forever obliterated all 
its earthly sorrows. 

And there shall be no more curse, but the 
throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it ; 
aitd his serxanis shall serve him. And theij 
shall see his face ; and his name shall be in 
their foreheads. And there shall be no night 
there ; and they need no candle, neither light 
of the sun ; for the Lord God giveth them 
light ; and they shall reign forever and ever. — 
Rev. x.xii. 3 — 5. 



ON THE 

GENIUS AND POETRY OF COWPER, 

BY THE REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, A.M., Vicar op Harrow. 



Is presenting to the public the first Com- 
plete Edition ot' the Works of Cowper, it is 
thouglit desirable to prefix to the Poems a 
short dissertation on his Genius and Poetry. 
It is true that criticisms abound whicli have 
nearly the same object. It is true also that 
some of these criticisms are of a very high 
order of exeidlence. But perliaps their very 
number and merit supply a reason for adding 
at least one to the catalogue. Tlie observa- 
tions of the diflerent Reviewers are scattered 
over so large a number of volumes, and the.se 
volumes are, many of thera, either of so ex- 
pensive or so ephemeral a character, that an 
essay whicli endeavors to collect these criti- 
cisms into a focus, and present them at once 
to the eye of the reader, is far from superflu- 
ous. And the present critique pretends to 
little more than the accomplishment of this I 
object. The writer is not ashamed to profit j 
from the labor and genius of liis predecessors : 
in the same course, and to let tliem say for 
him, what he could not say so well for him- 
self. 

With this apology for what might other- 
wise be deemed a work of supererogation, 
we enter upon the proposed luidertaking. 

And here we must begin by observing that 
it is impossible not to be struck with certain 
peculiarities in the history of Cowper, as con- 
nected with his poetical productions. Al- 
though, as it has been truly said of liim — 
'•born a poet, if ever there was one," — think- 
ing and feeling upon all occasions as none 
but a poet could, expressing himself in ver.se 
with almost incredible facility, it does not ap- 
pear that Cowper, between the ages of four- 
teen and thirty-three, produced anything be- 
yond the most trifling specimens of his art. 
The oidy lines chanicteristic of his genius 
and peculiarities as a poet, and which, though 
composed at a distance of more than thirty 
years from the publication of " The Task," 
have so intimate a resemblance to it as to 
seem to be a page out of the same volume, 
are those written at the age of eighteen, on 
finding the heel of an old shoe. 



" This ponderous heel of perforated hide, 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Haply (I'oT such its massy form bespeaks) 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore : on this supported, oft he stretched, 
With uncouth strides, along the furrovv'd glebe, 
Flattening the stubborn cloJ ; till crunl time, 
(What will not cruel time ?) or a wry step, 
Sevcr'd til'- strict cohesion; when, alas! 
He wiio could erst, with even, equal puce, 
Pursue his dcstin'd way. with symmetry. 
And some j)roportion Ibrm'd, now. on one side, 
Curtail'd ami maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
Cursing his frail supporter, treachVous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difiicult, moves on." 

A few light and agi-eeable poems, two 
hymns written at Huntingdon, with about 
.sixty others composed at Olney,'are almo.st 
the only known poetical productions of his 
pen between the years 1740 .and 1782, at 
which Last period he committed his volume of 
poems in rhyme to the press. There are ex- 
amples in the physical world, of mountains 
repo.sing in coldness and quietness for ages ; 
and, at length, without any apparently new 
stimuhis, awaking from their slumber, and 
deluging the surrounding vineyards with 
streams of fire. But it is, we believe, an un- 
heard-of poetical phenomenon, for a mind 
teeming with such tendencies and capabilities 
as that of Cowper, to sleep through so long 
a period, and, at length, suddenly to awake, 
when illness and age might seem to have laid 
their palsying hand upon its energies, and 
at once to erect itself into poetical life and 
.suprem.acy. In general, the poet either ' lisps 
in numbers,' or begins to put fcn-th his hidden 
powers under the exciting iniluence of some 
new passion or emotion — such as love, fear, 
hope, or disappointment. But how wide of 
this was the history of Cowper ! In his case, 
the nuise had no infancy, but sprang full 
armed from the brain of the poet. 

But, if the tardy development of the poet- 
ical powers of our author was one peculi- 
arity in his ease, the suddenness and eom- 
pleteness of the dovehjiiment, when it did 
take phace, was, under his circumstances, a 



608 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



still greater subject of surprise. In the ac- 
count of his life we learn, that, after quitting 
Westminster school, at the age of eighteen, 
he spent three years in a solicitor's office ; 
and passed from thence, at the age of twen- 
ty-one, into chambers in tlie Inner Temple. 
Soon after this event, he says of himself, " I 
was struck, not long after my settlement in 
the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, 
as none but they who liave felt the same can 
have the least conception of. Day and night 
I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, 
rising up in despair. I presently lost all rel- 
ish for the studies to which before I had been 
closely attached. The classics had no longer 
any charm for me. I had need of something 
more salutary than amusement, but I had no 
one to direct me where to find it." Tliis de- 
jection of mind, as our readci's are aware, led 
him onward from depth to depth of misery 
and despair, till at length he was borne away, 
helpless .and hopeless, in the year 1768, to an 
asylum for insane patients at St. Albans. 
Released from the awful grasp of a perverted 
imagination, chiefly by the power of that re- 
ligion, which, in spite of every fact in his his- 
tory, has been, with malignant hatred to 
Christianity, charged as the cause of his mad- 
ness, he spent the two happiest years of his 
life at Huntingdon. After this he retired 
with the Unwin family to Olney, in Bucking- 
hamshire : and there, .after passing through 
the most tremendous mental conflicts, sank 
again into a state of despondency ; from which 
he at length awoke, (if it might be called 
awaking,) not indeed to be freed from his de- 
lusions, hut, whilst under their dominion, to 
delight, instruct, and astonish mankind, with 
some of the most original and enchanting 
poems in any language. The philosophical 
work of Browne, dedicated to Queen Caro- 
line, and composed, as the author says, by a 
man who h.id lost his '-rational soul," has 
been always reputed the miracle of literature. 
But Browne's case is scarcely more remarka- 
ble tlian that of Cowper. That a work 
s|)arkling with the most childlike gayety and 
brilliant wit ; exhibiting the most cheerful 
views of tlie character of God, the face of na- 
ture, and the circumstances of man, should 
proceed from a writer who at the time re- 
garded God as an implacable enemy ; the 
earth we live on as tlie mere porcli to a \V(n'ld 
of punishment ; and human life, at least in 
his own ease, as the cloudy morning of a day 
of intermin.able anguish — all this is to be ex- 
plained only by the fact that madness dis- 
dains all rules, and reconciles all contrarie- 
ties. His history supplies an e.vample, not 
without its parallel, of a mind — like some 
weapon drawn from its sheath to fight a par- 
ticular battle, and then suspended on the 
walls again— called forth to accomplish an 
important end, and then sent back again into 



obscurity. And it is no less an evidence, 
amongst a thousand other instances, tha.t our 
heavenly Father "in judgment remembers 
mercy," and bestows this mitigation of the 
heaviest of all maladies, tluit those exposed 
to its deadliest influence and themselves de- 
nied all access to the bright sources of 
happiness, are sometimes privileged to pour 
the streams of consolation over the path of 
others. How truly may it be said of such 
persons, "Sic ri)S,no>i tiibi>i,mi'll>Jicali'< ajies." 

But whilst we speak of certain peculitiri- 
ties in the ease of Cowper, as calculated to 
destroy all reasonable expectation of such 
poems as he has given to the public, we arc 
not sure that these very peculiarities have not 
assisted to supply his poetry with some of 
its characteristic and most valuable features. 
Among the qualities, for example, by which 
his compositions are distinguished, are those 
of strong sense — moderation on all the sub- 
jects most apt to throw the mind ofi" its bal- 
ance — maturity in thought, reasoning and 
imagination — fulness without inflation — the 
"strength of the oak witliout its nod(]sities" 
— the " inspiration of the Sybil without her 
contortions" — the most profound and exten- 
sive views of human nature. But perhaps 
every one of these qualities is oftener the 
growth of age than of youth : and is rather 
the tardy fruit of patient experience than the 
sudden shoot of untrained and undisciplined 
genius. 

In like manner, the poetry of Cowper is 
characterized by the nu)st touching tender- 
ness, by the deepest sympathy with the suf- 
ferings of others, by a penetrating insight 
into the dark recesses of a tempted and troub- 
led heart. But where are qualities such as 
these so likely to be cultivated as in the 
shady places of a sutl'cring mind, and in the 
school of that stern mistress who teaches us 
" from our own to melt at others' woe," and 
to administer to others the medicines which 
have healed our.selves? A celebrated physi- 
cian is said to have inoculated himself with 
the virus of the plague, in order to practise 
with more efficacy in the case of others. Such 
voluntary initiation in sorrow was needless 
in the case of Cowper ;— another hand had 
opened the wound which was to familiarize 
him with the deepest trials of sutl'ering hu- 
manity. 

It is time, however, that we should pro- 
ceed to consider some of the claims of Cow- 
per to the character of a poet. Large multi- 
tudes have found an almost irresistible charm 
in his writings. In what pecidiarities does 
this powerful influence nuunly reside ? 

In order to reply to this question, we would 
first direct the attention of our readers to the 
constitution of his mind. 

And here we may enter on our work by 
observing, that almost all critics have regarded 



HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 



509 



an ariloil Ime of nature, as ii sine qua non in 
the constitution of a poet. And natuiv, 
surely, neviT had a more entliusiastic adiuirer 
tlian the autlior of the Task. How f(>elingly 
docs he write on this subject '. 

•■ I have loved the rural walk throusjh lanes 
Of grasiiy swarlh, ilosi: croppM hy nilililiiig sheep, 
.And skirtril tliiek with inltrtexturc lirm 
Of thorny houghs ; have loveil the rural walk 
O'er hills, throuijh valleys, and liy river's hrink, 
K'er since, a truant boy. I pass'd uiy bounds. 
T' enjoy a ramide on the banks of Thames." 

When Homer describes his shepherd as 
contemphitiMi,' the heavens and earth by the 
lij,'lit of the moon and star.s, and says, with 
his accustomed simplicity and ^race, — '-The 
heart of the .sjieplu-rd is ifl.id ;'' our author 
miglit seem to have sat for the portrait. Al- '■ 
though unaciiuainted with nature in her .sub- , 
limest aspect, every point in creation ap|)ears ! 
to have a charm for him. To no lips would 
the strain of another poet be more .appro- 
l)Kate. 

'■ I care not, fortune, what you me deny ; 
■you cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; 
"V'ou cannot shut the wiiiilows of the sky, [face; 
Through which .Vurora shows her brightening 
Vou cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
The woods ami lawns by living stream at eve." 

It is true, that every enthusiastic lover of 
nature is not a poet : but a man can scarcely 
rise to the dignity of that high olliee who has 
not a touch of this enthusiasm. Poetry is 
essentially an imitative art; and he who is 
no lover of nature loses all the finest sub- 
jects of imitation. On the contrary, this at- 
tachment, especially if it be of an ardent 
cliaraeter, supplie- subjects to the muse 
everywhere. VV^inter or summer, the wilder- 
ness and llie garden, the cedar of Libamis, 
and tlie hyssop on the wall ; all that is dull 
and iiielo(|uent to another has a voice for 
him, and rou.ses him to think, to feel, to ad- 
mire, and to speak. The following lines are 
said to have been introduced into ■The 
Task." to gratify Mrs. Unwin, after the first 
draught of the poem was fiinshed. But 
what language can exhibit a more genuine 
attachment to nature i 

" And witness, dear companion of my walks. 
Whoso arm (his twentictli winter I perceive 

Fast lock'd in mine 

Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 

Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere. 

And that my raptures arc not conjur'il up 

To serve occasion of poetic jioaip 

But genuine ; and art partner of them all. j 

Nor w.as the delight which he derived from ■ 
nature confined, in the C3.se of our poet, to 
one sense. " All the souiuh." he writes, ' 
"ihat nature u.ter-i are di-ligiitful. at least in ' 
this country. I should not pei!iap^ find ihe 



roarings of lions in Africa, or of bears in 
Russia, very pleasing; but I know of no 
beast in England, wliose voice I do not ac- 
count musical, save and except oidy tlic 
braying of an ass. The notes of all our 
birdn and fowls please me, without one ex- 
ception. I should not indeed think of keep- 
ing a goo.se in a cage, that I might hang him 
up in the parlor for the sake of his meludv. 
but the goose upon a common, or in a farm- 
yard, is no bad performer. Seriouslv, how- 
ever, it strikes me as a very observable in- 
.stance of providential kindness in nuui, that 
such an exact accord has been contrived be- 
tween his ear and the sounds with which, at 
least in a rural situation, it is almost every 
moment vi.sited. The fields, the woods, the 
gardens, have each their concerts; and tlie 
ear of man is forever regaled by creatmvs 
who seem only to please themselves. Even 
the ears that are deaf to the Gospel are con- 
tinually entertained, though without knowing 
it, by Ki)unds for which they are solely in- 
debted to its Author."* 

It is interesting to compare with this the 
poetical expression of the same thought. 

'■ Nor rural sights alone, hut rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid nature . . . 

N.ature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 

But animated nature sweeter still, 

To soothe or satisfy the human car. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day. and ojie 

The hvc-long night. Nor thusc alone wliose notes 

Nice finrrer'd art nmst emulate in \ ain ; 

But cawnig rooks, and kites, that swisii sublime 

In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 

The jay. the pic. and e'en the boding owl. 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me." 

Anotlier poetical quality in the mind of 
Cowper is Ids ardent, love of his species — ;i 
love which led him to contemidate, with the 
most solicitous regard, their wants, tastes, 
passions; their diseases, and the appropriate 
remedies for them. It has been justiv (d)- 
served, that, if there are some who have little 
taste for the poetry which delineates only in- 
animate beings or objects, there is hardly 
any one who does not listen, with sympathy 
and delight, to that whicli exhibils'the for- 
tunes and feelings of man. The truth is, 
we suppose, that this last order of topics is 
most easily liro\iglit home to our own busi- 
ness and bosoms. Aristotle considers that 
the imit.atinn or delineation of human yctiim 
is one of the main objects of poetry. But if 
this be true, if the " proper .study of mankind 
is man," and one of the highest offices of 
poetry be to exhil)it, as upon the stage, the 
fortunes and passions of his fellow being.s — 
few have attained such eminence in his art 
:;', Cowper. His hymn.> i;.'e the e'.oie lr.:n- 

* Letter to M.-. N.-wleri. 



610 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



scripts of his own soul. His rhymed poems 
have more of a didactic character ; but they 
are for the most part exhibitions of man in 
all Ills attitudes of tliought and action. They 
are mirrors in whicli every man may contem- 
plate his own mind. In the " Task," he 
passes every moment from the contempla- 
tion of nature to that of the being who in- 
habits this fair, though fallen, world. He 
lashes the vices, laughs at the follies, mourns 
over the guilt of his species : he spares no 
pains to conduct the guilty to the feet of 
their only true Friend, and to land tlie mis- 
erable amidst the green pastures and still 
waters of heavenly consolation. 

Another property in the mind of Cowpcr, 
which has given birth to some of the noblest 
passages in his poems, is his intense love of 
freedom. The political state of this country 
was scarcely ever more degraded than at the 
period W'hen he began to write ; and every 
real patriot who could wield the pen, or lift 
the voice in the cause of legitim.ate and regu- 
lated freedom, had plenty to do at home. At 
tlie same period also the profligacy and ty- 
ranny of the privileged orders in France, and 
other of the old European dynasties, were 
such as to provoke the indignation of every 
lover of liberty. And lastly, .at this time, 
that horrible traffic in luiman flesh, th.at cap- 
ital crime, disgrace, and curse of the human 
species, the Slave Trade, prevailed in all its 
horrors. How splendid are many of the 
passages scattered so prodigally through his 
poems, in wliich the author rebukes the crimes 
of despotism and cruelty at home or .abroad, 
and claims for mankind the high privileges 
with wliich God, by an everlasting charter, 
had endowed them. 

What lines can breathe a deeper indigna- 
tion than those quoted with such admiration 
by Mr. Fox, in the House of Commons, on 
the Bastile ? 

" Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, 
Ye dungeons and 3'e cages of despair. 
That monarchs have supplied, from age to age, 
With music such as suits their sovereign cars, 
The sighs and groans of miseratile men ; 
There's not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye were fallen at last." 

And what passage in any uninspired writer is 
more noble and heart-stirring, than (hat on 
the decision in the case tried by tile illustri- 
ous Granville Sharpe, to establish the liberty 
of .all who touched the soil of England — a 
passage confessedly the foundation of the 
noblest effort of Currau, in his great speech 
on the liberty of the subject ! 

" I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fun me while I sleep, 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 



Just estimation priz'd above all price, 
I had much rather be myself the slave, 
.4nd wear the bonds, than fiisten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad 1 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
.\nd jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
.bid let it circulate through ev'ry vein 
Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's pow'r 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too." 

But after all, perhaps, the peculiarity in the 
mind of Cowper, which gives the chief charm 
to his poetry, is the dq>(h and ardor cf Ms 
piety. 

It is impossible not to be aware of the 
severance which critics have labored to effect 
between religion and poetry, — between the 
character of the prophet and the poet : and 
that Johnson's decision is thought by some 
to be final on the subject. Cowper himself 
.admits that the connection has been rare be- 
tween the two characters — as witness the 
following lines — 

"Pity religion has so seldom found 
A skiltul guide into poetic ground ! [to stray. 
For flow'rs would spring where'er she deigned 
And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. 
Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming triend. 
And many a compliment politely penn'd ; 
But, unattir'd in that becoming vest 
Religion weaves for her, and half undrest, 
.Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, 
A wintry figure like a withcr'd thorn." 

But he does not despair of seeing some 

" Bard all fire, 
Touch'd with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, 
.\nd tell the world, still kindling as he sung, 
With more than mortal music on Iiis tongue. 
That he who died lielow, and reigns above. 
Inspires the song, and that his name is ' Love.' " 

Indeed no theory can b.ave less found.ation 
either in philosophy or in fact, than that po- 
etry and religion have too little in common, 
for either to gain by an attempt to unite them. 
They seem to us born for each other. And, 
so important is this topic, that, although .at 
the risk of repeating what has been said cl.sc- 
where, it m.ay be well for a moment, to dwell 
upon it. 

The theory which endeavors to secure a 
perpetual divorce between religion and po- 
etry has not the auf Iiority of the great critics 
of antiquity. Longinus maintains, in one 
pl.ace, that " he who aims at the reputation 
of a sublime writer must spare no labor to 
educate his soul to grandeur, and to impreg- 
nate it with great and generous ideas." And 
he afbrms, in another, that "the faculties of 
the soul will grow stupid, the sa)irit be lost, 
and good sense and genius lie in ruins, w hen 



HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 



511 



the care and study of man is engasjed about 
tlie mortal and worthless part of himself, 
and he has ceased to cultivate virtue, and 
polish up the nobler part, his soul." Quin- 
tilian has a whole chapter to prove that a 
great writer must be a j^ood man. And the 
greatest modern critics hold the same lan- 
guage. Bul^ perhaps, in no passage is the 
truth upon this subject more nobly expressed, 
and a (litliculty connected with it more .ably 
e.vplained, than in tlie following verses of "a 
poem now difficult of access : 

'• But, of our souls the high-born loftier part, 
Th' ethereal energies thai touch the heart ; 
Conceptions ardent, laboring thought intense, 
Creative fancy's wild inagniiicence; 
And nil the dread sublimities of song 
— These. Virtue, these to thee alone beloncr. 
Chilld by the breath of Vice, their radiance dies. 
And brightest burns, when lighted at the skies ; 
Like vestal lamps, to purest bosoms giv'n. 
And kindled only by u ray t'rom heav'n."* 

Nor does this sentiment stand on the mere 
authority of critics ; but appears to be founded 
on just views of the constitution of our na- 
ture. Lighter themes can be expected to 
awaken only light and transient feelings in 
the bosom. Tlie profounder topics of relig- 
ion sink deeper; touch all the hidden springs 
of thought and action ; and awaken emotions, 
which have all the force and permanence of < 
the great principles and interests in which | 
they originate. i 

To us, no assertion would seem to have 
less warrant, tlian that laste suffers by its al- 
liance with religion. The proper objects of 
taste are beauty and sublimity ; and if (as a 
modern critic seems to us to have ineontro- 
vertibly established) beauty and sublimity do 
not reside in the mere forms and colors of 
the objects we contemplate, but in the asso- 
ciations which they suggest to tlie mind, it 
cannot be questioned th.at the associations 
•suggested to a man of piety, exceed both in 
beauty and sublimity those of every other 
class. God, as a Father, is the most lovely 
of all object.s — God, as an avenger, is the 
most terrible ; and it is to the religious m.an 
e.xclusively, that this at once most tender and 
most terrible Being is disclosed, in all the 
beauty and majesty of holiness, by every ob- 
ject which he contemplates — 

■' Pra^sentiorem conspicirau.'i Deura 
Per invias rupns, tera per Ju^ra, 
Clivosquc prajruptos sonantes, 
Inter aquas, nemorumque noctcm." 

Or, as the same sentiment is expressed by 
Cowper, 

" His are the mountains, and the valleys his 
And the resplcnilent rivers. His to enjoy 

* Grant's (now Lord Glenelic) prize poem od ^Resto- 
rution of Learning in Hie EasL" 



With a propriety that none can feel, 
But who, with (ilial conlidence inspired, 
Can lill to heaven an unpresumptnous eye, 
And smiling say, — • My Father made them all !' " 

It is striking to W'liat an extent the great- 
est poets of all ages and countries have called 
in religion, under some form or other, to their 
assistance. How are the Iliad .niid Odyssey 
ennobled by their mythological m.nehiiiery ; 
by the scales of Fate," the frown of Jove, and 
the intercession of Jlinerva! IIow anxiously 
does Virgil labor to give a moral and relig- 
ious character to his Georgics and .'Eneid ! 
And how nobly do these kindred spirits, by 
a bold fiction bordering upon truth, display 
the eternal mansions of joy and of misery, 
of reward and of punishment; thus disclos- 
ing, not by the light of revelation, but by the 
blended flashes of genius and tradition, the 
strongest incentives to virtue, and the most 
terrific pepalties of crime. 

The same may be affirmed of many »f our 
own most distinguished poets; of "the sage 
and serious Spenser," and the immortal au- 
thor of " the I'aradise Lost" himself. Nor 
can we hesitat(> to trace the deep interest 
continually excited by the poetry of Cowper 
in great measure, to the same source. Though 
often careless in the structure of his verse; 
though sometimes lame, and lengthy, and 
prosaic in his manner: though frequently 
employed about unpopular topics ; he is per- 
haps the most popular, with the exception of 
one, of all the English poets: and we be- 
lieve that the main source of his general ac- 
ceptance is the fact that he never fails to in- 
troduce the Creator into the scenes of his 
own universe ; that, by the soarings of his 
own mind, he lifts us from earth to heaven, 
and "makes us familiar with a world unseen;" 
that he draws largely from the mine of Scrip- 
ture, and thus exhibits the majesty and love 
of the Divine Being, in words and imagery 
which the great object of his wonder and love 
Himself provides. 

It is wholly needless for us to refer to any 
particular parts of the works of our author, 
as illustrative of his deep and sanguine spirit 
of piety. That spirit breathes through every 
line and letter. It is, if we may so speali, 
the animating soul of his verses. The mind 
of the Christian reader is refreshed, in every 
step of his progress, by the conviction that 
the songs thus sung on earth were taught 
from Heaven: and tliat, in resigning himself 
to the sweetest a.ssociate for this world, he 
is choosing the very best guide to another. 
Indeed, few have been disposed to deny to 
Cowper the highest of all poetical titles — 
that of The Poet of Christianity. In this 
field he has but one rival, the author of the 
" Paradise Lost." And Iiap|)ily the provinces 
which they have chosen for themselves within 
the sacred enclosure are, for the most part, 



512 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



so distinct, tliixt it is scarcely necessary to 
bring tiieni into comparison. Tlie distin- 
guisliing qualities of Milton are a surpassing 
elevation of thought and energy of expres- 
sion, which leave the mind scarcely able to 
breathe under the pressure of his majesty, 
courage, and sublimity. The main defect of 
his poetry, as has been justly stated by an 
anonymous critic, is " the absence of a charm 
neither to be named nor defined, wliicli would 
render the whole as lovely as it is beautiful, 
and as captivating as it is sublime." "His 
poetry," it is added by the same critic, "will 
be ever praised by the many, and read by the 
few. The weakest capacity may be offended 
by its faults, but it requires a genius equal 
to his own to comprehend and enjoy all his 
merits. 

" Cowper rarely equals Milton in sublimity, 
to which his subjects but seldom led ; he ex- 
cels liim in easy expression, delic;ite pleas- 
antry <iand generous satire ; and he resembles 
liim in tlie temperate use of all his transcend- 
ent abilities. He never crushes his subject 
by falling upon it, nor permits his subject to 
crush him by falling beneath it. Invested 
with a sovereign command of diction, and en- 
joying unlimited freedom of thought, he is 
never prodigal of words, and lie never riots 
amidst the exuberance of his conceptions; 
his economy displays his wealth, and his mod- 
eration is the proof of his power; his richest 
phrases seem the most obvious expression of 
his ideas, and his mightiest exertions are made 
apparently without toil. This, as we have 
already observed, is one of the grandest chai- 
acteristics of Milton. It would be difficult 
to name a third poet of our country who 
could claim a similar distinction. Others, 
like Cowley, overwhelm their theme with 
tlieir eloquence, or, like Young, sink exhaust- 
ed beneath it, by aiming at magnificent, but 
unattainable compression ; a third class, like 
Pope, whenever they WTite well, write their 
best, and never win but at full speed, and 
with all their might; while a fourth, like 
Dryden and Churchill, are confident of their 
strength, yet so careless of their strokes, that 
when they conquer, it seems a matter of 
course, and when they fall, a matter of no 
consequence, for they can rise again as soon 
as they please. Milton and Cowper alone 
appear always to walk wilh'm the limits of 
their genius, yet up to the height of their 
great argument. We are not pretending to 
exalt them above all other British poets; we 
liave only compared them together on one 
point, wherein they accord with each other, 
and differ from the rest. But there is one 
feature of resemblance between them of a 
nobler kind. These good and faithful ser- 
vants, who had received ten talents each, nei- 
ther buried them in the earth, nor expended 
them for their own glory, nor lavished them 



in profligacy, but occupied them for their Mas- 
ter's service ; and we trust have both entered 
into his joy. Their unfading labors, (not sub- 
ject to change, from being formed according 
to the fashion of this world, but being of 
equal and eternal interest to man in all ages,) 
have disproved the idle and impious position 
which vain philosophy, hating M godliness, 
has endeavored to establish, — that religion 
can neitlier be adorned by poetry, nor poetry 
ennobled by religion."* 

Having thus noticed some of those grand 
peculiarities in the mind of Cowper, which 
appear to have mainly contributed to place 
him among the highest order of poets, we 
proceed to point out some subordinate quali- 
fications, without which, those already re- 
ferred to would have failed to raise him to 
his present elevation. Even the Inioynut spir- 
it of a poet has certain inferior members by 
which it is materially assisted in its upward 
flight. • 

In the first place, then, he was one of the 
most simple and natural of all writers. With 
the exception of the sacred volume, it would 
perhaps be impossible to name any composi- 
tions with so large a proportion of simj)le 
ideas and Saxon monosyllables. He began 
to be an author when Pope, with his admira- 
ble critic Johnson, had established a taste for 
all that was most ornate, pompous, and com- 
plicated in phraseology. But, with due re- 
spect for the genius and power of this class 
of writers, he may be said to have hewn out 
for himself a new path to glory. It hr.s been 
justly said by an accomplished modern critic 
and poet, that, "between the school of Dry- 
den and Pope, with their few remembered 
successors, not one of whom ranks now above 
a fourth-rate poet ; for Young, Thomson, 
Goldsmith, Gray, and Collins, though flour- 
ishing in the interval, were not of their .school, 
but all, in their respective ways, originals ; — 
between the school of Dryden and Pope, and 
our undisciplined, independent contempora- 
ries, Cowper stands as having closed the age 
of the former illnstrious masters, and com- 
menced that of the eccentric leaders of the 
modern fashions in song. We cannot stop 
to trace the affinity which he bears to either 
of these generations, so dissimilar from each 
other ; but it would be easy to show how lit- 
tle he owed to his immediate forerunners, and 
how much his immediate followers have been 
indebted to him. All the cant phrases, all the 
technicalities, of the former school he utterly 
threw away, and by his rejection of them they 
became obsolete. He boldly adopted caden- 
ces of verse unattempted before, which though 
frequently uncouth, and sometimes scarcely 

* Eclectic Review. This criticism it lias been ascer- 
taincd is from the pen of Mr. James Montgomery ; njid 
the desire inseparal)ly to connect what is so jnst and ahle 
with the works of Cowper 1ms been the inducement, 
notwithstanding its lenj^tb, to introduce it here. 



HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 



513 



reducible to rliytlun. were not seldom ingeni- 
ously siiinilicant, and siirnally I'liergetie. lie 
feared nut to employ colloquial, pliilosoplii- 
eal, judicial idioms, and forms of argument, 
mill illustrations, which enlarged the vocabu- 
lary of jioetical terms, less by recurring to 
obsolete ones, (which has been too prodigally 
done since,) than by hazardous, and generally 
happy innovations of more recent origin, which 
have become graceful and dignified by usage, 
though Pope and his imitators durst not have 
touched them. Theeminent adventurous re- 
vivers of English poetry about thirty years 
ago, Southey, Wordswortli, and Coleridge, 
in their blank verse, trod directly in the steps 
of Cowper, and, in their early productions at 
least, were each, in a measure, what he made 
them. Our author may be legitimately styled 
the father of this triumvirate, who are, in 
truth, the living fathers of the innumerable 
race of moderns, whom no human ingenu- 
ity could well classify into their respective 
schools.'"* 

The simplicity of Co^vpcr as a thinker, ex- 
aminer, and writer, is unquestionably one of 
his greatest charms. He constantly reminds 
us of a liighly-gifted and intelligent child. 
In all that he says and does, there is a total 
absence of all plot and stratagem, of all pre- 
tensions to think profoundly, or write finely ; 
though, without an effort, he does both. His 
manner is to in\ite you to walk abroad with 
him amidst the glories of nature ; to fi.\ at 
rmdom on some point in the landscape; to 
display its beauties or its pecuharitics — to 
touch on some feature wliich has, perhaps, 
altogether escaped your own eye — to pour 
out the simplest thoughts in the simplest 
language — and to make you feel that never 
man before had so sweet, so moral, so de- 
vout, so afTectionate, so gifted, so musical a 
companion. The simplicity of his style is, 
we believe, considering its strength, without 
a parallel. No author, pcrhap.s, has done 
more to recover the language of our country 
frorji tile grasp and tyranny of a foreign idiom, 
and to teach English people to speak in Eng- 
lish accents. In some instances, it may be 
granted, that he is somewhat more colloquial 
and homely than the dignity of his subject 
warrants. But for oft'ences of this kind he 
makes the amplest compensation, by leading 
us to those " wells of undetiled English,'' at 
which he had drunk so deeply, and whence 
alone the pure streams of our national com- 
position are to be drawn. 

It is ne.xt to ]ye noticed, as to the style of 
Cowper, that it is as nervous as it is clear and 
unpretending. It is imopssible to compare 
the works of Addison, aM others of the sitn- 
ple cliiss of writers, with Johnson, and those 
of the opposite class, without feeling th.at 
what they gain in simplicity they often lose 
• Monlgoracrj'a Essay on Cowper's Poems. 



in strength and power. But the language of 
Cowper is often to the full as vigorous and 
masculine as that of Shak.speare. Bring- a 
tyrant or a slave-driver before him for judg- 
ment ; and the a.ve of the one and the scourge 
of the other are not keener weapons than the 
words of the poet. 

It would be difhcnlt to find in any writer a 
more striking example of nervous phrase- 
ology than we have in the well-knowii lines : 

" But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- 
tween 
Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n checks 
Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
Than all mvective. is his bold harangue, 
While through that public organ of report 
He hails the clergy ; and defying shame. 
Announces to the world his own and theirs ! 
He teaches those to read, whom schools dis- 
missed 
And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone. 
And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r 
Th' adugio anil anclantc it demands. 
He grinds divinity of other days 
Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. 
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware ? 
O name it not in Gath ! — It cannot l)e, [aid. 

That jrrave and learned clerks should need such 
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll ; 
.Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 
Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church !" 

In the next place, it will not be questioned, 
we think, by any reader of the preceding let- 
ters, that Cowper was a wit of the very high- 
est order — and this ipiality is by no means 
conhned to his [n'ose, but enters largely into 
everything that he writes. No author sur- 
prises us more frequently with rapid turns 
and unexpected coincidences. The mock 
sublime is one of his favorite implements; 
and he employs it with almost unri\alle(l 
success. There is also a delicacy of touch 
in his witticisms which is more easily felt 
than described. And his wit has this noble 
singularity, that it is never derived from 
wrong sources, or directed to wrong ends. 
It never wounds a feeling heart, or deepens 
the blush upon a modest cheek. Other wits 
are apt to dip their vessels in any stream 
which presents itself; Cowper draws only 
from Ihe purest fountains. It has been said 
of Sterne, that he hides his pearls in a ditch, 
and forces his readers to dive for them ; but 
the witticisms of Cowper are as well calcu- 
lated to instruct as to delight. 

This last topic is intimately connected with 
another, which, in touching on the excellen- 
ces of Cowper as a poet, cannot be passed 
over, — we me;ui, the astonishing/er/zVi/y tif 
his imasrinalion. It was observed to the 
writer of these pagiw by the late Sir James 
M;ickiiitosh, of the friend and ornament of 
his species, William Wilberforce, that " ho 
S3 



514 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



was perhaps the finest of all orators of his 
own particular order — that the wealth of his 
imagination was sueli, that no idea seemed to 
present itself to his mind without its aecom- 
panj'ing image or ghost, whieh lie could pro- 
duce at his pleasure, and which it was a mat- 
ter of self-denial if he did not produce." And 
the latter part of this criticism might seem to 
be made for Cowper. His mind appears 
never to wait for an image, but to be over- 
run by them. In argument or description — 
in hurling the thunders of rebuke, or whis- 
pering the messages of mercy — he docs but 
wave his wand, and a host of spiritual es- 
sences descend to darken or brighten the 
scenes at his bidding ; to supply new weap- 
ons of rebuke, or new visions of love and 
joy. Some of his personifications are among 
the finest specimens in any language. Wh.at, 
for example, has more of the genuine spirit 
of poetry, than the personification of Famine, 
in the following lines ? — 

" He calls for Famine 

and the meagre fiend 

Blows mildew from between his shrivelfd lips 
And taints the golden ear.'" 

What is more lively or forcible than his 
description of Time ? — 

" Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
Unsoiled and swit^, and of a silken sound ; 
But the world's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged 
With motley plumes; and where the peacock 

shows 
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red 
With spots quadrangular of diamond form. 
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife. 
And spades, the emblems of untimely graves. 
What should be and what was an hour-glass 
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace [once, 
Well does the work of his destructive scythe." 

What, again, is superior in this way to his 
address to Winter 1 — 

" O Winter ! ruler of the inverted vcar ! 
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white witli other 
snows [clouds, 

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in 
A lifeless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along its sHpp^ry way." 

But the examples of this species of per- 
sonification are without number: and we are 
not afraid to bring many of them into eom- 
■jjirison with the Discord of Homer, the Fame 
of Virgil, or the Famine of Ovid — passages 
of so powerful a cast as .at once, and without 
any assistance, to est.ablisli the poetical au- 
thority of their inventors. 

It may seem strange to some, that we 
should assign a place, among the poetical 
claims of Cowper, to his strong sense. He 
appears to us to be one of the most just, 



natural, and rational of all WTiters ; and, 
however poetry may seem to appropriate to 
herself rather the remote and visionary re- 
gions of fiction than that of dull reality, we 
are disposed to think, that, even in her wild- 
est wanderings, she will maintain no real and 
permanent ascendency over the mind, if she 
widely deviates from nature and good sense. 
" Monstnms sights," s.ays Beattie, and he 
might have added, monstrous conceptions, 
" please but for a moment, if tliey please at 
all ; for they derive their charm merely froui 
the beholders' amazement. I have read in- 
deed of a man of rank in Sicily who chooses 
to adorn his villa with pictures and statues 
of the most uimatural deformity. But it is 
a singular instance ; and one would not be 
much more surprised to hear of a man living 
without food, or growing fat upon poison. 
To say of anything that it is ' contrary to 
nature,' denotes censure and disgust on the 
part of the speaker ; as the epithet ' natural' 
intimates an agreeable quality, and seems, 
for the most part, to imply that a thing is as 
it ought to be, suitable to our own taste, and 
congenial to our own disposition. . . 
Think how we should relish a painting in 
which there was no regard to colors, propor- 
tions, or any of the physical laws of nature ; 
where the eyes and ears of animals were 
placed in their shoulders ; where the sky 
was green, and the grass crimson." Such 
distortions and anomalies would not be less 
ott'ensive in poetry than in the sister art. And 
it is one of the m.ain sources of delight in 
Cowper, that all is in its due proportion, and 
wears its right colors ; that the " eyes and 
ears" are in " their proper places ;" that his 
skies are blue, and his grass is green ; and 
that every reflection of the poet has, what be 
himself calls the 

" Stamp and clear impression of good sense." 

The very pass.age in the sixth book of " The 
Task," from which this line is taken, and 
which furnishes perhaps the most jierfect un- 
inspired delineation of a true Christian, sup- 
plies, at the same time, an admirable exam- 
ple of the quality we mean; and shows, that 
even where his feelings were the most in- 
tensely interested, his passions were under 
the control of his reason ; that, when he 
mounted tlie ch.ariot of the sun, he took care 
not to approach too near the flaming lumi- 
nary. 

It would be impossible, in a sketch such 
as this, not to advert to the powers of the 
author as a satirist. And hero, we think the 
most partial critic ^'ill be scarcely disposed 
to deny, that he sometimes handles his knife 
a little .at random and with too much sever- 
ity. He had e.arly in life been intimate with 
Churchill; and, writh scarcely a touch of the 
temper of that right English poet, had plainly 



HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 



515 



caught sometliing of his miinner. There is 
tliis wide distinction between him and his 
master — that liis irony and rel)uke are never 
the weapons of party, or personality, but of 
trulli, iionor, and the public good. The 
stronij, thonifh homely image, applied by 
CliurchiU to another critic, — 

" I.ikc a butcher, doom'd for lile 
In Ills mouth to wear his knife," — 

is too just a picture of its author, but is infi- 
nitely far from being that of Cowper. It was 
well said of his .satire, that "it was the oil- 
spring of benevolence ; and that, like the I'e- 
lian spear, it furnishes the only cure fm' the 
wound it inflicts. When he is obliged to 
blame, he pities; when he condenms, it is 
with regret. His censures display no tri- 
umphant superiority; but rather express a 
turn of feebng such as we might suppose an- 
gels to indulge in at the prospect of human 
frailty." 

But, if his satirical powers were sometimes 
indulged to excess, it is impossible to deny 
that he was, generally and habitually, of all 
poets, the most sympathizing ami lender. 
Nothing in human composition can surpass 
the tenderness of the poem on receiving his 
mother's picture, or of those e.v(iuisite lines 
addressed to a lady in France siili'ering under 
deep calamity, of which Last we shall quote a 
few for the ornament of our page : — 

'■ The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown : 
No truv'ller ever rcach'd that blest abode, 
Wlio found not thorns and briers in his road. 
Tlie world may dance along the tlowery plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain. 
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread 
With unshod feet they yet securely tread, 
.\(hnonish'd, scorn the caution and the triend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
But He, who knew what human hearts would 

prove, 
IIow slow to learn the dictates of his love, 
That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will, 
A life of ease would make them harder still, 
In pity to the souls his grace ili^sign'd 
To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
CalI'd for a cloud to darken all their years, 
.Ind said, ' Go, spend them in th(^ vale of tears.' 
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! 
O salutary streams that murmur there ! 
Tiles.; flowing fro:n the fount of grace above, 
Those breathed froai lips of everlasting love." 

The Hymns are almost uniformly of the 
same character. Drawn from the deep re- 
cesses of a broken heart, they find a short 
and certain way to the bosom of others. 

And this leads to the notice of another pe- 
culiarity in his writing.s. It is said to have 
l)een a favorite m;Lxim with Lord Byron, 
"that every writer is interesting to others in 
proportion as he is able and willing to seize 
and to display to them the hidden workings 
of his own soul." The noble critic is him- 



self a strong exemplification of the truth of 
his own rule. Not merely his heroes and his 
heroines, but his rocks, mountains, and rivers, 
are a sort of /"nc simile of hini.self The bine 
lake reposing among the mountains is the 
bard in a slate of repose. The thunder leap- 
ing from rock to roek is the same miiul under 
the strong excitement of passion. But per- 
h.ips of all writers Cowper is the most habit- 
ually what may be termed an ex])erimentalist 
in poetry. He sought in " the man witliin," 
the secret machinery by which to touch and 
to control the world without. He felt deei)ly ; 
and caught the feeling as it arose, and trans- 
ferred it, warm from the heart, to his own p,i- 
per. Hence one great attraction of his writ- 
ings. " As face answereth to face in w:iter, 
so the heart of man to man." The sensations 
of other nuMi are to a great degree our own ; 
and the poetical exhibition of these sensations 
is the presenting to us a sort of illuminated 
mirror in which we see ourselves, and are, 
according to the view, moved to sorrow or to 
joy. I'reaidiers as well as poeis will do well 
to remember this law of our nature, and will 
endeavor to analyze and to deline.-ite their 
own feelings, if they mean to reach those of 
others. Uidiappily, the noble author of this 
canon in philosophy and literature had no 
very protilable picture of this kind to display 
to his fellow men. He speaks, however, of 
" unmasking the hell that dwelt within." And 
he has taught no unimportant lesson to his 
species, if lie has instructed us in the utter 
wretchedness of those who, gifted with the 
noblest powers, refuse to consecrate them to 
the gloricms Giver. But, however unprofita- 
ble his own application of the rule, the rule 
itself is valuable ; and, in the case of Cowper, 
we have the application of it, botli on the 
largest scale atid to the best possible purjiose. 
There is one other feature in the mind of 
Cowper on which, before i|uitting the subject 
of this exainin.ation, we must he permitted to 
say a few words. It has been the habit with 
many, while freely conceding to our poet most 
of the humbler claims to rei)Utation for which 
wc have contended, to assign him only a sec- 
ond or tliird place in the scale of poets, on 
the ground that he is, according to their esti- 
mate, altogether " incajiable of the true sub- 
limf." Now, it must be admitted that, if the 
oidy true sublimity in writing be to write like 
Milton, Cowper cannot be ranked in the same 
class as a poet. Of Milton it may be said, in 
the words of a poet as great as liim.self — 

" He doth bestride the world 
Like a Colossus : and wc petty men 
Walk under his huge legs. ' 

Nothing can be more a.slonishing than the 
composuH' and ilignity with which, like his 
own Satan, he climbs ihe "empyreal height" 
— sails between, worlds and worlds — and 



51G 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



moves among tlirones and principalities, as if 
in liis natural element. " The genius of Cow- 
per." as it lias been justly said, "did not lead 
him to emulate the songs of the seraphim:" 
but though, in one respect, he moves in a 
lower region than his great master in what 
may be termed the "moral sublime," he is by 
no means inferior to him. Scarcely any po- 
etry .awakens in the mind more of those deep 
emotions of " pity and terror," which the great 
critic of antiquity describes as the main sour- 
ces of the sublime ; and by which poetry is 
said to "purge the mind of her votaries." In 
this view of the sublime we know of few pas- 
sages which surpass the description of " lib- 
erty of soul," in the conclusion of the 5tli 
book of "The Task." 

" Then liberty, like day, 
Freaks on the soul ; and, by a Hash from heav'n, 
Fires .all the faculties with glorious joy. 
A voice is hoard tliat mortaf ears hear not. 
Till Thou hast touch 'd them ; 'tis the voice of 
A loud hosanna sent from all thy works; [song, 
Whicli ho that hears it with a sliout repeats. 
And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise. 
In that blest moment. Nature, throwmg wide 
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
The Author of her beauties ; who, retir'd 
Behind His own creation, works unseen 
By the impure, and hears his pow> denied. 
'I'hou art the source and centre of all minds. 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random, without honor, hope, or peace. 
From Thee is all that soothes the lite of man, 
His high endeavor, anil his glad success. 
His strength to suffer, and Ills will to serve. 
But, O Thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all tliy gifls thyself the crown ! 
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; 
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away !" 

In like manner the Millennium of Cowper 
is at least not inferior to the Messiah of Pope. 
The corresponding passage in the latter writ- 
er is greatly inferior to that in which our 
poet says, — 

'• No foe to man 

Lurks in the serpent now — tlie mother sees. 
And smUes to see, her infant's hand 
Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, 
To stroke his azure neck, and to receive 
The lambent houiage of his aiTowy tongue." 

And few passages in any poem have more of 
the true sublime than that which follows soon 
after the last extract: — 

'One song employs all nations, and all cry 
' Worthy tlie Lamb, for he was slain for us !' 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 



Shout to each other, and the mountain top^ 
Prom distant mountains catch the flying joy : 
Till, nation after nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round." 

Having offered these general observations 
" on tlie Genius and Poetry" of Cowper, and 
havino- so larg-elv drawn from his sweet and 
instructive pages, it is not thought necessary 
to supply any more specific notice of his sev- 
eral poems. It is superfluous to enter upon 
a detailed proof that his poems in rhyme, 
though occasionally brightened by passages 
of extraordinary merit, are often prosaic in 
their cliaracter, and halting and feeble in the 
versification ; that his shorter poems, whether 
of a gay or of a devotional east, are, for pa- 
thos, wit, delicacy of conception, and felicity 
of expression, unequalled in our language ; 
that his Homer is an evidence, not of his in- 
capacity as a translator, but of the impossi- 
bility of transmuting into stiff unyielding 
English monosyllables the rich compounds 
of the Greek, without a sacrifice both of sound 
and sense; that "The Task" outruns in power, 
variety, depth of thought, fertility of imagin- 
ation, vigor of expression, in short, in all 
which constitutes a poet of the higliest order, 
every hope which his earlier poems had al- 
lowed his readers to indulge. The dawn 
gave little or no promise of such a day. The 
porch was in no sense commensurate to the 
temple afterwards to be erected. On the 
wliole, his " Poems" will always be considered 
as one of the richest legacies which genius 
and virtue have bequeathed to mankind; and 
will be welcomed wherever the English lan- 
guage is known, and English minds, tastes, 
and habits prevail ; wherever the approbation 
of what is good and the abhorrence of what 
is evil are felt; wherever truth is honored, 
and God and his creatures are loved. 

With these obsei-vations we bring our im- 
perfect criticisms on the Poems of Cowper to 
a conclusion. The writer of them does not 
hesitate to say that he has been amply re- 
warded for his own critie:il labors, by the 
privilege of often escaping from his own pago 
to that of his author. And the reader of 
them will be still more largely compensated 
if, when weary of the critic, he will turn aside 
to breatlie an ardent supplication to the Giver 
of all that was good and great in Cowper, 
that lie himself may drink deepl\'of the spirit, 
without participating in the sorrow.-, of tins 
most holy, most distinguislied, most sufl%r- 
ing, but now most triumphant, sen'ant of the 
God and Saviour to whom he so nobly and 
habitually dedicated all his powers. 



PREFACE TO THE POEMS. 



When an author, by appearing in print, re- 
quests an audience of the pul>lie, and is upou 
the i)()int of spealfinif for himself, whoever 
presumes to step before him witli a pretiiee, 
and to say, " Nay, but hear me tirst," should 
have something worthy of attention to otter, 
or he will be justly deemed oflieions and im- 
pertinent. The judicious reader has proba- 
bly, upon other occasions, been Intforehand 
with me in this reflection ; and I am not very 
willinij it should now he applied to rae, how- 
ever I may seem to c^vpose myself to the dan- 
ger of it. But the thought of having my own 
name perpetuated in connection with the name 
in the title-page is so pleasing and (lattering 
to the feelings of my heart, that I am content 
to risk something for the gratification. 

This Preface is not designed to commend 
the Poems to which it is preti.ved, Jly testi- 
niony would he insnUicient for those who are 
not qualified to judge properly for themselves, 
and unnecessary to those who are. Besides, 
the reasons which render it improper and un- 
seemly for a man to celebrate hi.s own per- 
formances, or those of his nearest relatives, 
will have some influence in suppressing much 
of what he might otherwise wish to say in 
favor of a friend, when that friend is indeed 
an alteT idem, and e.vcites almost the same 
emotions of sensibility and affection as he 
feels for himself. 

It is very probable these Poems may come 
into the hands of some persons, in whom the 
sight of the author's name will awaken a re- 
collection of incidents and .scenes, which 
through length of time they hcul almost for- 
gotten. They will be reminded of one who 
was once the companion of their chosen hours, 
and who set out with them in early life in the 
paths which lead to literary honors, to influ- 
ence and affluence, with ecpial prospects of 
success. But he was suddenly and power- 
fully witlidrawn from those pursuits, and he 
left them without regret : yet not till he had 
sullicieut opportunity of counting the cost, 
and of knowing the value of what he gave 
up. If happiness could have been found in 
classical attainments, in an elegant taste, in 
the e.verlions of wit, fancy, and genius, and 
in the esteem and converse of such persons, 
as in these respects were most congenial with 
himself, he would have been happy. But he 



was not — he wondered (as thousands in a 
similar situation still do) that he should con- 
tinue dissatisfied, with all the means appa- 
rently conducive to satisfaction within his 
reach — But in due time the cause of his di.s- 
a])pointnient was discovereil to him — he had 
lived without (iod in the world. In a memo- 
rable hour, the wisdom which is from above 
visited liis heart. Then he felt himself a 
wanderer, and then he found a guide. Upon 
this change of view.s, a change of plan and 
conduct followed of course. When he saw 
the bnsy and the gay world in its true light, he 
left it with as little reluctance as a prisoner, 
when called to liberty, leaves his dungeon. 
Not that he bei'ame a Cynic or an Ascetic — 
a lieart filled «ith love to God will assuredly 
breathe benevolence to men. But the turn 
of his temper inclining him to rural life, he 
indulged it. and, the providence of God evi- 
dently preparing his way and marking out his 
retreat, he retired into the country. By these 
step.s, the good hand of (Jod, unknown to me, 
was providing for me one of the principal 
blessings of my life ; a friend and a counsel- 
lor, in whose company for almost seven year-^, 
though we were seldom seven successive wak- 
ing hours separated. I always found new" pleas- 
in-c — a friend who was not only a comfort to 
myself, but a blessing to the .affectionate poor 
people among whom 1 then lived. 

Some time after inclination had thus re- 
moved him from the hurry and bustle of life, 
he wa.s still more secluded by a long indis- 
jjosition, and my pleasure was succeeded by 
a proportionable degi-ee of anxiety and con- 
cern. But a hope, that the God whom In- 
served would support him under his .affliction, 
and at length vouchsafe him a hajjpy deliver- 
ance, never forsook me. The desirable crisi-^, 
I tru.st, is now nearly approaching. The dawn, 
the presage of returning day, is already ar- 
rived. He is again enabled to resume his 
pen, and some of the first fruits of his recov- 
ery are here presented to the public. In his 
principal subjects, the same acumen, which 
distinguished him in the early period of life, 
is happily employed in niustrating and enforc- 
ing the truths of which lie received such deep 
.and unalterable impressions in his inaturer 
years. His satire, if it nuiy be called so, is 
benevolent, (like the operations of the skilful 



518 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



and liumane surgeon, who wounds only to 
lu'iil.) dictated by a just regard for the honor 
of God, an indignant grief excited l>y the 
proliigaey of the age, and a tender compas- 
tion for the souls of men. 

His favorite topics are least insisted on in 
the piece entitled Table Talk ; which there- 
fore, with some regard to the prevailing taste, 
and that tliose, who are governed by it, may 
not he discouraged at the very threshold from 
jiroeeeding farther, is ])laeed first. In most 
of tlie large poems which follow, his leading 
design is more explicitly avowed and pursued. 
He aims to communicate liis own perceptions 
of the truth, beauty, and influence of the re- 
ligion of the Bible^a religion, which, how- 
ever discredited by the misconduct of many, 
who liave not renounced the Christian name, 
proves itself, when rightly understood, and 
cordially embraced, to be the grand desidera- 
tum, which alone can relieve the mind of man 
from painful and unavoidable anxieties, in- 
spire it with stable peace and solid hope, and 
furnish those motives and prospects which, in 
the present state of things, are absolutely ne- 
eessaiy to produce a conduct wortliy of a ra- 
tional creature, distinguished by a vastness 
of capacity which no assemblage of earthly 
good can satisfy, and by a principle and pre- 
intimation of immortality. 

At a time when hypothesis and conjecture 
in pliilosophy are so justly exploded, and lit- 
tle is considered as desen'ing the name of 
knowledge, wliieh will not st;md the test of 
experiment, the very use of the term experi- 
mental in religious concernments is by too 
many unhappily rejected with disgust. But 
we well know, that they, who affect to despise 
the inward feelings which religious persons 
speak of, and to treat them as enthusiasm and 
folly, h.ive inward feelings of their own, which, 
though they would, they cannot, suppress. 
We have been too long in the secret our- 



selves, to account the proud, the ambitious, 
or the voluptuous, happy. We must lose 
the remembrance of w-hat we once were, he- 
fore we can believe that a man is satisfied 
wiUi himself, merely because he endeavors to 
appear so. A smile upon the face is often 
but a mask worn occasionally and in com- 
pany, to prevent, if possible, a suspicion of 
what at the same time is passing in the heart. 
We know that there are people who seldom 
smile when they are alone, who tlicrcfore are 
glad to hide tliem.selves in a throng from the 
violence of their own reflections; and who, 
while by their looks and their language they 
wish to persuade us they are happy, would 
be glad to change their condition with a dog. 
But in defiance of all their efforts tliey con- 
tinue to tliink, forbode, and tremble. This we 
know, for it has been our own state, and there- 
fore we know how to commiserate it in 
others. — From this state the Bible relieved 
us — when we were led to read it with atten- 
tion, we found ourselves described. We 
learned the causes of our •inquietude — we 
were directed to a method of relief — we 
tried, and we were not disappointed. 

Deus nobis haec otia fecit. 

We are now certain that the gospel of 
Christ is the power of God unto salvation to 
every one that believetli. It has reconciled 
us to God, and to ourselves, to our duty and 
our situation. It is the balm and cordial of 
the present life, and a sovereign antidote 
against the fear of death. 

Sed hactenus ha;e. Some smaller pieces 
upon less important subjects close the vol- 
ume. Not one of them, I believe, was writ- 
ten with a view to publication, but I was un- 
willing they should be omitted. 

John Newton. 

Charles Square, Hoxton, 
February 18, 1782. 



TABLE TALK 



Si te fort6 mea? gravb uret sarcina cbartte, 

AbjiCitO. BOR. LIB. 1., IP. 13. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

True and false ylory — Kin?9 made for man — Attributes 
of royally in England — Quevedo's satire on kings— 
Kinl^ objects of pily— Inquiry concerning the cause of 
Enijlishnien's scorn of arbitrary rule— Character of the 
Englishman and the Frenchman— Charms of freedom 
— Freedom sometimes need3 the restraint of discipline 
— Reference to the riots in London — Tribute to Lord 
Chatham— Political state of Enslan<l— The vices that 
deb:ise her portend her downfnll — Political events the 
instrumeuta of Providence— The poet disclaims pro- 
phetic inspiration- The choice of a mean subject de- 
notes a weak mind — Reference to Homer, Virgil, and 
Milton— Progress of poesy— The poet laments that re- 
ligion is not more frequently tmited with poetry. 

A. You told rae, I remember, glory, built 
On selfish principles, is shame and i;"''t : 
The deeds, that men admire as half divine. 
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. 
Strange doctrine this ! that without scruple tears 
The laurel that the very lightning spares ; 
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, 
And cats into his bloody sword like rust. 

B. I grant that, men continuing what they arc, 
Fierce, avaricious proud, there must be war, 
And never meant the rule should be applied 
To him that lights with Justice on his side. 

Let laurels drench'd in pure Parnassian dews 
Reward his memory, dear to every muse, 
Who, with a courage of unshaken root. 
In honor's field advancing his firm foot. 
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws. 
And will prevail or perish in her cause. 
'Tis to the virtues ol'such men man owes 
His portion in the good that Heaven bestows. 
And. when recording History displays 
Feats ot' renown, though wrought in ancient days, 
Ttdls of a few stout hearts, that fought and died, 
Where duty placed them, at their country's side ; 
The man that is not moved with what he reads. 
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, 
Unworthy of the lilessings of the brave, 
Is liase in kind, and born to be a slave. 

But let eternal infamy pursue 
The wretch to nought but his ambition true, 
Who, for the sake of filling with one blast 
The post-horns of all Europe, l;»ys her waste. 
Think yours' If st.itioned on a towering rock. 
To see a people scattered like a flock. 
Some royal m.astilT panting at their heels. 
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels; 
Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette 
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. 
The globe ami sceptre in such hanils misplaced, 
Those ensigns of do.-ninion how disgraced! 



I The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour, 
And Death's own scythe, would better speak his 

power ; 
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead 
With the king's shoulder-knot and way cockade ; 
Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, 
The same their occupation and success. 

A. 'Tis your belief the world was made forman; 
Kings do but reason on the self-same plan ; 
Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, 
Who think, or seem to think, man made for them, 
! B. Seldom, alas ! the power of logic reigns 
With much sufficiency in royal brains ; 
Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone, 
; Wanting its proper base to stand upon, 
■ Man made for kings ! those optics arc but dim 
That tell you so— say, rather, they for him. 
That were indeed a king-ennobhng thought. 
Could they, or would they, reason as they ought, 
', The diadem, with mighty projects lined, 
i To catch renown by ruining" mankind. 
Is worth, with all its mid and ghttering store. 
Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. 
Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good. 
How seldom used, how little understood ! 
To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; 
Keep Vice restrain'd behind a double guard ; 
To quell the faction that affronts the throne 
By silent magnanimity alone; 
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts ; 
Watch every beam Philosophy imparts ; 
To give religion her unbridled scope, 
Nor judge by statute a behever's hope ; 
With close fidelity and love unfcign'd 
To kee]) the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; 
Covetous only of a vu-tuous praise ; 
His life a lesson to the land he sways; 
To touch the sword with conscientious awe, 
Nor draw it but when duty bids hbn draw ; 
To shcatli it in the peace-restoring close 
With joy beyond what victorv bestows — 
Blest country, where these kingly glories shine ! 
Blest England, if this happijiess bo thine! 

A. Guard what you say : the patriotic tribe 
Will sneer, and charge you with a bribe. — B. 

bribe? 
The wortli of his three kingdoms I defy, 
To lure me to the baseness of a lie ; 
.\nd. of all lies (be th.at one poet's boast,) 
The lie that flatters I abhor the most. 
Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign, 
Hut he that loves him has no need to feign. 

A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown ad- 
Seems to imply a censure on the rest, [tlress'd 



520 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



B. Q,uevedo, as he tells his sober tale, 
Ask'd when in hell, to see the royal jail ; 
Approv'd their method in all other things; 
But where, good sir, do you confine your kings 1 
There — said his guide — the group is in full view. 
Indeed ! — replied the don — there are but few. 
His black interpreter the charge disdain'd — 
Few, fellow ? — there are all that ever reign'd. 
Wit. undistinguishing, is apt to strike 
The guilty and not guilty both alike : 
I grant the sarcasm is too severe, 
v\nd we can readily refute it here ; 
While Alfred's name, the father of his age, 
And the Sixth Edward's grace the historic page. 

A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all: 
By their own conduct they must stand or fall. 

B. True. While they live, the courtly laureate 
pays 

His quitrent ode, his peppercorn of praise, 
And many a dunce, whose lingers itch to write, 
Adds, as he can, his tributary mite: 
A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, 
A monarch's errors are forbidden ^ame! 
Thus, free t'rom censure, overawed by fear, 
And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear. 
The tieeting forms of majesty engage 
Respect, while stalliing o'er Ufe's narrow stage : 
Then leave their crimes for history to scan, 
And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man ? 

I pity kings whom worship waits upon, 
Obsequious Irom the cradle to the throne; 
Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows, 
And binds a wreath about their baby brows; 
Whom education stiffens into state, 
And tieath awakens from that dream too late. 
Oh ! if sen'ility with supple knees. 
Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please ; 
If smooth dissimulation, skill'd to grace 
A devil's purpose with an angel's face ; 
If smiling peeresses and simpering peers, 
Encompassing his throne a few short years; 
If the gilt carriage and the pampcr'd steed, 
That wants no driving and disdains the lead; 
If guards, mechanically fonn'd in ranks. 
Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks, 
Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone. 
Wliilc condescending majesty looks on — 
If monarchy consist in such base things. 
Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! 

To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood, 
E'en when he labors for his country's good ; 
To see a band call'd patriot for no cause. 
But that they catch at popular applause. 
Careless of all the anxiety he feels, 
Hook disappointment on the public wheels; 
With all their flippant fluency of tongue, 
Most confident, when palpably most wrong — 
If this bo kingly, then farewell for me 
All kingship, and may I be j)oor and free ! 

To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs, 
To whicli the unwash'd artificer repairs, 
To indulge his genius after long fatigue. 
By diving into cabinet intrigue ; 
(For what kinas deem a toil, as well they may. 
To him is relaxation, and mere play:) [vail. 

To win no praise when well-wrought plans pre- 
But to be rudely censur'd when they fail ; 
To doubt the love his favorites may pretend, 
And in reality to find no friend ; 
If he indulge a cultivated taste. 
His galleries with the works of art well graced, 
To hear it call'd extravagance and waste; 



If these attendants, and if such as these, 
Must follow royalty, then welcome ease ; 
However humble and confined the sphere, 
Happy the state that has not these to fear ! 

A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative 
have dwelt 

On situations that they never felt. 

Start up sagacious, cover'd with the dust 

Of dreaming study and pedantic rust. 

And prate and preach about what others prove, 

As if the world and they were hand and glove. 

Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares; 

They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs ; 

Poets, of all men, ever least regret 

Increasing taxes and the nation's debt. 

Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse 

The mighty plan, oracular, in verse, 

No bard, howe'er majestic, old or new, 

Should claim my fix'd attention more than you. 

B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay 
To turn the course of Helicon that way : 

Nor would the Nine consent the sacred tide 
Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside, 
Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse 
The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. 

A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of 
rhyme 

To themes more pertinent, if less sublime. 
When ministers and ministerial arts; 
Patriots, who love good places at their hearts ; 
When admirals, extoll'd for standing still. 
Or doing nothing with a deal of skill ; 
Generals, who will not conquer when they may, 
Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good 

pay ; 
When Freedom, wounded abnost to despair, 
Though discontent alone can find out where — 
When themes like these employ the poet's tongue, 
I hear as mute as if a syren sung. 
Or tell me, if you can, what power maintains 
A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains ? 
That were a theme might anmiate the dead, 
And move the lips of poets cast in lead. 

B. The cause, though worth the search, may 
yet elude 

Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. 
They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim. 
Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here 
With stern severity deals out the year. 
Winter ijivades the spring, and oll,en pours 
A chilling flood on summer's drooping flowers; 
Unwelcome vapors quench autumnafbeams, 
Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams: 
The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork 
With double toil, and shiver at their work ; 
Thus with a rigor, for hLs good design'd. 
She rears her favorite man of all mankind. 
His form robust, and of elastic tone. 
Proportion 'd well, half muscle and half bone, 
Supphes with warm activity and force 
A ramd well lodged, and masculine of course. 
Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires 
And keeps ahve his fierce but noble fires. 
Patient of constitutional control, 
He bears it with meek manliness of soul; 
But, if authority grow wanton, woe 
To him that treads upon his free-born toe ; 
One step beyond the boundary of the laws 
Fires him at once in Freedom's glorious cause. 
Thus proud Prerogative, not much rever'd, 
Is seldom I'elt, though sometimes seen and heard ; 



TABLE TALK. 



521 



And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, 
Is kept to strut, look bit;, and talk away. 

Born in a cliinutt: soflt.-r fur than ours, 
Not lbrm"d like us. with -such Herculean powers, 
The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, 
Give him his lass, his fiddli;, and Ids frisk, 
Is always happy, reign whoever may. 
And luughs the sense of misery far away : 
He drinks his simple beverage with a gust; 
And, feasting on an onion and a cfust, 
We never feel the alacrity and joy 
Witli which he shouts and carols, Vive le Roi ! 
Killtd with as much true uierriment and glee 
As if he heard his king say — Slave, be free. 

Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, 
Less on exterior things than most suppose. 
Vigilant over all tliat he has made, 
Kind Providence attends with gracious aid ; 
Bids equity throughout his works prevail, 
And weighs the nations in an even scale; 
He can encourage slavery to a smile, 
And fill with discontent a British isle. 

A. Freeman and slave then, if the case be such, 
Stand on a level; ami you prove too much: 
If all men indiscriminately siiare 
His Ibstering power, and tutelary care. 
As well be yoked by Despotism's hand. 
Asdwellatlargein Britain 'schartcrd land, [show, 

li. No. Freedom has a thousanrl charms to 
That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. 
The mind attains beneath her ha]>py reign 
The growth that Nature meant she should attain ; 
The varied fields of science, ever new, 
Opening and wider opening on her view. 
She ventures onward with a prosperous force, 
While no base fear impedes jier in her course : 
Religion, richest favor of the skies, 
Stands most revcal'd before the treeman's eyes; 
No shades of superstition blot the day, 
Liberty eliases all that gloom away. 
The soul, emancipated, unoppress'd. 
Free to prove all things and hold fast the best. 
Learns much; and to a thousand listening minds 
Connuunicatcs with joy the good she finds ; 
Courage, in arms, and ever prompt to show 
His manly forehead to the fiercest foe ; 
Glorious in war, l)ut for the sake of peace, 
His spirits rising as his toils increase. 
Guards well what arts and industry have won, 
And Freedom claims iiim for her firstborn son. 
Slaves fight Ibr what were better cast away — 
The chain that Idnds them and a tyrant's sway. 
But they that fight for freedom undertake 
The noblest cause mankind can have at stake : 
Religion virtue, truth whate'er we call 
A blessing — freedom is the pledge of all. 
O Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream, 
The poet's muse, his passion, and his tlieme ; 
Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse; 
Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 
Heroic song from thy free touch acquires 
lis clearest tone, the rapture it inspires. 
Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air, 
And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; 
And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet. 
In Afric's torrid diuie. or India's fiercest heat. 

A. Sing where you please; in such a cause I 
An Fnglish po-t's privil»'ge to rant; [grant 

But is not Freedom — at least is not ours 
Too ajjl to play t!ie wanton with her powers. 
Grow freakisli and. o'crhaping every mound 
Spread anarchy and terror all around ] 



B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay vour 
horse 
For bounding and curveting in his course ] 
Or if, when ridden with a careless rein. 
He break away, and seek the distant plain 1 
No. His high mettle, under good control fgoal. 
Gives him Olympic spee<i. and shoots him to the 

Let Discipline employ her wliolesome arts; 
Let magistrates alert perform tlu-ir parts, 
Not skulk or put on a prudential mask. 
As if their duty were a desperate task; 
Let active laws apply the ru'edfnl curb. 
To TTuard the peace that riot would disturb; 
And Liberty, [>reserved from wild excess, 
Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. 
When Tumult lately burst his prison door, 
And set plebekm thousands in a roar; 
When he usurp'd authority's just place, 
And dared to look his master in the face ; 
When the rude rabble's watchword was — Destroy, 
And blazing London seem'd a second Troy ; 
Liberty blush'd and hung her drooping head, 
Behrld their progress with the deepest dread ; 
Blush'd that efiects like these she should produce, 
Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose. 
She loses in such storms her very name, 
And fierce licentiousness should bear the blame. 

Incomparable gem! thy worth untold; 
Cheap, though blood-bought and thrown away 

when sold ; 
May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend 
Betray thee, while professing to defend ! 
Prize it. yc ministers; ye monarchs, spare; 
Ve i)atriots, guard it with a miser's care. 

A. Patriots, alas ! the tew that have been found, 
Where most they fiourish. upon English ground. 
Tiic country's need have scantily supplied, 
And the last left the scene when Chatham died. 

B. Not so — the virtue still adorns our age, 
Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 
In him Demosthenes was heard again; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain; 
She clnthcd him with authority and awe, 
Spoke trom his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action, full of grace. 
And all his country beaming in his face, 

He stood, as some inimitaldf hand 

Would sirivc to make a i*aul or Tally stand. 

No sycopliant or slave, that dari'tl oppose 

Her sacred cause, but treaibled when he rose J 

And every venal stickler for the yoke 

Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke. 

Such men are raised to station and command, 
When Providence means mercy to a land. 
He speaks and they appear; to him they owe 
Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow ; 
To manage with address, to seize with power 
The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
So Gideon earned a Wctory not his own ; 
Sul)servinncy his praise, and that alone. 

Poor Enghmd ! thou art a devoted deer, 
Beset with every ill but that of fear. 
The nations iiunt ; all mark thee for a prey ; [bay: 
They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at 
Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd. 
Once Chatham saved thee ; but who saves thee 
Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps along [next 7 
All that shouhi bt? the boast of British song. 
'Tis not the wn-ath thai once adorn'd thv brow. 
The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. 
Our ancestry, a gallant Chri.stian race, 
Ptttlorns of every virtue, every grace, 



522 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Confess'd a God ; they kneel'd before they fought, 
And praised him in the victories he wrought. 
Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth ; 
Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, 
Is but the fire without the sacrifice. 
The stream that feeds thewellspringof the heart 
Not more invigorates life's noblest part, 
Tlian virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
The powers tliat sin has brought to a dechne. 

A. The inestimable estimate of Brown 
Rose Uke a paper-kite and charm'd the town ; 
But measures plann'd and executed well, 
Shifted the wind that raised it, and it iell 
He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, 
And victory refuted all he said. 

/?. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss; 
Its error, if it errd. was merely this — 
He thought the dying hour already come, 
And a complete recovery struck him dumb. 
But that effeminacy, folly, lust, 
Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must ; 
And that a nation shamefully debased 
Will be despised and trampled on at last, 
Unless sweet penitence her powers renew, 
Is truth, if liistory itself be true. 
There is a time, and justice marks the date, 
For long forbearing clemency to wait ; 
That hour elapsed, the incurable revolt 
Is punish'd. and down comes the thunderbolt. 
If Mercy then put by the threatening blow, 
Must she perform the same kind ofiice nowl 
May she ! and, if offended Heaven be still 
Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will. 
'Tis not, however, insolence and noise, 
The tempest of tumultuary joys. 
Nor is it yet despondence and dismay 
Will win her visits or engage her stay ; 
Prayer only, and the penitential tear. 
Can call her smihng down, and fix her here. 

But when a country (one that I could name) 
In prostitution sinks the sense of shame; 
When infamous venality, grown bold, 
Writes on his bosom, to be let or sold; 
When perjury, that Heaven-defying vice, 
Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price, 
Stamps Gods own name upon a lie just made, 
To turn a penny in the way of trade ; 
When avarice starves (and never hides his face) 
Two or three millions of the human race, 
And not a tongue inquires how, where, or when. 
Though conscience will have twinges now and 
When profanation of the sacred cause [then: 
In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws, 
Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fallen and lost, 
In all that wars against that title most; 
What follows next let cities of great name, 
And regions long since desolate proclaim. 
Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome 
Speak to the present times and times to come ; 
They cry aloud in every careless ear, 
Stop, while ye may; suspend your mad career; 
O learn, from our example and our fate. 
Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late ! 

Not only Vice disposes and prepares 
The mind that slumbers sweetly in her snares, 
To stoop to tyranny's usurp'd command. 
And bend her polisb'd neck beneath his hand 
(A dire effect, by one of Nature's laws 
Unchangeably connected with its cause) ; 
But Providence himself will intervene, 
To throw his dark displeasure o'er the scene. 



All are his instruments; each form of war, 
What burns at home, or threatens from afar. 
Nature in arms, her elements at strife. 
The storms that overset the joys of life, 
Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land, 
And waste it at the bidding of his hami. 
He gives the word, and mutiny soon roars 
In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores; 
The standards of all nations are unturl'd ; 
She has onOfoe, and that one foe the world. 
And if he doom that people with a frown. 
And mark tliem with a seal of wrath press'd down, 
Obduracy takes place; callous and tough. 
The reprobated race grows judgment proof: 
Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven roars 

above ; 
But nothing scares them from the course they love . 
To the lascivious pipe and wanton song. 
That charm down tear, they frohc it along, 
With mad rapidity and unconcern, 
Down to the gulf from which is no return. 
They trust in navies, and their navies fail — 
God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail ! 
They trust in armies, and their courage dies; 
In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies; 
But all they trust in withers, as it must, 
When He commands in wiiom they place no trust. 
Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast 
A long despised, but now victorious, host; 
Tyranny sends the chain that must abridge 
The noble sweep of all their privilege; 
Gives liberty the last, the mortal, shock ; 
Slips the slave's collar on. and snaps the lock. 

A. Such loftv strains embellish what you teacli_ 
Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach '] 

B. I know the mind that teels indeed the fire 
The Muse unparts, and can command the lyre, 
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal. 
Whate'er the theme, that others never t'eel. 

If human woes her soft attention claim, 

A tender sympathy pervades the frame, 

She pours a sensibility divine 

Along the nerve of every feeling fine. 

But if a deed not tamely to be borne 

Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, 

The strings are swept witli such a power, so loud, 

The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd. 

So, when remote tuturity is brought 

Before the keen inquiry of her thought, 

A terrible sagacity informs 

The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms; 

He hears the thunder ore the teiupest lowers ! 

And, arm'd with strength surpassing human 

powers, 
Seizes events as yet unknown to man, 
And darts his soul into the dawning plan. 
Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name 
Of prophet and of poet was the same ; 
Hence British poets too the priesthood shared, 
And every hallowed druid was a bard. 
But no prophetic fires to me belong ; 
I play with syllables and sport in song. 

A. At Westminster, where little poets strive 
To set a distich upon six and five, 
Where Discipline helps openmg buds of sense 
And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
I was a poet too : but modern taste 
Is .so refined, and delicate, and chaste, 
That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, 
Without a crean^y smoothness has no charms. 
Thus all success depending on an ear. 
And thinking I might purchase it too dear, 



If sentimont wrro sarrificcd to sound, 
Anil trutli cut short to make a period round, 
I iu(l;;ed u man of sense could scarce do worse 
Than captr in the morris-dance of verse. 

13. Thus rt-putation is a spur to wit. 
And some wits llatr throuali fear of losing it. 
Give mc the lintj that ploughs its stately course, 
Like a proud swan, conquering the straam by 

force ; 
That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, 
Quite unindebted to me tricks of art. 
When lalior and when dullness, club m hand, 
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand, 
Beating alternately, in measured time, 
The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme, 
Kxact and regular the sounds will be ; 
But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 

Krom him who rears a poem lank and long, 
To him who strains his all into a song; 
Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air, 
All hirlis and braes, though he was never there; 
Or. having whelp'd a prologue with great pains, 
Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; 
A i)rologuc interdash'd with many a stroke — 
An art. contriv'd to advertise a joke. 
So that the jest is clearly to be seen. 
Xot in the words — but in the gap between ; 
Manner Is all in all. whatever is writ, 
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. 

To dally much with subjects mean and low 
Proves tliat the mind is weak, or makes it so. 
Neglected talents rust into decay. 
And every effort ends in pushpin play 
The man that means success should soar above 
A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove ; 
Else, summoninjr the muse to such a theme, 
The fruit of all her labor is whipp'd cream. 
As if an eagle flew aloth and then — 
Stoop'd from its highest pitcli to pounce a wren. 
As if the poet, purposing to wed. 
Should carve hunself a wife in gingerbread. 

Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appear'd, 
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard ; 
To carry nature lengths unknown before, 
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. 
Thus genius rose and set at order'd tunes, 
And snot a day-spring into distant climes, 
Ennobling ever)' region that he chose; 
He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, 
Emerged all splendor in our isle at hust. 
Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, 
Then show tar oil' their shining plumes again. 

A. Is genius only found in epic lavs } 
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. 
Make their heroic powers your own at once. 
Or candidly confess yourself a dunce. 

B. These were the chief; each interval of 
night 

Was graced with many an undulating light. 
In less illustrious bards his beauty shone 
A meteor, or a star; in these, the sun. 

The nightingale may clajjn the topmost bough 
While the poor grasshopper must cliirp below. 
Like him unnoticed I. and such as I, 
Spread litde winjrs, and rather skip than fly; 
Perch'd on thr^ meagre produce of the land. 
An ell or two of prospect we command ; 
But never peep beyond the thorny bound. 
Or oaken fence, that hems the paddock round. 

In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart 
Had faded poetry was not an art ; 



Language, above all teaching, or if taught, 

Only by gratitude and glowing thought, 

Elegant as simphcity, and warm 

As ecstacy. unmanaeled by form, 

Not prompted, as in our degenerate days, 

By low ambition ii.nd the thirst of praise. 

Was natural as is the (lowing stream, 

And yet magnificent — a God the theme ! 

That theme on earth exhausted, though above 

'Tis tbund as everlasting as his love, 

Man Iavish'<l all his thoughts on human things — 

The feats of heroes and the wruth of kings ; 

But still, while virtue kindled his delight. 

The song was moral and so far was right. 

'Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind 

To joys less innocent, as less refined ; 

Then Genius danced a bacchanal; he crown'd 

The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, bound 

His l)rows with ivy, rush'd into the field 

Of wild imagination, and there reel'd, 

The victim of his own lascivious fires, 

And. <lizzy with delight, profaned the sacred 

wires : 
Anacreon, Horace, play'd in Greece and Rome 
This bedlam part; and others nearer home. 
When Cromwell fouglit lor power, and while he 

reign 'd 
The proud protector of the power he gain'd, 
Religion, harsh, intolerant, austere, 
Parent of manners like herself severe, 
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, 
Without tJie smile, the sweetness, or the grace ; 
The dark and sullen humor of the time 
Judged every effort of the muse a crime; 
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast, 
Was lumber in an age so void of taste. 
But when the second Charles assumed the sway 
And arts revived beneath a softer day. 
Then, like a bow long forced into a cur\-e, 
The mind, released from too constrain'd a nerve, 
Flew to its first position with a spring, 
That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring. 
His court, the dissolute and hateful school 
Of wantonness, when; vice was taught by rule. 
Swarm'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid 
With brutal lust as ever Circe made. 
From these a long succession, in the rage 
Of rank obscenity, debauch'd their age ; 
Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redress 
The abuses of her sacred cliargc, the press, 
The Muse instructed a well-nurtured train 
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, 
And claim the palm for purity of song. 
That lewdness had usurp'd and worn so long. 
Then (It cent pleasantry and sterling sense, 
TIkiI neither gave nor would endure offence. 
Whipp'd out of sight, with satire just and keen, 
The puppy pack that had defiled the scene. 
In front of these came Addi.'^on. In him 
Humor in holiday and slightly trim. 
Sublimity and Attic taste combined, 
To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. 
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, 
In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, 
Gave virtue and morality a grace. 
That quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, 
Levied a tax of wonder and applause, 
E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. 
But he (his musical finesse was such, 
So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) 
Made poetry a mere n^echanic art; 
And every warbler has his tune by heart. 



624 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Nature importinjT her satiric gift, 

Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swifl, 

With droll sobriety they raised a smile 

At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while 

That constellation set, the world in vain 

Must hope to look upon their like again. 

A. Are we then left 7 — B. Not wholly in the 
dark ; 
Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark. 
.Sutficient to redeem the modern race 
From total night and absolute discrrace. 
While servile trick and imitative knack 
Confine the million in the beaten track. 
Perhaps some courser who disdains the road. 
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. 

Contemporaries all surpass'd. see one; 
Sliort his career indeed, but ably run; 
Cliurchill, himself unconscious of his powers, 
In penury consumed his idle hours; 
And, like a scattered seed at random sown, 
W'as left to spring by vigor of his own. 
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought 
And dint of genius, to an affluent lot, 
He laid his head in luxury's soft lap, 
And took, too often, there his easy nap. 
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, 
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. 
Surly ana slovenly, and bold and coarse. 
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, 
Spendthrift aUke of money and of wit, 
Always at speed, and never drawing bit, 
He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, 
And so disdain'd the rules he understood, 
The laure! seem'd to wait on his command ; 
He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. 
Nature, exerting an unwearied power. 
Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower: 
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads ; 
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
With music modulating all their notes; 
And charms the woodland scenes and wilds un- 
known, 
With artless airs and concerts of her own : 
But seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — 
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 
Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought; 
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 
Brings colors, dipp'd in heaven, that never die ; 
A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 
And, as the sun. in rising beauty dress'd, 
Looks to the westward from the dappled east, 
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, 
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close; 
An eye like his to catch the distant goal ; 
Or., ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, 
Like his to shed illuminating rays 
On every scene and subject it surveys : 



Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name, 
And the world cheerfully admits the claim. 
Pity Religion has so seldom found 
A skiltul guide into poetic ground I [stray. 

The flowers would sprint where'er she deigivd to 
And every muse attend her in her way. 
Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend. 
And many a compliment politely penn'd ; 
But, unattired in tliat becoming vest 
Religion weaves for her, and half undress'd, 
Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, 
A wintry figure, like a withcr'd thorn. 
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped ; 
Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread. 
Satire has long since done his best; and curst 
And loathsome rilialdry has done his worst ; 
Fancy has sported all her powers away 
In tales, in trifies, and in children's play; 
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true. 
Whate'er we write, we bring tbrth nothing new. 
'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire. [Ivre, 
Touch'd with a coal from heaven, assume the 
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, 
^Vith more than mortal music on his tongue, 
That He. who died below, and reigns above. 
Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. 

For. after all, if merely to beguile. 
By flowing numbers and a flowery style. 
The tedium that the lazy rich endure. 
Which now and then sweet poetry may cure ; 
Or, if to see the name of idol self; [shelf, 

Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the 
To float a bubble on the breath of fame, 
Prompt his endeavor and engage his aim, 
Debased to servile purposes of pride, 
How are the powers of genius misapplied ! 
The giti, whose oflice is the Giver's praise, 
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways! 
Then spread the rich discovery, and invite 
Mankind to share in the divine delight : 
Distorted from its use and just design, 
To make the pitiful possessor shine, 
To purchase at the fool- frequented fair 
Of vanity a wreath for self to wear. 
Is profanation of the basest kind — 
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. 

A. Hail, Sternhold, then ! and, Hopkins, hail ! 
— B. Amen. 
If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen ; 
If acrimony, slander, and abuse. 
Give it a charge to blacken and traduce; [ease. 
Though Butler's wit, Pope's numbers. Prior's 
With all that fancy can invent to please, 
Adorn the polish'd periods as they I'all, 
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all. 

A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, 
To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. 

B. No matter — we could shift when they were 
not; 

And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 



Si quid loquar audiendum. HoR. lib. iv. Od. 2. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

OnffiD of error— Man endowed with freedom of will— 
Motives for action — Attractions of music — The chiuse — 
Those amusements not suited to the tller^y — Case of 
Dccidutis — Force of example — Due olisttrvance of the 
.Sabbath — C'ards uiiil daneini? — The drunkard and the 
coxcomb — Folly and innocence— Iltirtful pleasures — 
Virtuous pleasures — EtfecUs of Ihi* inordiiiiUe indul- 
gence of pleiLsure — I)alii,'erous tendency of many works 
of imagination— Apostrophe to l.oni l hesterlield- Our 
earliest years the most imi)orLant— I'asliiunable edu- 
cation — The L^rand tour — Aceomphslinients luive taken 
the place of virtui^ — (iualities n^pii^ile in a critic of the 
Bible — row<T of the pn-ss — .-ii.liciliide of i-nthusiasm 
to make proseljles- loudness of atilhorsfor their lit- 
erary prii:;i-ny— The blunderer iinpatietU of contradic- 
tion — Mora! faults and errors of the understandin^c re- 
ciprocally produce one another — The cup of pleasure 
to bo tjuted with caution — Force of habit — The wan- 
derer from the right path directed to the Cross. 

Sts'G, muse, (if such a theme, so dark, so long, 
Muy find a muse to grace it with a song), 
Itv what unseen and unsuspected arts 
The serpent Error twines round human hearts ; 
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery 

sliades, 
That not a glimpse of genuine ligltt pervades, 
The poisonous, black, insinuating worm 
Successfully conceals her loathsome form. 
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine, 
Counsel and caution fro!n a voice like mine ! 
Truths, that the theorist could never reach. 
,\nd observation taught me, I would teach. 

Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills, 
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills. 
Weak to perlbrm. though miglity to pretend, 
Can trace her mazy winding to iheir end ; 
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure, 
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure. 
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear. 
Falls soporific on the listless ear; 
Like quicksilver, the rhetoric they display 
.Shines as it runs, but, grasp'd .at. slips away. 

Placed for his trial on this bustling stage, 
Froai thoughtless youth to ruminating age, 
Free in his will to choose or to refuse, 
Man may improve the crisis, or abuse ; 
KIse. on the tatalist's unrighteous plan. 
Say. to what bar amenable were in.an ? 
With nought in charge he could betray no trast; 
/Vnd, if he fell, would fall because he must: 
If love rewanl him, or if vengeance strike, 
Ills recompense in l)oth unjust alike. 
Divine authority within his breast 
Brings every thought, word, action, to the test; 
Warns him or prompts approves him or restrains 
.■\s reason, or as passion, takes the reins. 
Heaven from above and conseien^vj fron within, 
Cries in his startled ear — Abstain fro.m sin ! 



The world around solicits his desire. 
And kindles in his soul a treacherous fire ; 
While, all his purposes and steps to guard. 
Peace follows virtue as its sure reward ; 
.\nd pleasure brings as surely in her train 
Remorse and sorrow, and vindictive pain. 

Man, thus endued with an elective voice. 
Must be supplied with objects of his choice. 
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight, 
Or present or in prospect meet his sight : 
Those open on the spot their honeyed store ; 
These call him louiUy to pursuit of more. 
His unexhausted mine the sordid vice 
.■Vvarice shows, and virtue is the price. 
Here various motives his ambition raise — 
Power, pomp, and splendor, and the thirst of 

praise ; 
There beauty wooes him with expanded arms ; 
E'en bacchanalian madness has its charms, 

IVor these alone, whose pleasures less refincil 
Alight well alarm the most unguarded mind, 
Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth. 
Or lead him devious from the path of truth ; 
Hourly allurements on his passions press. 
Safe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess. 

Hark ! how it floats upon the dewy air ! 
O what a dying, dying close was Jhere ! 
'Tis harmony, from yon sequcster'd bower. 
.Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour ! 
Long ere the cliariotcer of day had run 
His morning course the enchantment was begun ; 
And he shall gild yon mountain's height again, 
Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain 

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent. 
That virtue points to i Can a life thus spent 
Lead to the bhss she promises the wise, 
Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the 

skies ! 
Ve devotees to your adored employ. 
Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy. 
Love makes the music of the blest above. 
Heaven's harmony is universal love ; fbined, 
And earthly sounds, though sweet and well com- 
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind. 
Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind. 
Grey dawn appears ; the sportsman and his train 
Speckle the bosom of the distant plain ; 
'Tis he, tlie Nimrod of the neighboring lairs ; 
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs. 
For persevering chase, and heaillong leaps. 
True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps. 
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene, 
He takes ofl"ence, and wonders what you mean ; 
The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays — 
'Tis exerci,se. and health, and length of days. 
Again impetuous to the field he flies ; 
Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies; 



526 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings hira home, 
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom. 
Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, 
Lights oT the world and stars of human race ; 
But, if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, 
Prorligies ominous and view'd with tear : 
The comet'3 baneful influence is a dream ; 
Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme. 
What then! are appetites and lusts laid down 
With the same ease that man puts on his gown "? 
Will avarice and concupiscence give place, 
Charm'd by the sounds — Your Reverence, or 

your Grace ? 
No. But his own engagement binds him fast; 
Or, if it does not. brands hijii to the hist 
What atheists call hini — a designing knave, 
A mere church juggler, hypocrite and slave. 
Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest, 
A cassock'd huntsman and a fiddling priest ! 
He trom Italian songsters takes his cue : 
Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too. 
He takes the field. The master of the pack 
Cries — Well done, saint ! and claps him on the 
Is this the path of sanctity 1 Is this [back. 

To stand a waymark on the road to bhss 1 
Himself a wanderer from the narrow way. 
His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray 1 
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet, 
Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmouth-street ! 
The sacred function in your hands is made — 
Sad sacrilege — no function, hut a trade! 
Occiduus is a pastor of renown, [down. 

When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath 
With wire and catgut he concludes the day. 

Quavering and semiquavering care away. 

The full concerto swells upon your ear; [swear 
.411 elbows shake. Look in, and you would 

The Babylonian tyrant with a nod 

Had summonVi tlieiu to serve his golden god. 

So well that thought the employment seems to 
suit, 

Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. 

O fie ! 'tis evangelical and pure ; 

Observe each face, how sober and demure ! 

Ecstacy sets her stamp on every mien ; 

Chins fallen, and not an eyeball to be seen. 

Still I insist, though music heretofore 

Has charm'd me much (not e'en Occiduus more), 

Love, joy. and peace make harmony more meet 

For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet. 
Will not the sickliest sheep of every flock 

Resort to this example as a rock ; 

There stand and justify the foiil abuse 

Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse ; 

If apostolic gravity be tree 

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we 1 

If he the tinkling harpsichord regards 

As inoffensive, what offence in cards ? 

Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay! 

Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. 
O Italy ! — Thy sabbaths will be soon 

Our sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon. 

Preaching and pranks will share the motley 
scene, 

Ours parcelled out, as thine have ever been, 

God's worship and the mountebanks between. 

What says the prophet ? Let that day be blest 

With holiness and consecrated rest. 

Pastime and business, both it should exclude. 

And bar the door the moment they intrude ; 

Nobly distinguished above all the six 

By deeds in which the world must never mix. 



Here him again. He calls it a delight, 
A day of luxury observed aright, [guest, 

When the glad soul is made Heaven's welcome 
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast. 
But triflers are engaged and cannot come ; 
Their answer to the call is — Not at home. 
O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, 
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again ! 
Cards, with what rapture, and the polish 'd die. 
The yawning chasm of indolence supply ! 
Then to the dance, and make the sober moon 
Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon. 
Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball. 
The snug close party, or the splendid hall. 
Where Night, down stooping from her ebon 

throne. 
Views constellations brighter than her own. 
'Tis innocent, and harmless, and refined. 
The balm of care, Elysium of the mind. 
Innocent ! Oh, if venerable Tune 
Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime, 
Then with his silver beard and magic wand. 
Let Comus rise archbishop of the land ; 
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe, 
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe. 

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast, 
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste. 
Rufillus, exquisitely fonn'd by I'ule, 
Not of the moral but the dancing school. 
Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone 
As tragical as others at his own. 
He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score. 
Then kill a constable, and drink five more ; 
But he can draw a pattern, make a tart. 
And has the ladies' etiquette by heart. 
Go, tool ; and, arm in arm with Clodio. plead 
Your cause before a bar you little dread ; 
But know, the law that bids the drunkard die 
Is lar too just to pass the triller by. 
Both baby-teatured. and of infant size, 
'View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes, 
Folly and innocence are so alike. 
The difference, though essential, fails to strike. 
Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, 
A simpering countenance, and a trifling air; 
But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 
Delights us, by engaging our respect. 
Man. Nature's guest by invitation sweet. 
Receives I'rom her both appetite and treat ; 
But. if he play the glutton and exceed, 
His benefactress blushes at the deed. 
For Nature, nice, as liberal to dispense, 
Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. 
Daniel ate pulse by choice — example rare I 
Heaven blcss'd the youth, and made him fresh 

and fair. 
Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan. 
Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan : 
He snuffs far off the anticipated joy; 
Turtle and venison all his thouijhts employ; 
Prepares for meals as jockeys take a sweat, 
Oh, nauseous! — an emetic for a whet! 
Will Providence o'erlook the wasted goodl 
Temperance were no virtue if he could. 

That pleasures, there lore, or what such we call, 
Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all. 
And some, that seem to threaten virtue less 
Still hurtful in the abuse, or by the excess. 

Is man then only for his torment placed 
The centre of delights he ra.iy not taste 1 
Like fabled Tantalus, condemn 'd to hear 
The precious stream still purling in his ear. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 



527 



Lip-ilei'p in what he lonffs for. ami yet curst 
Witli prohibition anil pirpitual thirst '! 
No, wrangler — destitute ol'sliame and sense, 
The precept, that enjoins him abstinence, 
Forbids lum none but the licentious joy. 
Wliose fruit, tliousjh lair, tempts only to destroy. 
Remorse, the I'atal egg by Pleasure laid 
In cvorv bosom where her nest is made, 
Hutch'd by the beams of truth, denies him rest, 
.-Vnd proves a raging scorpion in his breast. 
No pleasure 1 Are domestic comforts dead 1 
.^re all the nameless sweets of frienilship fled 1 
H:is time worn out, or fashion put to shame, 
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and 

good fame 1 
All these belong to virtue, and all prove 
Thiit virtue has a title to your love. 
Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
Stand starved at your inhospitable door I 
Or if yourself too scantily supplied. 
Need help, let honest industry provide. 
Earn, if you want; if you abound, impart: 
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart. 
No pleasure 1 Has some sickly eastern waste 
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blasts 
Can British Paradise no scenes afford 
To please her sated and indiiferent lord 1 
Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run 
Quite to the lees ? .Vnd has religion none f 
Hriites c;ipablc would tell you 'tis a lie, 
\nd judije you from the kennel and the stye. 
Delights like these, yc sensual and protane, 
Ve are bid, begg'd, besouglit, to entertain ; 
Call'd to these crystal streams, do ye turn off 
Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough 1 
Envy the beast, then, on whom Heaven bestows 
Your pleasures, with no curses at the close. 

Pleasure admitted in undue degree 
Enslav^ the will, nor leaves the judjrment free. 
'Tis nor alone the grape's enticing juice 
Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use ; 
,\mbition, avarice, and the lust of I'ame, 
.■Vnd woman, lovely woman, does the same. 
The heart surrencler'd to the rulin" power 
Of some ungovcrn'd passion every liour. 
Finds by degrees the truths that once bore sway, 
.Vnd all their deep impressions, wear away ; 
So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass'd, 
Till Csesar's image is effaced at last. 

The breach, though small at first, soon opening 
wide, 
In rushes folly with a full-moon tide. 
Then welcome errors, of whatever size, 
To justify it by a thousand lies. 
.Vs creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, 
.■Vnd hides the ruin tnat it feeds upon ; 
So sophi.stry cleaves close to and protects 
Sin's rotten trunk, conceaHng its defects. 
Mortals, whose pleasures are their only care, 
First wish to be imposed on, and then are. 
.Vnd lest the fulsome artifice should fail, 
Themselves will hide its coarseness with a veil. 
Not more industrious are the just and true 
To give to Virtue what is Virtue's due — 
The praise of wisdom, comeliness, and worth, 
.\nd call her charms to public notice forth — 
Than Vice's mean and disingenuous race 
To hide the shocking features of her face. 
Hi r form with dress and lotion they repair; 
Then kiss their idol, and pronounce her fair. 

The sacred implement I now employ 
Might prove a mischief, or at best a toy ; 



A trifle, if it move but to amuse ; 
But. if to wrong the judguiint and abuse. 
Worse thiui a poniard in the basest hand. 
It stabs at once the morals of a land. 

Ye writers of what none with safety reads, 
Footing it in the dance that Fancy leads ; 
Ye novelists, who mar what ye would mend, 
Snivelling and drivelling folly without end ; 
Whose corresponding misses fill the ream 
VVitli sentimental frippery and dream. 
Caught in a delicate soft silken net 
By some lewd carl, or rake-hell baronet : 
Ye pimps, who, under virtue's fair pretence, 
Steal to the closet of young innocence. 
And teach her, inexperienced yet and green, 
To scribble as you scribbled at fitleen ; 
Who, kindling a combustion of desire. 
With some cold moral think to quench the fire ; 
Though all your engineering proves in vain 
The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again : 
Oh that a verse had power, and could command 
Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land. 
Who fasten without mercy on the fair, 
.^nd suck, and leave a craving maggot there ! 
Howe'er disguised the inflammatory tale, 
.■Vad cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil; 
Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust 
.\nd relish of their pleasure all to lust. 

But the muse, eagle-pinion 'd. has in view 
A quarry more important still than you ; 
Down, liown the wind she swims, and sails away. 
Now stoop-' upon it, and now grasps the prey. 

Pctronius! all the muses weep t'or thee; 
But every tear shall scald thy memory : 
The graces too, while Virtue at their shrine 
L.ay bleeding under that soft hand of thine. 
Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast, 
.Vbhorr'd the sacrifice, and cursed the priest 
Thou polish'd and high-finish'd foe to truth, 
Graybeard corrupter of our listening youth, 
To purge and skim away the filth of vice, 
That so refined it might the more entice. 
Then pour it on the morals of thy son. 
To taint his heart w,is worthy of thine own ! 
Now, while the poison all high life pervades 
Write, if thou canst, one letter from the shades. 
One, and one only, charged with deep regret. 
That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet ; 
One sad epistle thence may cure mankind 
Of the plague spread b^ bundles letl behind. 

'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears 
Our most important are our earliest years; 
The mind, impressible and sof\, with ease 
Imbilies and copies what she hears and sees, 
.\nd through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue 
That Education gives her, f;ilse or true. 
Plants raised with tenderness are seldom strong; 
Man's coltish disposition asks the thong; 
.And without discipline the favorite child. 
Like a neglected f'orestijr, runs wild. 
But we, as if good qualities would grow 
Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow : 
We give some Latin and a smatch of Greek; 
Teach him to fence and figure twice a week ; 
.'Vnd having done, we think, the liest we can, 
Praise his proficiency, and dub him man. 

From scnool to Cam or Isis, and thence home ; 
And thence with all convenient speed to Rome, 
With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay. 
To tease lor cash, and quarrel with all day; 
With memorandum book for every town. 
.'Vnd every post, and where the chaise broke down ; 



528 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



His stock, a lew French phrases got by heart, 
With much to learn, but nothing to impart; 
The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, 
Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands. 
Surprised at all they meet, the goshnw pair, 
With awkward gait, stretch'd neck, and silly stare, 
Discover huge cathedrals built with stone, 
And steeples towering high, much like our own ; 
But show peculiar light by many a grin 
At popish practices obser\'ed within. 

Ere long some bowing, smirking, smart abbe 
Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way ; 
And, being always primed with politesse 
For men of their appearance and address. 
With much compassion undertakes the task 
To tell them more than they have wit to ask; 
Points to inscriptions whercsoe'er they tread. 
Such as, when legible, were never read, 
But being canker'd now and half worn out. 
Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt ; 
Some headless hero, or some Cjesar shows — 
Defective only in his Roman nose; 
Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 
Models of Herculanum pots and pans; 
And sells them medals, which, if neither rare 
Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care. 

Strange the recital ! from whatever cause 
His great improvement and new liglits he draws. 
The squire, once bashful, is shamefaced no more, 
But teems with powers he never felt before ; 
Whether increased momentum, and the force 
With which from clime to clime he sped his course, 
(As axles sometimes kindle as they go,) 
Chafed him, and brouirht dull nature to a glow ; 
Or whether clearer skies and softer air. 
That make Italian Howers so sweet and fair. 
Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran. 
Untblded genially, and spread the man ; 
Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace, 
By shrugs and strange contortions of his face, 
How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, 
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. 

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, 
And wisclom falls before exterior grace: 
We slight the precious kernel of trie stone. 
And toil to polish its rough coat alone, 
A just deportment, manners graced with ease, 
Elegant phrase, and figure form'd to please. 
Are qualities that seem to comprehend 
Whatever parents, guardians, schools, intend ; 
Hence an unfurnish'd and a listless mind. 
Though busy, trifling; empty, though refined; 
Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash 
With indolence and luxury, is trash ; 
While learning, once the man's exclusive pride, 
Seems veraing fast towards the female side. 
Learning itself received into a mind 
By nature weak, or viciously inclined, 
Serves but to lead philosophers astray, 
Where children would with ease discern the way. 
And of all arts sagacious dupes invent, 
To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent. 
The worst is — Scripture warp'd t'rom its intent. 

The carriage bowls along, and all are pleased 
If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greased ; 
But if the rooiie be gone a cup too far. 
Left out his linchpin, or forgot his tar. 
It suffers interruption and delay, 
And meets with hindrance in the smoothest 

wav. 
When some hypothesis absurd and vain 
Has lill'd with all its fumes a critic's brain. 



The text that sorts not with his darling whim. 

Though plain to others, is obscure to him. 

The will made subject to a lawless force, 

Ail is irregular, and out of course ; 

And Judgment drunk, and bribed to lose his way, 

Winks hard, and talks of darkness at noonday. 

A critic on the sacred book should be 
Candid and learn 'd, dispassionate and tree; 
Free from the wayward bias bigots feel, 
From fancy's influence, and intemperate zeal: 
Bat above all, (or let the wretch refrain, 
Nor touch the page he cannot hut profane,) 
Free from the domineering power of lust; 
A lewd interpreter is never just. 

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address. 
Thou god of our idolatry, the Press *? 
By thee reliirion, liberty and laws. 
Exert their influence and advance their cause; 
By thee worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befell. 
Diffused, make Earth the vestibule of Hell ; 
Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise, 
Thou ever-bubbhng spring of endless lies; 
Like Eden's dread probationary tree, 
Knowledge of go 'd and evil is from thee! 

No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest 
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd. 
Philosophers, who darken and put out 
Eternal truth by everlasting doubt; 
Church quacks, w thpassionsunder nocommand, 
Who fill the world with doctrines contraband. 
Discoverers of they know not what, confined 
Witliin no bounds — the blind that lead the blind ; 
To streams of popular opinion drawn, 
Deposit in those shallows all their spawn. 
The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around, 
Poisoning the waters where their swarms abound. 
Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood, [food. 
Minnows and gudgeons gorge the unwholesome 
The propagated myriads spread so tast, ^ 
E'en Leuwenhoeck himself would stanaaghast. 
Employ'd to calculate the enormous sum, 
And own his crab-computing powers o'ercome. 
Is this hyperbole 1 The world well known, 
Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one. 

Fresh confidence the speculatist takes 
From every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes; 
And therefore prints: himself but half deceived. 
Till others have the soothing tale believed. 
Hence comment al\er comment, spun as fine 
As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line. 
Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey 
Is misapplied to sanctify their sway. 
If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend. 
Hebrew or Syriac shall be forced to bend ; 
If languages and copies all cry, No — 
Somebody proved it centuries ago. 
Like trout pursued, the critic in despair 
Darts to the mud, and finds his safety there : 
Women, whom custom has forbid to fly 
The scholar's pitch, (the scholar best knows why.) 
With all the simple and unletterd poor, 
Admire his learning, and almost atlore. 
Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong. 
With such fine wonls familiar to his tongue. 

Ye ladies ! (for. indifferent in your cause, 
I should deserve to forfeit all applause) 
Whatever shocks or gives the least offence 
To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense, 
(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide.) 
Nor has, nor can havi^ Scripture on its side. 

None but an author knows an author's cares. 
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 



529 



Committed once into the public arms, 

Tlie bal)y seems to smile with aiMeil charms. 

Lilce something precious ventured tar from shore, 

'Tis valued lor the dani^er's sake tiie more. 

He views it with complacency supreme, 

Solicits kinil attention to his dream; 

And daily, more enamor'd of the cheat. 

Kneels, and asks Heaven to bless the dear deceit. 

So one, whose story serves at least to show 

Men loved their own productions long ago, 

Wooed an unfeeling statue for his wili;. 

Nor rested till the gods had given it life. 

If som>; mere driveller suck the sugar'd fib, 

One that still needs his leading string and bib, 

And praise his genius, he is soon repaid 

In praise apnhed to the same part — his head; 

For 'tis a rule that holds forever true, 

Grant me discernment, and I grant it you. 

Patient of contradiction as a child, 
AITable, humble, diffident, and mild ; 
Such wa.s Sir Isaac, and such Boyle and Locke ; 
Your blunderer is as sturdy as a rock. 
The creature is so sure to kick and bite, 
A muleteer's the mun to set him right. 
First Appetite enlists him. Truth's sworn foe, 
Then obstinate Self-will confinns him so. 
Tell him he wanders ; that his error leails 
To fatal ills ; that, though the path lie treads 
He flowery, and he see no cause of il\ar, 
Death and the pains of hell attend hhu there : 
In vain ; the slave of arrogance and pride, 
He has no hearing on the prudent side. 
His still refuted quirks he still repeats; 
New raised objections witli new quibbles meets; 
Till, sinking in the quicksand he dcfcmls. 
He dies disputing, and the contest ends — 
But not the mischiefs ; they, still letl behind, 
Like thistle-seeds, are sown by every wind. 

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill ; 
Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
And, with a clear and shining lamp suppUed, 
First put it out, then take it for a guide. 
Halting on crutches of unequal size. 
One leg by truth supported, one by lies, 
They sidle to the goal with awkward pace. 
Secure of nothing — but to lose the race. 

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain, 
Am] these reciprocally those aijain. 
The mind and conduct mutually imprint 
And stamp their image in each other's mint ; 
Each, sire and dam of an infernal race. 
Begetting and conceiving all that's base. 

None sends his arrow to the mark in view. 
Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue. 



For though, ere yet the shaft is on the wing. 
Or when it first forsakes the elastic string, 
It err but little from »he intended line, 
It falls at last far wide of his design ; 
.So he who seeks a mansion in the sky, 
Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye ; 
That prize belongs to none but the sincere. 
The least obliquity is fatal here. 

With caution taste the .sweet Circean cup; 
He that sips often, at last drinks it up. 
Habits are soon assumed ; but when we strive 
To strip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive. 
Call'd to the temple of impure delight. 
He that abstains, and he alone, does right. 
If a wish wander that way. call it home; 
He cannot long be sat'e whose wishes roiun. 
But if you pass the threshold, you are caught; 
Die then, if power Almighty save you not. 
There hardening by degrees, till double steel'd, 
Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd ; 
Then laugh at all you trembled at betbrc ; 
.•Ind, Joining the freethinkers' brutal roar. 
Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense — 
That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense. 
If clemency revolted by abuse 
Be damnable, then daTiin'd without excuse. 

Some dream that they can silence, when they 
will. 
The storm of passion, and say. Peace, be still: 
But " Thus far and no farther," when address'd 
To the wild wave, or wilder human breast. 
Implies authority that never can. 
That never ought to be the lot of man. 

Hut, muse, forbear; long flights Ibrebode a fall ; 
Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all. 

Hear the just law — the judgment of the skies ! 
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies; 
-Ind lie that will be cheated to the last, 
Delusions slronff as hell shall bind him fast. 
But if the wanderer his mistake discern, 
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, 
Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss 
Forever and forever? No — the cross! 
There and there only (though the deist rave, 
And atheist, if Earth bear so base a slave); 
There and there only is the power to save. 
There no delusive hope invites despiiir; 
No mockery meets you, no deception there, 
The spells and charms, that blinded you before, 
.411 vanish there, and t'ascinatc no more. 

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice — 
The cross once seen is death to every vice ; 
Else He that hung there suflcr'd all his pain. 
Bled, groan'd. and agonized, and died, in vain. 
34 



TRUTH. 



Pensantur trutini. IIor. lib. ii. Ep. 1. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

The pm-siiit of error leads to destruction— Grace leads 
the ritrlit way— Its direction despised— The self-suffi- 
cient Pharisee compared with the peacock— Tlie pheas- 
ant compared with the Christian- Heaven abliors af- 
fected sanctity— The hermit and his penances— The 
selt-torturing Bramin— Pride the ruling principle of 
botli — Picture of a sanctimonious prude — Picture of a 
saint— Freedom of a Christian— Importance of motives, 
illustrated by the conduct of two servants— Tlxe trav- 
eller overtaken by a storm likened to the sinner dread- 
ing the vengeance of the Almi<;hty— Dangerous state 
of ihose who are just in their own conceit — The last 
moments of the inlidel— Content of the ignorant but 
believing cottaffer- The rich, the wise, and the great, 
ne^jlect the means of wimiing heaven— Poverty the best 
soil for religion— What man really is, and what in his 
own esteem— Unbelief often tenniuates in suicide — 
Scripture the only ciue of woe— Pride the passion most 
hostile to truth- Danger of slighting the mery offered 
by the Gospel— Plea for the virtuous heathen— Com- 
mands given by God on Sinai— The judgunjut-day- 
Plea of the believer. 

Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'J, 
His ship half founder'd, and his compass lost, 
Sees, far as human optics may command, 
A sleeping foij, and fancies it dry land ; 
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies ; 
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! 
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes. 
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams ; 
Deceitful views of tuture bliss, farewell ! 
He reads his sentence at the flames of hell. 

Hard lot of man — to toil for the reward 
Of virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard'? — 
He that would win the race must guide his horse 
Obedient to the customs of the course ; 
Else, though iinequall'd to the goal he flies, 
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. 
Grace leads the right way ; if you choose the 

wrong, 
Take it and perish ; but restrain your tongue ; 
Charge not, with light suflicient and left free. 
Your wilful suicide on God's decree. 

Oh how unlike the complex works of man, 
Heav'n's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan ! 
No meretricious graces to beguile, 
No clustering ornaments to tuog the pile ; 
Prom ostentation, as from weakness, free, 
It stands like the ceruhan arch we see, 
Majestic in its own simplicity. 
Inscribed above the portal from afar 
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, 
Legible only by the hght they give, 
Stand the soul-quickening words — believr, and 

LIVE. [most. 

Too many, shock'd at what should charm them 
Despise the plain direction, and are lost, [dain) 
Heaven on such terms! (they cry with proud dis- 
Incredible, impossible, and vain ! — 



Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey ; 
And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way. 
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains 
Some thought of immortality remains ; 
The rest too busy or too gay to wait 
On the sad theme, their everlasting state. 
Sport for a day,-and perish in a night; 
The foam upon the waters not so light. 

Who judged the Pharisee ! What odious cause 
Exposed him to the vengeance of the lawsl 
Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'J a friend, 
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end 1 
Wiis blasphemy his sin 1 Or did he stray 
Prom the strict duties of the sacred day'? 
.Sit long and late at the carousing board '? 
(Such were the sins with which he charged his 

Lord.) 
No — the man's morals were exact. What then 1 
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ; 
His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice 
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; 
He wore them as fine trappings for a show, 
A praying, synagogue-trequenting beau. 

The self applauding bird, the peacock, see — 
Mark what a sumptuous pliarisee is he I 
Meridian sunbeams tempt hun to unfold 
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold : 
He treads as if some solemn music near, 
His measured step was govern'd by his ear; 
.And seems to say — Ye ujeaner fowl give place ; 
I am all splendor, dignity, and grace ! 

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, 
Tliough he, too, has a glory in his plumes. 
He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien 
To the close copse or far sequester'd green, 
.-Vnd shines without desiring to be seen. 
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain. 
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and dis- 
dain; 
Not more affronted by avowed neglect, 
Tlian by tile mere dissembler's feign 'd respect. 
Wiiat is all righteousness that men devise? 
What — but a sordid bargain for the skies 1 
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own. 
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne. 

His dwelling a recess in some rude rock ; 
Book, beads, and maple dish, his meagre stock ; 
In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress'd. 
Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd ; 
.Vdust with stripes told out for every crime, 
And sore tormented, long before his time; 
His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid. 
His praise postponed, and never to be paid ; 
See the sage hermit, by mankind admired. 
With all that bigotry adopts inspired. 
Wearing out life in his rehgious whim, 
Till his religious whimsy wears out him. 



TRUTH. 



531 



His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'J, 
Vou thinic him humble — God accounts him 

proa<l. 
High in Jemand, though lowly in pretence, 
or all his conduct this the genuine sense — 
^Iv penitential stripes, my streaming blood. 
Have purchased heaven, and proved my title 
good. 

Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply 
To your weak sight her telescopic eye. 
The bramin kindles on his own bare head 
The sacred fire, sell-torturing his trade ! 
His voluntary pains, severe and lontf. 
Would give a barbarous air to British songj 
No grand inquisitor could worse invent. 
Than he contrives to suffer well content. 

Which is the saintlicr worthy of the two 1 
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. 
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name 1 
I say the bramin has the fairer claim. 
If sufferings scripture nowhere recommends, 
Devised by self to answer selfish ends. 
Give saintship, then all Europe nmst aaree 
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. 
The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, 
.Vnd prejudice have letl a passage clear) 
Pride has attained a most luxuriant growth, 
And poison'd every virtue in them hoth, [lean ; 
Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows 
Humility may clothe an English dean ; 
That grace was Cowper's — his, contess'd by all — 
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall. 
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, 
His palace, and his lacqueys, and " My Lord," 
More nourish pride, that condescending vice. 
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; 
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows : 
In misery fools upon themselves impose. 

But why before us protestants produce 
.•Vn Indian mystic or a French recluse f 
Their sin is plain ; but what have we to fear, 
Reforjn'd ;ind wcll-instrueteil 1 Vou shall hear. 

Von ancient prude, whose wither'd features 
She might be young some t'orty years ago, [show 
Her elbows pinioneil close upon her hips. 
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, 
Her eyebrows arched, her eyes both gone astray 
To watch yon amorous couple in their play, 
With bony and unkcrchief d neck defies 
The rude inclemency of wintry skies. 
And sails with lajjpet head and mincing airs 
Duly at clink of bell to morning pr.ayers. 
To thritt and parsimony much inclined. 
She yet allows herself that boy behind ; 
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes, 
With slipshod heels and dewdrop at his nose, 
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear, 
^Vhich future pages yet are doom'd to share. 
Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm, 
.Vnil hides his hands to keep his fingers warm. 

.She, half an angel in her own account, 
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount. 
Though not a grace appears on strictest search. 
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. 
Conscious of age, she recollects her youth, 
,\nd tells, not always with an eye to truth, [came, 
\Vho spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he 
Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ; 
Who stole her lilipper, fill'd it with tokay. 
And drank the little bumper every day. 
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, 
Censorious, and her every word a wasp ; 



In faithful memory she records the crimes 

Or real, or fictitious, of the times; 

Laughs at the reputations she has torn. 

And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. 

Such are the I'ruits of sanctimonious pride, 
Of malice feil while flesh is mortified : 
Take, madam the reward of all your prayers. 
Where hermits and where braminsraeetwith theirs, 
Vour portion is with them, — IVay, never frown. 
But. if you please, some fathoms lower down. 

Artist, attend — your brushes and your paint — 
Produce them, take a chair — now draw a saint. 
Oh sorrowful and sail ! the streaming tears 
Channel her cheeks — a Niobe appears ! 
Is this a saint 1 Throw tints and all away — 
True piety is cheerful as the day. 
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan 
Tor others' woes, but smiles upon her own. 

What purpose has the King of saints in view 1 
Why flills the gospel like a gracious dew 1 
To call up plenty from the teeming earth, 
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth f 
Is it that .Adam's offspring may be saved 
From servile fear, or be tiie more enslaved? 
To loose the Unks that gall'd mankind before, 
Or bind them f'aster on, and add still morel 
The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, 
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love : 
Xo fear attends to quench his glowing fires. 
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires. 
Shall he, for such deliverance freely wrought, 
Recompense ill 1 He trembles at the thought. 
His blaster's interest and his own combined 
Proaipt every movement of his heart and mind : 
Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, 
His freedom is the freedom of a prince, 

Man's obligations infinite, of course 
His Ufe should prove that he perceives their force ; 
His utmost he can render is but small — 
The principle and motive all in all, 
Vou have two servants — Tom, an arch, sly rogue, 
From top to toe the Gcta now in vogue. 
Genteel in figure, easy in address. 
Moves without noise, and swift as an express. 
Reports a message with a pleasing grace. 
Expert in all the duties of his place : 
Say, on what hinge does his obedience move 1 
Has he a world of gratitude and love *? 
No, not a spark — 'tis all mere sharper's play ; 
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your 
Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, [P^y ! 

ToJii quits you, with — Your most obedient, sir. 

The dinner serveil, Charles takes his usual 
Watches your eye, anticipates command ; [stand, 
Sighs, if perhaps your appetite should fail; 
.\nd, if he but suspcct-s a frown, turns p,ale; 
Consults all day your interest and your ease, 
Richly rewarded if he can but please; 
.■Vnil, proud to make his firm attachment known. 
To save your lit'e would nobly risk his own. 

Now which stands highest in your serious 
thought 1 
Charles, without doubt, s.iy you — and so he ought ; 
One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds. 
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds. 

Thus Heaven approves as honest and sincere 
The work of generous love and filial fear; 
But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge 
Scorns the base hirehng and the slavish clrudge. 

Where dwell these matchless sjiints? old Curio 
E'en at your side, sir. and liefitre your eyes, [cries. 
The liivor'd few — the enthusiasts you clespise. 



632 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



And, pleased at heart because on holy ground, 
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is tbund, 
Reproach a people with his single fall, 
And cast his filtliy raiment at tnem all. 
Attend ! an apt similitude shall show 
AVhence springs the conduct that offends you so. 
See where it smokes along the sounding plain, 
Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, 
Peal upon peal redoubling all around. 
Shakes it ag:un and faster to the ground ; 
Now flasliing wide, now glancing as in play, 
Swii\ beyond thought the lightnings dart away. 
Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed, 
And Inin'ied, but with unsuccessful speed; 
Now drench'd tlu'oughout, and hopeless of his 

case, 
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. 
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude, 
Long hid by interposing hill or wood. 
Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, 
By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, 
Offer him warmth, security, and re.st ; 
Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease, 
He hears the tempest howling in the trees ; 
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ. 
While danger p.ist is turn'd to present joy. 
So fares it with the sinner, when he feels 
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels: 
His conscience like a glassy lake before, 
Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar; 
Tlie law, grown clamorous, though silent long. 
Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong — 
Asserts the right of his offended Lord, 
And death, or restitution, is the word : 
Tlie last impossible, he fears the first. 
And, having well deserved, expects the worst. 
Then welcome refuge and a peaceful home ; 
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come ! 
Crush me, ye rocks ; ye falling mountains, hide. 
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide ! — 
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes 
I dare not — And you need not, God replies; 
The remedy you want I freely give ; 
The book shall teach you — read, believe and live ! 
'Tis done — the raging storm is heard no more, 
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore : 
And Justice, guardian of the dread command, 
Drop.5 the red vengeance from his willing hand. 
A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise ; 
Hence the complexion of his future days. 
Hence a demeanor holy and unspeck'd. 
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect. 
Some lead a life unblameable and ju.st. 
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust : 
They never sin — or if (as all olTend) 
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend. 
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, 
A slight gratuity atones tor all. 
For tlioufjh the pope has lost his interest here. 
And pardons are not sold as once they were. 
No papist more desirous to compound. 
Than some grave sinners upon' English ground. 
That plea retuted. other quirks they seek — 
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak; 
The future shall obliterate the past. 
And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last. 
Com'^ then — a still, small whisper in your ear — 
He has no hope who never had a fear ; 
And he that never doubted of his state. 
He may perhaps — perhaps he may — too late. 

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; 
Lcarnini; is one, and wit, however rare. 



The Frenchman, first in literary fame, [same) 
(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire 1 — The 
With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied, [died ; 
Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and 
The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew 
Son-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; 
An infidel iniiealth, but what when sick 1 
Oh — then a text would touch him at the quick ; 
View him at Paris in his last career. 
Surrounding thron^rs tlie demi-god revere; 
Exalted on his pedestal of pride, 
.'ind fumed with frankincense on every side, 
He begs their flattery with his latest breath. 
And, sinother'd in't at last, is praised to death ! 
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own iloor. 
Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; 
Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay 
Shuffling her threads about the live-loner day, 
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night 
I Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ; 
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit. 
Has little understanding, and no wit. 
Receives no praise ; but though her lot be such, 
(Toilsome and ijidigent,) she renders much; 
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true — 
A truth the brilhant Frenchman never knew ; 
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes. 
Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
Oh, happy peasant ! Oh, unhappy bai'd ! 
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 
He praised perhaps for atjes yet to coaie. 
She never heard of half a mile t'rom home : 
He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers. 
She, safe in the sunplicity of hers. 

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound 
In science win one inch of heavenly ground. 
And is it not a mortitying thought 
The poor should gain it, and the rich should not ? 
No — the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget 
One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret; 
Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer. 
Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them 
Not that the Former of us all in this, [there. 
Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice ; 
The supposition is replete with sin, 
.■Vnd bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. 
Not so — the silver trumpet's heavenly call 
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all : 
Kinijs are invited, and would kings obey. 
No slaves on earth more welcome were than they ; 
But royalty, nobility, and state, 
Are such a dead preponderating weight. 
That endless bliss, (now strange soe er it seem.) 
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 
'Tis open, anrl ye cannot enter — why ? 
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply — 
And he says much that many may dispute 
And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 
Oh, bless'd eff'ect of penury and want. 
The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant ! 
No soil like poverty for growtli divine. 
As leanest land supplies the richest wine. 
Earth gives too little, giving only bread. 
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head : 
To them the sounding jargon of the schools 
Seems what it is — a cap and bells for fools: 
The light they walk by, kindled from above. 
Shows them the shortest way to life and love : 
They, strangers to the controversial field. 
Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield, 
And never check 'd'bv what impedes the wise, 
Believe, rush forwaril, and possess the prize. 



TRUTH. 



533 



Envy, ye great, the tiull unietter'd small : 
Yo have much cause lor envy — hut not all. 
We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways, 
And one who weiirs a coronet anil prays ; 
Like gleanings of an oUve tree, they siiow 
Here and there one upon the topmost bough. 

How readily, upon the Gospel plan. 
That question has its answer — What is man 1 
Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch; 
An iiLstruinent, whose chords, upon the stretch, 
And straind to the last screw that he can bear, 
Yield only discord in his Maker's ear : 
Once the blest residence of truth divine, 
Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine, 
Where, in his own oracular abode, 
Dwelt visibly the light-creating God ; 
^ut made long since, like Babylon of old, 
A den of mLscliiefs never to be told : 
And she, once mistress of the realms around. 
Now scattered wide and nowhere to be found, 
As soon shall rise and re-ascend the tlirone, 
By native power and energy her own, 
As nature, at her own pecuhar cost, 
Restore to man the glories he has lost. 
Go — bid the winter cease to chill the year. 
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere, 
Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour) 
The selt-restoring arm of human power. 
But what is man in his own proud esteem t 
Hear him — himself the poet and the theme : 
A monarch clothed wilii majesty and awe, 
His mind his kingdom, and his will his law; 
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes, 
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies, 
Strength in his heart, dominion in liis nod. 
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God ! 

So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and 
form, 
The song magnificent — the theme a worm ! 
Himself so much the source of his delight. 
His Maker has no beauty in his siglit. 
See where he sits, contemplative and fix'd. 
Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd. 
His passions tamed and all at his control, 
How perfect the composure of his soul I 
Complacency has Jireathed a gintle gale 
O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail : 
His books well trimm'd. and in the gayest style. 
Like regimental coxcombs, rank and hie, 
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves, 
And teach hini notions splendid as themselves: 
The Bible only stands neglected there. 
Though that of all most worthy of his care ; 
And, Tike an infant troublesome awake. 
Is left to sleep I'or peace and quiet sake. 

What shall the man deserve of human kind, 
Whose happy skill and industry combined 
Shall prove (what argument could never yet) 
The Bible an imposture and a cheat 1 
The praises of the libertine profess'd, 
The worst of men. anil curses of the best. 
Where should the Uving, weeping o'er his woes; 
The dying, trombhng at the awful close; 
Where the bctray'd, forsaken, anil oppress'd ; 
The thousands whom the world Ibrbids to rest ; 
Where should they find, (those comforts at an 

end, 
The Scripture yields ) or hope to find, a friend 1 
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then. 
And, seeking exile from the sight of men. 
Bury herself in solitude profound. 
Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. 



Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life. 

Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife. 

The jurj* meet, the coroner is short, 

.And lunacy the verdict of the court. 

Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known, 

Such lunacy is ignorance alone ; 

They knew not, what some bishops may ndt 

know. 
That Scripture Ls the only cure of woe. 
That field of promise how it flings abroad 
Its odor o'er the Christian's thorny road I 
The soul, reposing on assured relief. 
Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, 
Forgets her labor as she toils along, 
Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song. 
But the siune word, that, like the polish'd 

share, 
Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care, 
Kills too tile liowery weeds, where'er they grow. 
That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. 
Oh. that unwelcome voice of heavenly love. 
Sad messenger of mercy from above ! 
How does it grate upon his thankless ear. 
Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear! 
His will "and judgment at continual strife. 
That civil war embitters all his life ; 
In vain he points his powers against the skies. 
In vain he closes or averts his eyes, 
Truth will intrude — she bids him yet beware; 
.\nd shakes the sceptic in tlie scorner's chair. 
Though various foes against the Truth combine, 
Pride above all opposes her design ; 
Pride, of a growth superior to the rest, 
The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest. 
Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage. 
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. 
And is the soul indeed so lost "( — she cries. 
Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise 'i 
Torpid and dull, beneath a frozen zone. 
Has she no spavk that may be deem'd her own 1 
Grant her indebted to what zealots call 
Grace undeserved, yet surely not lor all ! 
Some beams of rectitude she yet displays. 
Some love of virtue, and sojne power to praise ; 
Can lilt herself above corporeal thinjis. 
And, soiu'ing on her own unborrow'd wlng^', 
Possess herself of all that's good or true, 
As.sert the .skies, and vindicate her due. 
Past indiscretion is a venial crime ; 
And if the youth, unmellowed yet by time. 
Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude, 
Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude, 
Maturer years shall happier stores produce, 
And meliorate the well-concocted juice. 
Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal. 
To Justice she may make her bold appeal ; 
.•\nd leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind. 
The worthless and unfruitful of mankind. 
Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied. 
Retorts the afl'ront against the crown of priile. 

Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd. 
-Vnd the fool with it, who insults his Lord. 
The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought 
Is not for you — the righteous need it not. 
Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets. 
The worn-out nuisance of th« pubUc streets, 
Herself from morn to night, from night to mom. 
Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn 1 
The gracious sliowcr, unlimited and free. 
Shall fall on her, when Heaven denies it thee. 
Of all that wisdom dictates this the drift — 
That man is dead in sin, and life a gift. 



634 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Is virtue, then, unless of Christian growth, 
Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both ? 
Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe. 
For ignorance of what they could not know 1 — 
That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue. 
Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong ! 
Truly, not I — tlie partial light men have, 
My creed persuades me, well employ'd, may save ; 
While he that scorns the noon-day beam, per- 
verse. 
Shall find the blessing, unimproved, a curse. 
Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind 
Left sensuality and dross behind. 
Possess, for me, their undisputed lot, 
And take, unenvied, the reward they sought. 
But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea. 
Not blind by choice, but destined not to see. 
Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame 
Celestial, though they knew not whence it came. 
Derived from the same source of light and grace, 
That guides the Christian in his swifter race ; 
Their judge was conscience, and her rule theur 

law: 
That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe, 
Led them, however foltering, faint and slow. 
Prom wh.at they knew to what they wish'd to 

know. 
But let not him that shares a brighter day 
Traduce the splendor of a noontide ray, 
Prefer the twilight of a darker time, 
And deem his base stupidity no crime; 
The wretch, who slights the bounty of the skies, 
And sinks, while favor'd with the means to rise, 
Shall find them rated at their full amount. 
The good he scorn'd all carried to account. 

Marshalling all his terrors as he came, 
Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame, 
Prom Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law — 
Life for obedience — death for every flaw. 



When the great Sovereign woulil his will express, 
He gives a perfect rule, what can he less 1 
And guards it with a sanction as severe 
As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear: 
Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim, 
And man might safely trifle with his name. 
Ho bids them glow with unremitting love 
To all on earth, and to himself above ; [tongue. 
Condemns the injurious deed, the slanderous 
The thought that meditates a brother's wrong : 
Brings not alone the more conspicuous part. 
His conduct, to the test, but tries his heart. 

Hark ! universal nature shook and groan'd, 
'Twas tlie last trumpet — see the Judge enthron'd : 
Rouse all your courage at your utmost need. 
Now summon every virtue, stand and plead. 
What ! silent 1 Is your boasting heard no more \ 
That selt-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before. 
Had shed immortal glories on your brow, 
That all your virtues cannot purchase now. 
All joy to the believer ! He can speak — 
Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek, [foot 

I Since t1ie dear hour that brought me to thy 
And cut up all my follies by the root, 
I never trusted in an arm but thine, 

' Nor hoped, but in thy riifhteousness divine : 
My prayers and alms, imiierfect and defiled, 
Were but the feeble elTorls of a child ! 
Howe'er performed, it was their brightest part, 
That they proceeded from a grateful heart : 
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, 
Porgive their evil and accept their good : 
I cast them at thy feet — my only plea 

' Is what it was, dependence upon thee : 
While struggling in the vale of tears below. 
That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now. 

.4ngehc gratulations rend the skies. 
Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise, 
Humility is crow n'd, and Paith receives the prize. 



EXPOSTULATION. 



Tantano, tam paticns, nuUo certamine tolli 
Duna sines? Viro. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Expostulation with the Muse weepine; for England— Her 
apparently piosju'roua condition — State of Israel when 
the pru[.lu'l v.'v\)\. mi-r it— The Babylonian Captivity— 
Wlirn iKitions ik't.'line, the evil commences in the 
Church— State of the Jews in the time of our Sa\iour— 
Evidences of their having been the most favored of na- 
tions — Causes of tlii^ir downfall — Lesson taught by it — 
WiU'uing to Britain— The hand of Providence to be 
traced in adverse events — Enfj^land's trangressions — 
Her vain-glor>'— H«r conduct towards India—Abuse of 
the sacrament — Obduracy against repentance — Futility 
of fasts— Character of the Clerg-y--The poet adverts 
to the slate of the ancient Britons — Bcncfici;il influence! 
of the Roman power — Ent,'Iand under papal suprem- 
acy— -Favors since bestowed on her by Providence — 
Reasons for gratitude to God and for Feeking to se- 
cure his favor — With that she may defy a world in 
arras— The poet anticipates little etfect from his warning. 

Why wec])s the muse for England 1 What appears 
In England's case to move the muse to tears'? 



From side to side of her delightful isle 
Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile 1 
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer 
A new-found luxurj', not seen in herl 
Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued, 
Or where does cold reflection less intmde 1 
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn, 
Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn; 
Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies 
The fervor and the force of Indian skies : 
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits 
To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; 
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice 
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice, 
Forbid in vain to pusli his darin"; way 
To darker climes, or chmes of bnghtcr day ; 
Whom the winds wafl where'er the billows roll. 
From the World's girdle to the frozen pole ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 



635 



The chariots bounding in her wheel- worn streets, 
Her vaults below, where every vintage meets ; 
Her theatres, hoe revels, and her sports; 
The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, 
But age. in spite ot* weakness and of pain. 
Still haunts, m hope to dream ot" youth again; 
All speak her h;ippy ; let the muse look round 
From East to West, no sorrow can be found ; 
Or only what, in cottages confined, 
yighs unregarded to the passing wind. 
Then wherefore weep for England 1 What ap- 
pears 
In England's case to move the muse to tears 1 

The prophet wept for Israel ; wish'd his eyes 
Were fountains fed with infinite supplies ; 
For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong; 
There were the scorner's and the slanderer's 

tongue ; 
Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, 
As interest hiass'd knaves, or fashion tools ; 
Adultery, neighing at his neighbor's door; 
Oppression laboring hard to grmd the poor ; 
The partial balance and deceitful weight ; 
The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate ; 
Hypocrisy, foraiality in jirayer, 
And the dull senice of tlie Up were there. 
Her women, insolent anil selticaress'd, 
By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd, 
Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart 
To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art; 
Were just such trifles, without worth or use, 
As silly pride and idleness produce ; 
Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounced around. 
With feet loo delicate to touch the ground, [eye, 
They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton 
And sigh'd for every fool that fluttcr'd by. 

He saw his people slaves to every lust, 
Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust ; 
He heard the wheels of an avenging God 
Groan heavily along the distant road ; 
Saw Babylon set wide her two-leaved brass 
To let the luilitar)' ileluge pass ; 
Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd. 
Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd j 
Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry, 
.Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; 
But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in 

vain. 
Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain. 
And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit 
Ears long accustom'd to the pleasmg lute : 
They scorn'd his inspiration and his theme, 
Pronounc'd him frantic, and his fears a dream ; 
With self-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours. 
Till the foe found them, and down fell the 
towers. 

Long time Assyria bound them in her chain, 
Till penitence had purged the public stain. 
And Cyrus with relenting pity moved, 
Return 'd them happy to the land they loved ; 
There, ))roof against ])rosperity, awMle 
They stood the test of her ensnaring smile, 
And had the grace in scenes of peace to show 
The virtue they had learn 'd in scenes of woe. 
But man is frail, and can but ill sustain 
A long imnmnity from grief and pain ; 
And. alli.T all the joys that Plenty leads. 
With tiptoe slip 'Vice silently succeeds. [rod. 

When he that ruled them with a shepherd's 
In form a man, in dignity a God, 
Came, not expected in that humble guise. 
To sift and search them with unerring eyes. 



He found, conccal'd beneath a fair outside, 
The filth of rottenness and wonn of pride; 
Their piety a system of deceit. 
Scripture employ 'd to sanctify the cheat ; 
The I'harisee the dupe of his own art. 
Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart. 

When nations are to perish in their sins, 
'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
The priest, whose office is. with zeal sincere. 
To watch the fountain, and preserve it clear. 
Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink. 
While others poison what the flock nmst drink; 
Or. waking at the call of lust alone. 
Infuses lies and errors of his own : 
His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure ; 
And, tainted by the very means of cure, 
Catch from each other a contagious spot, 
The foul forerunner of a general rot. 
Then truth is hush'd. that Heresy may preach ; 
And all is trash that reason cannot reach ; 
Then God's own image on the soul impress'd 
Becomes a mockery, and a standing jest ; 
And faith, the root whence only can arise 
The graces of a Ufe that wins the skies. 
Loses at once all value and esteem, 
Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream : 
Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth. 
Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth ; 
Whfle trutlis, on which eternal things depend, 
Finil not, or hardly find, a single friend ; 
,\s soldiers watch the signal of command, 
They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand ; 
Happy to fill religion's vacant place ; 
With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace. 

Such, when the Teacher of his church was 
there. 
People and priest, the sons of Israel were ; 
StitTin the letter. la.\ in the design 
And import of their oracles divine ; 
Their learning legendary, false, absurd, 
.And yet exalted above God's own word ; 
They drew a curse from an intended good, 
Pufl'd up with gifts they never understood. 
He judg d them with as terrible a frown, 
As if not love, but wrath, had brought hun down: 
Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs. 
Had grace lor others' sins, but none for theirs ; 
Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran — 
Rhetoric is artifice, the work of man ; 
And tricks and turns that fancy may devise. 
Arc far too mean for Him that rules" the skies. 
The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore 
The mask from faces never seen before ; 
He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, 
Show'd that they fbllow'd all they secm'd to 

shun ; 
Their prayers made public, their excesses kept 
.■\s private as the chambers where they slept ; 
The temple and its holy rites profaneil 
By mummeries He that dwelt in it disdain'd ; 
Uplifted hands, that at convenient times 
Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, 
Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice. 
And free from every taint but that of vice. 
Judgment, however tardy, mends her pace 
When obstinacy once has conquered grace. 
They saw distem])er lical'd. and life restor'd, 
In answer to the flat of his word ; 
Confessed the wonder, and with daring tongue 
Blasphemed the authority from which it sprung. 
They knew, by sure prognostics seen on high, 
The future tone and temper of the sky ; 



536 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But, grave Jissemblers ! could not undcrstanj 
That sin let loose speaks punishment at hand. 

Ask now of history's authentic page, 
And call up evidence from every age ; 
Display with busy and laborious hand 
The blessings of the most indebted lanil ; 
What nation will you find whose annals prove 
So rich an interest in Almighty love 'i 
Where dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient 

day 
A people planted, water'd, blest as they 1 
Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaim 
The favors pour'd upon the Jewish name ; 
Theu: freedom purchased for them at the cost 
Of all their hard oppressors valued most: 
Their title to a country not their own 
Made sure by prodigies till then unknovt'n ; 
For them the states they left made waste and void ; 
For them the states to which they went destroy 'd ; 
A cloud to measure out their marcli by day, 
By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way ; 
That moving signal summoning, when best. 
Their host to move, and, when it stay'd. to rest. 
For them the rocks dissolved into a flood, 
The dews condensed into angehc food, 
Their very garments sacred, old yet new, 
And Time forbid to touch them as he flew ; 
Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to stand 
While they pass'd through to their appointed 

land ; 
Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love. 
And graced with clear credentials from above ; 
Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing ; 
Their God their captain,* lawgiver, and king ; 
Crown'd with a thousand victories, and at last 
Lords of the conquer'd soil, there rooted fast, 
In peace possessing what they won by war. 
Their name far publish'd, and revered as far ; 
Where ■will you find a race like theirs, endow'd 
With all that man e'er wish'd, or Heaven bc- 
stow'd ? 

They, and they only, amongst all mankind, 
Received the transcript of the Eternal Mind : 
Were trusted with his own engraven laws. 
And constituted guardians of his cause ; 
Theirs were the prophets, theirs the priestly call, 
And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all. 
In vain the nations that had seen them rise 
With fierce and envious, yet admiring eyes, 
Had sought to crush them, guarded as they were 
By power divine and skill that could not err. 
Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure, 
.\nd kept the faith immaculate and pure, 
Then tlie proud eagles of all-conquering Rome 
Had found one city not to be o'ercome ; 
And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'd 
Had bid defiance to the warring world. 
But grace abused brings forth the foulest deeds, 
As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. 
Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, 
Thpy set up self, that idol god within ; 
View'd a Deliverer with disdain and hate, 
Who left them still a tributary state ; 
Seized fast his hand, held out to set them free 
From a worse yoke, and nail'd it to the tree : 
There was the consummation and the crown, 
The flower of Israel's infamy full blown ; 
Thence date their sad declension, and their fall. 
Their woes, not yet repeal'd, thence date them 

Thus fell the best instructed in her day, [all. 
And the most favor'd land, look where we may. 
* Vide Josh. v. 14. 



Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes [skies ; 

Had jjour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman 
In other clunes perhaps creativt art. 
With power surpassmg theirs, pertorra'd her part ; 
Slight give more lite to marble, or miijht fill 
The glowing tablets with a juster skill, 
Might shine in fable, and grace idle themes 
With all the embroidery of poetic dreams ; 
'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan 
That truth and mercy had revcal'd to man ; 
.Ind, while the world beside, that plan unknown 
Deified useless wood or senseless stone. 
They breathed in faith their well-directed prayers, 
.\nd the tiaie God, the God of tnuh, was theirs. 

Their glory faded, and their race dispersed. 
The last of nations now, though once the first, 
They warn and teach the proudest, would they 

learn — 
Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn : 
If we escaped not, if Heaven spared not us, 
Peel'd, scatter'd and exterminated thus ; 
If vice received her retribution due. 
When we were visited, what hope for you 1 
When God arises with an awful frown. 
To punish lust, or pluck presumption down ; 
When gifts perverted, or not duly prized. 
Pleasure o'ervalued, and his grace despised. 
Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand, 
To pour down wrath upon a thankless land : 
He will be found unpartially severe. 
Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear. 

Oh Israel, of all nations most undone I 
Thy diadem displaced, thy sceptre gone ; 
Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased,. 
And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst; 
Thy services, once tioly without spot. 
Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot ; 
Thy Levites, once a consecrated host. 
No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, 
And thou thyself o'er every country sown, 
With none on earth that thou canst call thine 
Cry aloud, thou that sittest in the dust, [own ; 
Cry to the proud, the cruel, and unjust; 
Knock at the gates of nations, rouse their fears; 
.Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears; 
But raise the shrillest cry in British ears. 

What ails thee, restless as the waves that roar, 
And fling their foam against thy chalky shore ■? 
Mistress, at least while Providence shall please. 
And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas — 
Why, having kept good faith, and often shown 
Friendship and truth to others, find'st thou none ; 
Thou that hast set the persecuted free, 
None interposes now to succor thee. 
Countries indebted to thy power, that shine 
With light derived from thee, would smother thine. 
Thy very children watch for thy disgrace, 
A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. 
Thy rulers load thy credit year by year, 
^Vit!l sums Peruvian mines could never clear; 
.4s if, like arches built with skilful hand 
The more 'twere press'd. the firmer it would stand. 

The cry in all thy ships is still the same, 
Speed us away to battle and to fame. 
Thy mariners explore the wild expanse, 
Impatient to descry the flags of France : 
But, though they fight, as thine have ever fought, 
Return ashamed without the wreaths they sought. 
Thy senate is a scene of civil jar, 
Chaos of contrarieties at war ; 
Where sliai-p and solid, phlegmatic and light. 
Discordant atoms meet, ferment and fight ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 



537 



Where obstinacy takes his sturdy stand. 
To disconcert what policy has plann'd ; 
Where policy is busied all night long 
In setting right what laclion nas set wronn; ; 
Where flails ol' oratory thresh the floor, [more. 
That yields them chalT and dust, and nothing 
Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain, 
Ta'x'il till the brow of labor sweats hi vain ; 
War lays a burden on the reeling state, 
And peace does nothing to relieve the weight ; 
Successive loads succeeding broils impose, 
And sighing milhons prophesy the close. 

Is adverse Providence, when ponder'd well, 
So ditnly writ, or difficult to spell, 
Thou canst not read with readiness and ease 
Providence adverse in events like these "! 
Know then that heavenly wisdom on this ball 
Creates, gives birth to, guides, consummates all ; 
That, while laborious and quick-thoughted man 
SnulTs up the praise of what he seems to plan. 
He first conceives, then perfects his design, 
Ab a mere instrument in hands divine : 
litind to the working of that secret power. 
That balances the wings of every hour, 
The busy Irifler dreams liimself alone, 
Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. 
States thrive or wither, as moons wax and wane, 
E'en as his will and his decrees ordain ; 
While honor, virtue, piety bear sway. 
They flourish ; and, as these detdine, decay : 
In just resentment of his injured laws. 
He pours contempt on them and on their cause ; 
Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart 
The web of every scheme they have at heart ; 
Bids rottenness invade and bring to dust 
The pillars of support in which they trust, 
.^nii do his errand of disgrace and shame 
On the chief strength and glory of the frame. 
None ever yet impeded what he wrought, 
None bars him out from his most secret thought ; 
Darkness itself before his eye is light. 
And hell's clo.se mischief naked in his sight. 

Stand now and judge thyself — Hast thou in- 
curred 
His anger who can waste thee with a word, 
Who poises and pro]j^rtions sea and land, 
AVeighing them in the hollow of his hand, 
And in whose awlul sight all nations seem 
As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream 1 
Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors) 
Claim'd all the glory of thy jjrosperous wars 1 
Proud of thy fleets and armies, stolen the gem 
Of his just praise to lavish it on them 1 
Hast thou not learn'd what thou art often told, 
A truth still sacred, and believed of olil. 
That no success attends on spears and swords 
Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's l 
That courage is his creature ; and dismay 
The post, that at his bitlding speeds away, 
Gliastly in tealure, and his stammering tongue 
^Vith doleful ruinor and sad presage hung, 
To quell the valor of the stoutest heart. 
And leach the combatant u woman's part t 
That he bids thous;uids fly when none pursue. 
Saves as he will by many or by few. 
And claims forever, os his royal right. 
The event and sure decision of the fight 1 

Hust thou, though suckled at fair freedom's 
bre.ist. 
F.xporttd slavery to the conquer'd East 7 
Pulld down til': tyrints India served withdrcad. 
And raised thyself, a greater, in their stead 1 



Gone thither, arm'd and hungry, return'd full, 

Fed from the richest veins of the Jlogul, 

A despot big with power, obtain'd by wealth. 

And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealtii I 

With Asiatic vices stored thy mind, 

But left theirvirtues and tliine own behind 1 [fee, 

And, having truck'd thy soul, brought home the 

To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee 1 

Hast thou by statute shoved from its design. 
The .Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and wine, 
And made the symbols of atoning grace 
.4n ofllce-key, a picklock to a place, 
That inlidels may prove their title good 
By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood 1 
A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
Of all that grave apologists may write ; 
And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain, 
He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 
And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence. 
Till perjuries are common as bad pence. 
While thousands, careless of the damning sin, 
Ki.ss the book's outside, who ne'er look within ■! 

Hast thou, when Heaven has clothed thee with 
disgrace, 
And, long-provoked, repaid thee to thy face, 
(For thou host known echpses, and endured 
Dimness and anguish, all thy beams ob,scured, 
When sin has shed dishonor on thy brow ; 
And never of a sabler hue than now,) [sear'd. 
Hast thou, with heart perverse and conscience 
Despising all rebuke, still persevered. 
And having chosen evil, scorn'd the voice 
That cried, Repent ! — and gloried in thy choice 1 
Thy fastings, when calamity at last 
Suggests the expedient of a yearly fast, [power 
What mean they 1 Canst thou dream there is a 
In lighter diet at a later hour, 
To charm to sleep the threatening of the skies, 
.'Vnd hide past folly from all-seeing eyes 1 
The fast that wins deliverance, and suspends 
The stroke that a vindictive God intends. 
Is to renounce hypocrisy ; to draw 
Thy lite upon the pattern of the law; 
To war with pleasure, idolized before ; 
To vanquish lust, and wear its yoke no more. 
All fasting else, whate'er be the pretence. 
Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence. 

Hast thou within thee sin, that in old time 
Brought fire from heaven, the sex-abusing crime, 
Whose horri<l perpptration stamps disgrace. 
Balloons are free from, upon human race 1 
Think on the fruitful and well-water'd spot 
That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot, 
Where Paradise seein'd stdl vouchsafed on earth, 
Burning and scorch'd into perpetual dearth, 
Or, in his words who damn d the base desire, 
Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire : 
Then nature, injured, scandalized, defiled, 
Unveil'd her blushing cheek, looked on, and 

smiled ; 
Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac'd, [waste. 
And ]iraiscd the wrath that laid her beauties 

Far be the thought from any verse of mine, 
.\nd farther still the form'd and fix'd design, 
To thrust the charge of deeds that I detest 
Againsi an innocent, unconscious breast ; 
The man that dares traduce, because he can 
With safety to himself, is not a man : 
An individual is a sacred mark. 
Not to be pierced in play, or in the dark ; 
But public censure speaks a public foe. 
Unless a zeal for virtue guide the blow. 



538 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Tlie priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, 
From mean self-interest, and ambition clear, 
Their hope in heaven, servility their scorn. 
Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and Vfarn, 
Their wisdom pure, and given them from above. 
Their usefulness ensured by zeal and love. 
As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
As bold as in Agrippa's presence Paul, 
Should fly the world's contiuuinating touch, 
Holy and unpolluted ; — are thine such t 
Except a few with Eli's spirit blest, 
Hophni and Phineas may describe the rest. 

Where shall a teacher look, in days like these, 
For ears and hearts that he can hope to please ■? 
Look to the poor, the simple and the plain 
Will hear perhaps thy salutary strain : 
Humility is gentle, apt to learn, 
Speak but the word, will listen and return. 
Alas, not so ! the poorest of the flock 
Are proud, and set their faces as a rock ; 
Denied that earthly opulence they choose, 
God's better gift they scofl' at and refuse. 
The rich, the produce of a nobler stem. 
Are more intelligent, at least — try them. 
Oh vain inquiry ! they without remorse 
Are altogether gone a devious course ; [stray ; 
Where beckoning pleasure leads them, wildly 
Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away. 

Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime, 
Review thy dim original ana prime. 
This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth, 
The cradle that received thee at thy birth. 
Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast, 
And Danish bowlings scared thee as they pass'd ; 
For thou wast born amid the din of anns, 
And suck'd a breast that panted with alarms. 
While yet thou wast a grovelling, puling chit. 
Thy bones not fashion'd. and thy joints not knit, 
The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow, 
Though twice a Caesar could not bend thee now. 
His victory was that of orient light, 
When the sun's shafts disperse the gloom of night. 
Thy language at this distant moment shows 
How much the country to the conqueror owes ; 
Expressive, energetic, and refined. 
It sparkles with the gems he left behind ; 
He brought thy land a blessing when he came, 
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame ; 
Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide. 
And grac'd thy figure with a soldier's pride ; 
He sow'd the seeds of order where he went, 
Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent. 
And, while he ruled thee by his sword alone, 
Made thee at last a warrior Uke his own. 
Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, 
Needs only to be seen "to be admired ; 
But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night, 
W'as form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight ; 
Thy druids struck the well-hung harps they bore 
With fingers deeply dyed in human gore ; 
And while the victim slowly bled to death. 
Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. 
Who brought the lamp that with awaking 
beams 
Dispell'd thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams, 
Tradition, now decrepit and worn out, 
Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt: 
But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of 

thine, 
Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine, 
Fell broken and defaced at their own door. 
As Dagon in Philistia long before. 



But Rome with sorceries and magic wand 
Soon raised a cloud that darken'd every land ; 
And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog 
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog. [crowns, 
Then priests with bulls and briefs, and shaven 
And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns. 
Legates and delegates with powers from hell, 
Though heavenly in pretension, fleeced thee well ; 
And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind. 
Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind.'* 
Thy soldiery, the pope's well managed pack, 
Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the 

smack. 
And, when he laid them on the scent of blood. 
Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood. 
Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb. 
That proved a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, 
They left their hones beneath unfriendly skies, 
His worthless absolution all the prize. 
Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore 
That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar; 
Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust. 
Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, 
Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distress 
Found thee a goodly spunge for power to press. 
Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee, 
Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued thee; 
Call'd thee away from peaceable employ. 
Domestic happiness and rural joy. 
To waste thy life in arms, or lay it down 
In causeless feuds and bickerings of their own. 
Thy parliaments adored, on bended knees. 
The sovereignty they were convened to please; 
Whate'er was ask'd, too timid to resist, 
Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd ; 
And if some Spartan soul a doulit express'd, 
And, blushing at the tameness of the rest, 
Dared to suppose the subject had a choice, 
He was a traitor by the general voice. 
Oh slave ! with powers thou didst not dare exert, 
Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert; 
It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain, 
Thou self-entitled ruler of the main. 
To trace thee to the date, when yon fair sea. 
That chps thy shores, had no such charms for 

thee ; • 

When other nations flew from coast to coast, 
And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast. 
Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust ; 
Blush if thou canst ; not petrified, tliou must ; 
Act but an honest and a faithful part ; [art ; 

Compare what then thou wast with what thou 
And God's disposing providence confess'd, 
Obduracy itself must yield the rest. — 
Then thou art bound to serve hun, and to prove, 
Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love. 

Has he not hid tliee and thy favor'd land, 
For ages, sate beneath his sheltering hand, 
Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof. 
Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof. 
And charged hostility and hate to roar 
Where else they woiild, but not upon thy shore? 
His power secured thee, when presumptuous 

Spain 
Baptized her fleet invincible in vain ; 
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resiffU'd 
To every pang that racks an anxious mmd, 
Ask'd of the waves that broke upon his coast. 
What tidings 1 and the surge replied — All lost ! 
And when the Stuart, leaning on the Scot, 
Then too much fear'd, and now too much forgot, 
» Which may be found at Doctors' Commons. 



EXPOSTULATION. 



639 



Pierced to tlie very centre of tlio realni, 
And hoped to seize his abdicated helm, 
'Twas but to prove how quickly, with a frown, 
He that had raised thee could have pluck'd thee 
Peculiar is the grace by thee possess d, [down. 
Thy foes implacable, thy lanil at rest ; 
Thy thunders travel over earth and seas, 
And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 
'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm, 
Thy Maker lills the nations with alarm, 
\\hile his own heaven surveys the troubled scene, 
And feels no change, unshaken and serene. 
Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine, 
Pours out n flood of splendor upon thine ; 
Thou hast as brijht an interest in her rays 
As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. 
True freedom us where no restraint is known 
That .Scripture, justice, and good sense disown ; 
Where only vice and injury are tied. 
And all from shore to shore is free beside. 
Such freedom is — and Windsor's hoary towers 
Stood trembling at the biildncs.< of thy powers, 
That won a nymph on that immortal j)lain. 
Like her the fabled Phicbus wooed in vain ; 
He found the laurel only — happier you 
The unfading laurel, and the virgin too !* 

Now think, if pleasure have a thought to 
spare ; 
If God himself be not beneath her care; 
If business constant as the wheels of time, 
Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme; 
If the new mail thy merchants now receive, 
Or expectation of the next, give leave ; 
Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrears 
For such indulgence gilding all thy years. 
How much, though long neglected, shining yet. 
The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the 
When persecuting zeal made royal sport [debt. 
With tortured innocence in Mary's court. 
And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake, 
Enjoyed the show, and danced about the stake, 
The sacred book, its value understood, 
Received the seal of martyrdom in blooil. 
Those holy men, so full of truth and grace, 
Seem to reflection of a different race, 
Mee'k. modest, venerable, wise, sincere, 
In such a cause they could not dare to fear; 
They could not purchase earth with such a prize, 
Or spare a life too short to reach the skies. 
From them to thee conveyed along the tide, 
Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they 

died ; 
Those truths, which neither use nor years impair, 
Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share. 
What dotage will not vanity maintain 1 
What web too weak to catch a modem brain t 
The moles and bats in full assembly find. 
On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind. 
And did they dream, and art thou wiser now 1 
Prove it — if better, I submit and bow. 
Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart 
Must hold both sisters, never seen apart. 
So then — as ilarkness overspread the deep, 
Ere nature rose from her eternal sleep, 
And this delightful earth, and that fair sky, 
Lcap'd out of nothing, call'd by the Most High ; 
By such a change thy darkness is made light, 
Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might ; 

" Alludin:: lo the ^aut of M.iinia Charla, wliich wos 
extorted frnni King John by tlie barons at IkUimymcde 
ncai- Windsor. 



And He, whose power mere nulhty obeys, 
Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his 

praise. 
To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil, 
Doing and suffering, his unquestioned will; 
'Tis to believe what men inspired of old. 
Faithful, and faithfully informed, unfold; 
Candid and just, with no false aim in view. 
To take for truth what cannot but be true ; 
To learn in God's own school the Christian part. 
Ami liind the task assigned thee to thine heart : 
Happy the man there seeking and there found ; 
Happy the nation where such men abound ! 
How shall a verse impress thee 1 by what 
name 
Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame 1 
By theirs whose bright example, unimpeached, 
Directs thee to that eminence they reached, 
Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires ? 
Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow d 

fires'! 
Their names, alas ! in vain reproach an age, 
Wliom all the vanities they scorn 'd engage ; 
And his, that seraphs tremble at, is hung 
Disgracefully on every trifler's tongue. 
Or serves the chami)ion in forensic war 
To flourish and parade with at the bar. 
Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea. 
If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee ; 
By every charm that smiles upon her face. 
By joys possess'd and joys still held in chase. 
If d'ear society be worth a thought. 
And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not. 
Reflect that these, and all that seems thine own, 
Held by the tenure of his will alone. 
Like angels in the service of their Lord, 
Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word ; 
That gratitude, and temperance in our use 
Of what he gives, unsparing and profuse. 
Secure the tavor, and enhance the joy. 
That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy. 
But above all reflect, how cheap soe'er 
Those rights, that millions envy thee, appear, 
And though resolved to risk them, and switn 

down 
The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown. 
That blessings truly sacred, and when given 
Mark'd with the signature ami st.amp of Heaven, 
The word of prophecy, those truths divine. 
Which make that heaven if thou desire it, thine, 
(Awl'ul alternative ! believed, beloved, 
■Pliy glory and thy shame if unimproved,) 
Are never long vouchsafed, if pusli'd aside 
With cold disgust or philosophic pride ; 
And that, judicially withdrawn, disgrace, 
Error and darkness, occupy their place. 

A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot 
Not quickly found, if negligently sought. 
Thy soul as ample ns thy bounifs arc "small, 
Endur'st the brunt, ami dar'st defy them all ; 
And wilt thou join to this bold enterprise 
A bolder still, a contest with the skies "! 
Remember, if He guard thee and secure, 
Whoe'er assails thee, thy success is sure ; 
But if He leave thee, though the skill and pow'r 
Of nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour. 
Were all collected in thy single arm, 
And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm. 
That strength would fail, opposed against the 
And feeble onset of a pigmv rush. [push 

.Say not (and if tlie thought of such defence 
Should spring within thy bosom, drive it thence) 



540 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



What nation amongst all my foes is free 
From crimes as base as any charged on mel 
Their measure fill' J, they too sliall pay the debt, 
Which God, though long forborne, will not for- 
get. 
But know that wrath divine, when most severe, 
Makes justice still the guide of his career, 
.And will not punish, in one mingled crowd, 
The.ii without light, and thee without a cloud. 
Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech. 
Still murmuring with the solemn truths I teach ; 
And, while at intervals a cold blast sings 
Through the dry leaves, and pants upon the 
strings, 



My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament 
A nation scourged, yet tardy to repent. 
I know the warning song is sung m vain ; 
That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain ; 
But if a sweeter voice, and one design'd 
A blessing to my country and mankind, 
Reclaim the wandering thousands, and brina 

home 
A flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam. 
Then place it once again between my knees ; 
The sound of truth will then be sure to please ; 
And truth alone, where'er my life be cast. 
In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste. 
Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last. 



HOPE. 



doceaa iter, et sacra ostia pandas. 

ViRG. iEn. 6. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Human Life — Tiie charms of Nature remain the same 
though they appear different in youth and aqe — Frivol- 
ity of fasliionable life— Value of life— The" works of 
the Creator e\idence3 of his attributes — Nature the 
handmaid to the piuT)ose3 of grace — Chai-acter of 
Hope — Man naturally stubborn and intractable — His 
conduct in ditferont stations— Death's honors — Each 
man's hclief ri'j;lit in his own eyes— Simile of Elhel- 
red's horspitality — Mitnkind qu;irrel with the Giver of 
eternal life, on account of the terms on wliich it is of- 
fered — Opinions on this subject — Si)read of the Gos- 
pel — The Greenland Missions— Contrast of the uncon- 
verted and converted heathen — Character of Leucono- 
mus— The man of pleasiu-e the blindest of bigots— Any 
hope preferred to that required by the Scripture — Hu- 
man nature opposed to Truth— Apostrophe to Truth — 
Picture of one conscience-smitten — The pardoned sin- 
ner — Conclusion. 

Ask what is human life — the sage repHes, 
With disappomtmei:it lowering in his eyes, 
A painful passage o'er a restless flood, 
A vain pursuit of furtive false good. 
A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care. 
Closing at last in darkness and despair. 
The poor, inured to drudgery and distress, 
Act without aun, think httle. and feel less, 
And nowhere, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes, 
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means. 
Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand, 
As fortune, vice, or folly may command; 
Asia a dance the pair that take the lead 
Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed, 
So shifting and so various is the plan 
By which Heaven rules the mix'd affairsof man j 
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd. 
The rich grow poor, the poor become purse- 
proud ; 
Business is labor, and man's weakness such, 
Pleasure is labor too, and tires as much ; 
The very sense of it foregoes its use. 
By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse. 
Youth lost in dissipation, we deplore, [store; 
Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs re- 
Our years, a fruitless race without a prize, 
Too many, yet to few to make us wise. 



Danghng his cane about, and taking snuff, 
Lothario cries, What philosophic stufl' — 
O querulous and weak ! — whose useless brain 
Once tiiought of nothing, and now thinks in 

vain ; 
Whose eye reverted weeps o'er all the past, 
Whose prospect shows thee a disheartening 

waste ; 
Would age in thee resign his wintVy reign, 
And youth invigorate that frame again, 
Renew'd desire would grace with other speech 
Joys always prized, when placed within our reach. 
For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom 
That overhangs the borders of thy t^mb, 
See nature gay, as when she first began 
With smiles alluring her admirer man; 
She spreads the morning over eastern hills. 
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils ; 
The sun, obedient, at her call appears 
To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears ; 
Banks clothed with flowers, groves fiU'd with 

sprightly sounds, [grounds, 

The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising 
Streams, edged with osiers, fattening every field 
Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceal'd ; 
From the blue rim, where skies and mountains 
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet [meet, 
Ten thousand charms, that only tools despise. 
Or pride can look at with indifferent eyes, 
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice 
Cry to her universal realm. Rejoice ! 
Man feels the spur of passions and desires, 
And she gives largely more than he requbes; 
Not that, his hours devoted all to care. 
Hollow-eyed abstinence, and lean despair, [sight. 
The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, 
She holds a paradise of rich delight; 
But gently to rebuke his awkward fear, 
To prove that what she gives she gives sincere, 
To banish hesitation, and proclaiiu 
His happiness her dear, her only. aim. 
'Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream, [seem, 
That Heaven's intentions are not what they 



HOPE. 



541 



That only shadows are dispensed below, 
And earth has no reality liut.woe. 

Thus things terrestrial wear a ilitlVrent hue, 
As youth or af;e porsuailes; and neither true. 
So, Flora's wreath tlirough color'd crystal seen, 
The rose or lily appears blue or ^reen, 
But still the inii)Uti(l tints are those alone 
The meiliuin represents, ami not their own. 

To ri.se at noon, sit slip.shoJ and unclress'd, 
To n'ad the news, or fiddle, as seems best. 
Till halt' the world comes rattling at his door, 
To fdl the (hill vacuity till four: 
And. just when evening turns the blue vault gray, 
To spend two hours in dressing for the day ; 
To make the sun a bauble without use, 
Save for the fruits his heavenly beams produce ; 
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought. 
Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not ; 
Through mere necessity to close his eyes 
Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise ; 
Is such a lile. so tediously the same, 
So void of all utility or aim, 
That poor Jonquil, with almost every breath. 
Sighs for his exit, vulgarly called death: 
Kor he. with all his tollies, has a mind 
Not yet so blank, or fashionably blind, 
Uut now and then perhaps a feeble ray 
Of distant wi.sdom shoots across his way; 
By which he reads, that life without a plan, 
As useless as the moment it began. 
Serves merely as a soil for discontent 
To thrive in; an incumbrance ere half spent. 
Oh ! weariness beyond what asses feel, 
That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel ; 
A dull rot:>tion, never at a stay, 
Yesterday's face twin imagt- of to-day; 
While conversation, an exhausted stock, 
Grows drowsy as the chcking of a clock, 
\o need, he cries, of gravity stuff'd out 
With academic dignity devout. 
To read wise lectures, vanity the text : 
Proclaim the remedy, ye learned next; 
For truth self-evident, with pomp inipress'd. 
Is vanity surpassing all the rest. 

That remedy, not hid in deeps profound. 
Yet seldom sought where only to be found, 
\Vhile passion turns asiile from its ilue scope 
The inquirer's aim, that remedy is Hope, 
Life is his girt, trom whom whate'er life needs, 
With every good and perfect gilt, proceeds : 
Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake, 
Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake ; 
Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour. 
And yet the scetl of an immortal (lower; 
Desiixn'd. in honor of his endless love. 
To fill with fragrance his abode above; 
!Vo trifle, howsoever short it seem. 
And, hewsoever shadowy, no dream ; 
Its value, what no thought can ascertain, 
Nor all an angel's eloquence explain. 
Men deal with life as children with their play, 
Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; 
Live to no sober purpose, and contend 
That their Creator had no serious end. 
When God and man stand opposite in view, 
Man's disappointment must, of course, ensue. 
The just Creator condescends to write. 
In beams of inextinguishable light, 
His names of wisdom, goodness, power, and love. 
On all that blooms below, or shines above ; 
To catch the wandering notice of m;tnkind, 
And teach the world, if not perversely blind, 



His gracious attributes, and prove the share 
His oifspring hold in his paternal care, 
1 1', led from earthly things to things divine, 
His creature thwart not his august design^ 
Then praise is heard instead of reasoning pride. 
.And captious cavil and complaint subside. 
Nature, employ'd in her allotted place, 
Is handmaid to the purposes of grace ; 
By good vouchsafeil makes known superior good, 
Anil bliss not seen by blessings understood: 
That bUss, reveal'd in scripture, with a glow 
Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow, 
Kires all his feelings with a noble scorn 
Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is born, 

Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all 
That men have deem'd substantial since the 

tall. 
Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe 
From emptiness itself a real use ; 
.And while she takes, as at a father's hand, 
What health and sober appetite demand. 
From fading good derives, with chemic art, 
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. 
Hope, with uplitlcd loot, set free from earth. 
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth. 
On steady wings sails through the immense abyss. 
Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss. 
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here. 
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. 
Hope, as an anchor, firm and sure, holds fast 
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast, 
Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure 
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure, 
Hope! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy, 
Whom now despairing agonies destroy, 
Speak, tor he can, and none so well as he. 
What treasures centre, what delights, in thee. 
Had he the gems, the spices, and the land, 
That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; 
The fragrant grove, the inestuuable mine. 
Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of 
thine. 

Though elasp'd and cradled in his nurse's anus 
He shines with all a cherub's artless charms, 
Man is the genuine offspring of revolt. 
Stubborn and sturdy, a wild ass's colt; 
His passions, Uke the watery stores that sleep 
Beneath the smihng surface of the deep. 
Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm. 
To frown and roar, and shake his feeble form, 
Froin infancy through childhood's giddy maze, 
Proward at school, and fretful in his plays. 
The puny tyrant burns to subjugate 
The t'ree republic of the whip-gig state. 
If one his equal in athletic frame. 
Or, more provoking still, of noliler name. 
Dare step across his arbitrary views. 
An Iliad, only not in verse, ensues : 
The little Greeks look trembling at the scales. 
Till the best tongue or heaviest hand prevails. 

Now see him launch 'd into the world at large ; 
If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge. 
Their fleece his pUlow, and his weekly drawl, 
Though short, too long, the price he pays for alL 
If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead. 
But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. 
Perhaps a grave physican, gathering fees. 
Punctually paid for lengthening out disease; 
No Cotton, whose humanity sheds rays. 
That make superior skill his second praise. 
If arms engage him, he devotes to sport 
His date of life so likely to be short ; 



542 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A soldier may be anything if brave, 
So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. 
Such stuff the world is made of; and mankind, 
To passion, interest, pleasure, whim, resign'd. 
Insist on, as if each were his own pope, 
Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope ; 
But conscience, in some awtial silent hour. 
When captivating lusts have lost their power, 
Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream. 
Reminds hun of religion, hated theme ! 
Starts from the down, on which she lately slept. 
And tells of laws despised, at least not kept ; 
Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, 
A pale procession of past sinful joys. 
All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd. 
And life abused, and not to be suborn'd. 
Mark these, she says ■, these, summon'd from afar, 
Begin their march to meet thee at the bar ; 
There find a Judge inexorably just. 
And perish there as all presumption must. 
Peace be to those (such peace as earth can 
give) 
Who live in pleasure, dead e'en while they live ; 
Born capable indeed of heavenly truth ; 
But down to latest age, from earUest youth. 
Their mind a wilderness through want of care. 
The plough of wisdom never entering there. 
Peace (if insensibility may claim 
A right to the meek honors of her name) 
To men of pedigree, their noble race. 
Emulous always of the nearest place 
To any throne, except the throne of grace. ^ 
Let cottagers and unenUghten'd swains 
Revere the laws they dream that Heaven ordains ; 
Resort on Sundays to the house of prayer, 
And ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. 
Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat 
To enjoy cool nature in a country seat. 
To exchange the centre of a thousand trades. 
For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cas- 
cades, 
jVIay now and then their velvet cushions take, 
And seem to pray for good example sake ; 
Judging, in charity no doubt, the town 
Pious enough, and having need of none. 
Kind souls ! to teach their tenantry to prize 
What they themselves, without remorse, despise : 
Nor hope have they, nor fear, of aught to come, 
As well for them had prophecy been dumb ; 
They could have held the conduct they pursue, 
Had Paul of Tarsus lived and died a Jew ; 
And truth proposed to reasoners wise as they. 
Is a pearl cast — completely cast away. 

They die. — Death lends them, pleased, and as 
in sport, 
All the grim honors of his ghastly court. 
Far other paintings grace the chamber now. 
Where late we saw the mimic landscape glow: 
The busy heralds hang the sable scene 
With mournful 'scutcheons, and dim lamps be- 
tween ; 
Proclaim their titles to the crowd around. 
But they that wore them move not at the sound ; 
The coronet, placed idly at their head. 
Adds nothing now to the degraded dead, 
And e'en the star, that glitters on the bier. 
Can only say — Nobility lies here. 
Peace to all such — 'twere pity to offend. 
By useless censure, whom we cannot mend; 
Life without hope can close but in despair, 
'Twas there we found them, and must leave them 
there. 



As when two pilgrims in a forest stray. 
Both may be lost, yet each in his own way ; 
So fares it with the multitudes beguiled 
In vain opinion's waste and dangerous wild ; 
Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among. 
Some eastward, and some westward, and all 
But here, alas ! the fatal difference lies, [wrong. 
Each man's l>elief is right in his own eyes; 
And he that blames what they have blindly chose 
Incurs resentment for the love he shows. 

Say, botanist, within whose province fall 
The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, 
Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowers. 
What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and 

llowers ? 
Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined, 
Distinguish every cultivated kind ; 
The want of both denotes a meaner breed. 
And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. 
Thus hopes of every sort, whatever sect 
Esteem them, sow them, rear them, and protect, 
If wild in nature, and not duly found, 
Gethsemane ! in thy dear hallow'd ground. 
That cannot bear the blaze »f .Scripture light. 
Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight. 
Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds, [weeds. 
(Oh cast them from thee !) are weeds, arrant 

Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways. 
Diverging each from each, like equal rays, 
Himself as bountiful as .Vpril rains. 
Lord paramount of the surrounding plains, 
Would give relief of bed and board to none. 
But guests that sought it in the appointed One ; 
And ihey might enter at his open door. 
E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more. 
He sent a servant tbrth by every road. 
To sound his horn and publish it abroad. 
That all might mark — knight, menial, high and 

low — 
An ordnance it coneern'd them much to know. 
If after all, some headstrong hardy lout 
Would disobey, though sure to be shut out, 
Could he with reason murmur at his case. 
Himself sole author of his own disgrace 1 
No ! the decree was just and without flaw ; 
.\nd he that made had right to make the law ; 
His sovereign power and pleasure unrestrain'd. 
The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd. 

Yet half mankind maintain a churlish strife 
With him the Donor of eternal life. 
Because the deed, by which his love confirms 
The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms. 
Compliance with his will your lot ensures, 
Accept it only, and the boon is yours. 
And sure it is as kind to smile and give. 
As with a frown to say, Do this, and live. 
Love is not pedlar's trumpery, bought and sold ; 
He will give freely, or he will ndthhold ; 
His soul abhors a mercenary thought. 
And him as deeply who abhors it not ; 
He stipulates indeed, but merely this, 
That man will freely take an unbought bliss. 
Will trust him for a faithful generous part, 
Nor set a price upon a willing heart. 
Of all the ways that seem to promise fair, 
To place you where his saints his presence share, 
This only can ; for this plain cause, express'd 
In terms as plain — himself has shut the rest. 
But oh the strife, the bickering, and debate. 
The tidings of unpurchased heaven create ! 
The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss. 
All speakers, yet all language at a loss. 



HOPE. 



543 



From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound ; 
And beaus, adepts in everything profound, 
Die of disdain, or whistle oft' tlie sound. 
Such is the clamor ot' rooks, daws, and kites. 
The explosion of the levell'd tube excites, [glade, 
Where mouldering abbey walls o'crhang the 
And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade, 
Thi; screaming nations, hoverin;^ in mid air, 
Loudly resent the stranger's I'reedom there, 
And seem to warn him never to repeat 
His bold intrusion on their dark retreat. 

.■\difu, Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips 
The purple bumper trembUng at his lips, 
Adieu to all morality ! if grace 
Make works a vain ingredient in the case. 
The Christian hope is — Waiter, draw the cork — 
If I mistake not — Blockhead ! with a fork! — 
Without good works, whatever some may boast, 
Mere folly and delusion — Sir, your toast. 
My firm persuasion is, at least sometimes. 
That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his 

crimes 
With nice attention in a righteous scale. 
And save or damn as these or those prevail. 
I plant my foot upon this t^ound of trust, 
And silence every fear witn — God is just. 
But if perchance, on some dull drizzling day, 
A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say. 
If thus the important cause is to be tried. 
Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side ; 
I soon recover from these needless frishts, 
.■\nd — God is merciful — sets all to rights. 
Thus between justice, as my prime support. 
And mercy, fled to as the last resort, 
I glide and steal along with heaven in view. 
And, — pardon me. the bottle stands with you. 

I never will believe, the Colonel cries. 
The sanguinary schemes that some devise. 
Who make the good Creator, on their plan, 
A being of less equity than man. 
If appetite, or what divines call lust. 
Which men comply with, e'en because they must. 
Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure "? 
Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mme, is sure. 
If sentence of eternal pain belong 
To every sudden sUp and transient wronw. 
Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail 
A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail. 
My creed, (whatever some creed-makers mean 
By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene.) 
My creed is, he is safe that does his best, 
And death's a doom sufficient for the rest. 

Kight, says an ensign ; and for aught I see, 
'^'our faith and mine substantially agree ; 
The best of every man's performance here 
Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. 
A lawyer's dealings should bo just and fair. 
Honesty shines with great advantage there. 
Fasting and prayer sft well upon a priest, 
A decent caution and reserve at least. 
A soldier's best is courage in the field. 
With nothing here that wants to be conccal'd ; 
Manly deportment, gallant, easy, cay; 
A hand as liberal as the light of day. 
The soldier thus cndow'd, who never shrinks, 
Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'cr he thinks. 
Who scorns to do an injury by stealth, 
Must go to heaven — and I must drink his health. 
Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at the board, 
Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord. 
His shoulders witnessing by many a shruw 
How much his feelings suffered, sat Sir Smug.) 



Your office is to winnow false from true ; [you 1 
Come, prophet, drink, and tcU us. What think 

.Sighing and smiUng as he takes his glass. 
Which they that woo preferment, rarely pass, 
Fallilile man, the church-bred youth repbes, 
Is still founil fallible, however wise ; 
And diftVring judgments serve but to declare. 
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where. 
Of all it ever was my lot to read. 
Of critics now alive or long since dead. 
The book of all the world that charm'd me most 
Was, — well-a-ilay, the title-page was lost ; 
The \vriter well remarks, a neart that knows 
To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows, 
With prudence always ready at our call. 
To guide our use of it, is all in all. 
Doubtless. it is. To which, of my own store, 
I superadd a few essentials more ; 
But these, excuse the liberty I take, 
I waive just now, for conversation's sake. 
.Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim, [name. 
And add Right Reverend to Smug's honor'd 

And yet our lot is given us in a land 
Where busy arts are never at a stand ; 
Where science points her telescopic eye, 
FamiUar with the wonders of the sky ; 
Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight, 
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to lii'ht ; 
Where nought eludes the persevering quest. 
That fashion, taste, or luxury suggest. 

But. above all, in her own light .array'd. 
See Mercy's grand apocalypse display'd ! 
The sacred book no longer sutlers wrong. 
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue ; 
But speaks with plainness art could never mend. 
What simplest minds can soonest comprehend. 
God gives the word, the preachers throng around. 
Live trom his lips, and spread the glorious sound ; 
That sound bespeaks salvation on her way ; 
The trumpet of a life-restoring day ; 
'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines, 
.4nd in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines, 
.ind still it spreads. See Germany send forth 
Her sons' to pour it on the farthest north ; 
Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy 
The rage and rigor of a polar sky, 
.\nd plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose 
On icy plains, and in eternal snows. 

O blest within the inclosure of your rocks. 
Not herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks ; 
Nor fertilizing streams your fields divide. 
That show, reversed, the villas on their side ; 
No groves have yc ; no cheerful sound of bird. 
Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard ; 
Nor gratelul eglantine regales the smell 
Of those that walk at evening where ye dwell ; 
But Winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown, 
Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ; 
Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, 
.ind bids the mountains he has built stand fast ; 
Beckons the legions of his storms away 
From happier scenes to make your land a prey ; 
Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won, 
.Ind scorns to share it with the distant sun. 
— Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle ! 
.ind peace the genuine oflspring of her smile ; 
The pride of Ictter'd ignorance that binds 
In chains of error our accompUsh'd minds, 
That decks, with all the splendor of the true, 
A false religion, is unknown to you. 

* Tlic Muravtan missiouaries in Greenland. — See 

Krantz. 



644 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight 
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night ; 
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer 
Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here ; 
But brigliter beams than his who fires the skies 
Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, 
That shoot into your darkest caves the day, 
From which our nicer optics turn away. 

Here see the encouragement grace gives to vice, 
Tlie dire efl'ect of mercy without price ! [art, 
What were they t what some fools are made by 
Tliey were by nature, atheists, head and heart. 
The gross idolatry blind heathens teach 
Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. 
Not e'en the glorious sun, tliough men revere 
The monarch most that seldom will appear, 
And though his beams, that quicken where they 

shine. 
May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, 
Not e'en tlio sun, desirable as rare, 
Could bend one knee, engage one votary there ; 
They were, what base credulity beUeves [thieves. 
True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards. 
The full gorged savage, at his nauseous feast 
Spent half tile darkness, and snored out tlie rest. 
Was one, whom justice, on an equal plan. 
Denouncing death upon the sins of man. 
Might almost have indulged with an escape, 
Chargeable only with a human shape. 

\Vhat are they now 1 — Morality may spare 
Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there ; 
The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced, and 

laugli'd. 
And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught. 
Has wept a silent flood, reversed his ways. 
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, 
Feeds sparingly, conmiunicates his store. 
Abhors the craft he boasted of before, 
And he that stole has learn'd to steal no more. 
Well spake the prophet. Let the desert sing. 
Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring, 
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew. 
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. 

Go now, and with important tone demand 
On what foundation virtue is to stand, 
If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift. 
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift ; 
The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes 
Glistening at once with pity and surprise, 
Amazed that shadows should obscure the sight 
Of one whose birth was in a land of light, 
Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope, has set me free, 
And made all pleasures else mere dross to mc. 

These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied 
The common care that waits on all beside, 
Wild as if nature there, void of all good, 
Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, 
(Yet charge not heavenly skill with having 

plann'd 
A plaything world, unworthy of his hand ;) 
Can see his love, though secret evil lurks 
In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works; 
Deem life a blessing with its numerous woes. 
Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. 
Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam ! 
Is hope exotic 1 grows it not at home 1 
Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn. 
May press the eye too closely to be borne ; 
A distant virtue we can all confess, 
It hurts our pride, and moves our envy, lese. 

Leuconomus (beneath well-sounding Greek 
I slur a name a poet must not speak) 



Stood pilloried on infamy's high stage. 
And bore the pelting scorn of half an age ; 
The very butt of slander, and the blot 
For every dart that malice ever shot. 
The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd 
All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd : 
His crimes were such as Sodom never knew, 
And perjury stood up to swear all true ; 
His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence. 
His speech rebellion against common sense ; 
A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; 
And when by that of reason, a mere fool ; 
The world's best comfort was, his doom was pass'd ; 
Die when he miglit, he must be damm'd at last. 
Now, Truth, perforin thine office ; waft aside 
The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride. 
Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes 
This more than monster in his proper guise. 
He lov'd the world that hated him ; the tear 
That dropp'd upon his Bilile was sincere ; 
Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife. 
His only answer was a blameless life ; 
And he that forged, and he that threw the dart, 
Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed. 
Were copied close in hun, and well transcribed. 
He followed Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame, 
His apostolic charity the same. 
Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas. 
Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease; 
Like hun he labor'd, and like him content 
To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. 
Blush, calmimy ! and write upon his tomb. 
If honest eulogy can spare thee room. 
Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, [skies; 
Which, aim'd at him, have pierced the ofl'ended 
And say. Blot out my sin, confess'd, deplored. 
Against thine unage, in thy saint, O Lord i 

No blinder bigot. I maintain it still, [will : 

Than he who must have pleasure, come what 
He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw. 
And deems her sharp artilleiy mere straw ; 
Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he 
On scripture ground are sure to disagree ; 
Some wiser rule must teach him how to live, 
Than this his Maker has seen fit to give ; 
Supple and flexible as Indian cane, 
To take the bend his appetites ordain ; 
Contrived to suit frail nature's crazy case. 
And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. 
By this, with nice precision of design. 
He draws upon life's map a zig-zag fine, 
That shows how tar 'tis safe to follow sin, 
And where his danger and God's wrath begin. 
By this he forms, as pleased he sports along, 
His well-poised estimate of right and wrong ; 
And finds the modish manners of the day, 
Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play. 

Build by whatever plan caprice decrees. 
With w' hat materials, on what ground you please ; 
Your hope shall stand unblamed, perhaps ad- 
mired, 
If not that hope the scripture has required. 
The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild 

dreams. 
With wliich hypocrisy forever teems, 
(Tliough other follies strike the public eye. 
And raise a laugh) pass unmolested by ; 
But if, unblameablc in word and tliought. 
A MAN arise, a man whom God has taught, 
With all Elijah's dignity of tone, 
And all the love of "the beloved John, 



HOPE. 



545 



To storm the citadels they huilil in uir, [spare ; 
Aiut smite the unteiupcr'd wall 'tis death to 
To sweep away all refutres ol' lies, 
And place, instead ol" quirks themselves devise, 
Lama sabacthani bcl'ore their eyes, 
To prove that without Christ all gain is loss, 
All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; 
Exetpt the tew his God may have imprcss'd, 
A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest. [least, 

Thr(m;fhout mankind, the Christian kind at 
There dwells a eonseiousriess in every breast. 
That folly ends where genuine hope herins, 
And he that (inds his heaven must lose his sins. 
Nature opposes, with her utmost force. 
This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce : 
And, while Religion seems to be her view, 
Hates with a deep sincerity the true : 
For this, of all that ever inlluenced man, 
.Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began. 
This only spares no lust, admits no plea. 
But makes liim, if at all, completely free ; 
Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car. 
Of an eternal, univt rsal war ; 
Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, 
Scorns with the same indifference frowns and 

smiles ; 
Drives through the realms of sin, where riot reels, 
And grinds his crown beneath her burning 

wheels ! 
Hence all that is in man. pride, passion, art, 
Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart, 
Insensible of truth's almighty t-narms. 
Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms ! 
Whil', Bigotry, with well dissemijied tears, 
His eyes shut fast, his lingers in his ears. 
Mighty to parry and push by God's word 
IVith senseless noise, iiis argument the sword, 
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace, 
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. 

Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known 
Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine 

own: 
The silent progress of thy power is such. 
Thy means so t'eeble, and despised so much. 
That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought. 
.Ind none can teach them but whom thou hast 

tauglit. 
Oh sec m(; sworn to serve thee, and command 
A painter's skill into a ])oet's hand ! 
That, while i treadding trace a work divine, 
Fancy may stand aloof from the design. 
Anil Ught and shade, and every stroke, be thine. 

If ever thou hast felt another's pain. 
If ever when he sighed hast sighed again, 
If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear 
That pity had cngender'<l, drop one here. 
This man was happy— had the world's good word, 
.4nd with it every joy it can afford ; 
Friendship and love seein'd tenderly at strife, 
Which most should sweeten his untroubled hfe ; 
Politely learn 'd, and of u gentle race, 
Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, 
Anil whether at the toilette of the fair 
He laugh d and trilled, made him welcome there, 
Or, if in masculine debate he shared, 
Ensured him mute attention and regard. 
Alas, how changed ! Expressive of hLs mind. 
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined ; 
Those awl'ul syllaldes, hell, death, and sin, [in ; 
Though whisper'd. plainly tell what works with- 
That conscience there performs her proper part, 
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart I 



Forsaking and forsaken of all friends, 
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends ; 
Hard task ! lor one who lately knew no care, 
.4nd harder still as learnt beneath despair ! 
His hours no longer pass unmarked away, 
\ ilark importance saddens every day ; 
He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd 
And cries, Perhaps eternity strikes next ! 
Sweet music is no longer music here, 
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear: 
His grief the world of all her power disarms ; 
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms : 
Goil's holy word, once trivial in his view. 
Now by the voice of his experience true, 
.Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone 
Must spring that hope he pants to make his 

own. 
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; 
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God. 
.is when a felon, whom his country's laws 
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause. 
Expects, in darkness and heart-chilhng fears. 
The shameful close of all his misspent years; 
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, 
A tempest usher in the dreaded morn. 
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play. 
The thunder seems to summon him away ; 
The warder at the door his key appUes, 
.Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies : 
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost. 
When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the 

ghost. 
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, 
He drops at once his fetters and his fear; 
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks. 
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. 
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs 
The comfort of a few poor added days. 
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul 
Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made 

whole. 
'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings 
Of the glad legions of the King of kings ; 
'Tis more — 'tis God diffused through every part. 
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. 
O welcome now the sun's once h.ated light. 
His noonday beams were never half so bright. 
Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ 
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy ; 
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys. 
Rocks, groves, and streams must join lum in hb 

praise. 
These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, 
The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth ; 
These move the censure and illiberal grin 
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin : 
But these shall last when night has quench'd the 

pole. 
And heav'n is all departed as a scroll. 
.•Vnil when, as justice has long since decreed, 
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed. 
Then these thy glorious works, and they who 

share 
That hope v^'hich can alone exclude despair. 
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay. 
The brightest wonders of an endless day. 

Happy the bard (if that fair name belong 
To him that blends no fable with his song) 
Whose lines, uniting, by an honest art. 
The faithful monitor's and poet's part, 
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, 
And. while they captivate inform the mind : 
35 



546 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Still happier, if he till a thankful soil. 

And fruit reward his honorable toil : 

But happier far, who comfort those that wait 

To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate : 

Their language simple, as their manners meek, 

No shining ornaments have they to seek ; 



Nor labor they, nor time, nor talents, waste, 
In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste ; 
But, while they speak the wisdom of the skies, 
Which art can only darken and disguise. 
The abundant harvest, recompense divine, 
Repays their work — the gleaning only mine. 



CHARITY. 



Qua nihil majua meliusve terris 
Fata donavfire, bonique divi ; 
Nee dabimt, quamvis redeaut in aurum 
Tempora priscum. 

HoR. lib. iv. Ode 2. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Invocation to Charity — Social ties— Tribute to the hu- 
manity of C.iptain Cook — His charactLT contrasted with 
that of Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico — Degradation 
of Spain — Purpose of commerce — Gifts of art — The 
slave-trade and slavery — Slavery unnatural and un- 
christian — The duty of abatiui; the woes of that state, 
and of enlightening the niiud of the slave, enforced — 
Apostrophe to Liberty— Charity ol" Muwnrd— Pursuits 
of philosophy — Reason learns uothiiiL,' ariLj;hl without 
the lamp of Revelation — True charity the offspring of 
divine truth — Supposed case of a blind nation and an 
optician — Portrait of Charity — Beauty of the Apostle's 
definition of it — Alms as the means of lulling con- 
science — Pride and ostentation motives of charity — 
Character of satire- True charity inculcated — Chris- 
tian charity should be universal— Happy effects that 
would result from imiversal chai'ity. 

Fairest and foremost of the train that wait 
On man's most dignified ami happiest state, 
Whether we name thee Charity or Love, 
Chief grace below, and all in all above. 
Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea) 
A task I venture on, impcU'd by thee : 
Oh never seen hut in thy blest effects, 
Or felt but in the soul that heaven selects ; 
Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known 
To other hearts, must have thee in his own. 
Come, prompt me with benevolent desires, 
Teach me to kindle at thy identic fires, 
And, though disgraced and sliglited, to redeem 
A poet's name, by making thee the theme. 

God, working ever on a social plan, 
By various tics altachcs man to man ; 
He made at first, though free and unconfined. 
One man the common father of the kind ; 
That every tribe, though placed as he sees best. 
Where seas or deserts part them from the rest, 
Differing in lano;uage. manners, or in face, 
Might feel themselves allied to all the race. 
When Cook — lamented, and with tears as just 
As ever mingled with heroic dust — 
Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown. 
And rn his country's glory soujijht his own. 
Wherever he found man to nature true, 
The rights of man were sacred in his view: 
He soothed with gifts, and greeted with a smile. 
The simple native of the new-found isle ; 
He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood 
The tender argument of kindred blood j 



Nor would endure that any should control 
His freeborn brethren of the southern pole. 
But. though some nobler minds a law respect, 
That none shall with impunity neglect, 
In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet, 
To thwart its influence, and its end defeat. 
While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved, 
See Cortez odious for a world enslaved ! [then, 
Where wast thou then, sweet Ciiarity? where 
Thou tutelary friend of helpless men 1 
Wast thou in monkish cells and nunneries found, 
Or building hospitals on English ground 1 
No. — Mammon makes the world his legatee 
Through fear, not love; and Heaven abhors 

the fee. 
Wherever found, (and nil men need thy care,) 
Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. 
The hand that slew till it could slay no more 
Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore. 
Their prince, as justly seated on his throne 
As vain imperial Philip on his own, 
Trick'd out of all his royalty by art, 
That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest 

heart. 
Died, by the sentence of a shaven priest. 
For scorning what they taught him to detest. 
How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze 
Of Heaven's mysterious purposes and ways ! 
God stood not. though he seera'd to stand, aloof; 
And at this hour the conqueror feels the proof; 
The wreath he won drew down an instant curse, 
The trettinij plague is in the public purse, 
The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state, 
Starved liy that indolence their mines create. 

Oh could their ancient Incas rise affain. 
How would they take up Israel's taunting strain ! 
Art thou too fallen. Iberia 1 Do we see 
The robber and the murderer weak as we ? 
Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dared despise ' 
Alike the wrath and mercy of tlic skies, 
Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid 
Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
We come with joy from our eternal rest 
To see the oppressor in his turn oppressed. 
Art thou the god, the thunder of whose hand 
RolI'd over all our desolated land. 
Shook principalities and kingdoms down. 
And made the mountains tremble at his frown ? 



CHARITY. 



547 



The sword shall liglit upon thy boasted powers, 
And Wilste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 
'TU thus Omnipotence his law I'ultils, 
And vengeance executes what justice wills. 

Again- — the liand ol" commerce was designed 
To associate all the branches of mankind ; 
And it' a boundless plenty be the robe, 
Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. 
Wise to promote whatever end he means. 
God opens fruitful IVatare's various scenes: 
Kach climate needs what other climes produce, 
And oilers something to the general use ; 
No land but listens to the common call, 
.And in return receives supply Iroin all. 
This geni;il intercourse, and mutual aid, 
Cheers what were else a universul shade, 
Calls nature from her ivy-mantleil den. 
And sotlens human rock-work into tnen. 
Ingenious Art with her expressive face, 
Steps forth to fashion and refine the race ; 
Not only fills necessity's demand. 
But overeh.-irges her capacious hand : 
Capricious taste itself can crave no more 
Than she supplies from her abounding store : 
.She strikes out all that luxury run ask, 
.-Vnd gains new vigor at her endless task. 
Hors is the spacious arch, the sliapely spire. 
The painter's pencil, and the poet s lyre ; 
■•"rom her the canvas borrows light anil shade, , 
.Vnd verse, more lasting, hues that never fade. 
She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys. 
Gives didiculty all the grace of ease, 
.Vnd pours a torrent of sweet notes around 
Fast as the thirstijig ear can drink the sound. 

These are the gifts of art ; and art thrives most 
Where Commerce has enrieh'd the busy coast/; 
He catches all improvements in his fliglit. 
Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight, 
laiporls what others have invented well, 
.Villi stirs his own to match them, or excel. 
'IHs thus, reciprocating each with each, 
.'VltfTnately the nations learn and teach ; 
^\'hile Providence enjoins to every soul 
A union with the vast terraijueous whole. 

Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd 
To furnish and ace mimoilate a worlil. 
To give the i>ole the produce of the sun. 
And knit the unsocial climates into one. 
Soil airs and gentle he.avings of the wave 
Impel the fieet whose errand is to save, 
To succor wasted regions, and replace 
'I'll.- smile of opulence in sorrow's face. 
Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, 
I iip.?dc (he bark that ploughs the deep serene. 
Charged with a freight transcending in its worth 
The srerns of India Nature's rarest birth. 
That flics, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, 
.V herald of God's love to pagan luniis ! 
Hut all ! what wish (an prosper or what prayer, 
For merchants rich in cargoes of despair. 
Who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge, and span. 
And buv the muscles and the bones of man ? 
The tender ties of father, husband. fri(;nd. 
All bonds of nature in that moment end ; 
And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, 
A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. 
The sable warrior, trantic with regret 
Of her he loves, and never run forget. 
Loses in tears the far-receding shore, [more ; 
Hut not the thought that they must meet no 
Deprived of her and freedom at a blow. 
What has he lell that he can yet forego 1 



Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd. 
He icels his body's bondage in his mind ; 
Puts olf his generous nature, and, to suit 
His manners with his fate, puts on the brute. 

Oil most degrading of all ills that wait 
On man, a mourner in his best estate ! 
All other sorrows virtue may endure. 
And find submission more than half a cure; 
Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow'd 
To improve the fortitude that bears the load ; 
To teach the wanderer, as his woes increase. 
The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace; 
Hut slavery — Virtue dreads it as her grave : 
Patience itself is meanness in a slave ; 
Or, if the will and sovereignty of God 
Bid sutler it awhile, and kiss the rod. 
Wait lor the dawning of a brighter day, 
And snap the chain the moment when you may. 
Nature imprints upon whate'er we see. 
That has a heart and life in it. Be free ! 
The beasts are charter'd — neither age nor force 
Can quell the love of iVeedom in a horse ; 
He breaks the cord that held him at the rack ; 
And, conscious of an unincumber'd back, 
SnulTs up the morning air, forget-s the rein ; 
Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane ; 
Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs ; 
Nor stops, till, overleaping all delays, 
He finds the pasture where his tellows graze. 

Canst thou, and honor'd with a Christian 
name. 
Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 1 
Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 
Expedience as a warrant tor the deed \ 
So may the wolf whom I'amine has made bold 
To quit the Ibrest and invade the fold : 
So may the rutlian, who with ghostly glide. 
Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 
Not he, but his emergence forced the door, 
He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
Has God then given its sweetness to tlie cane. 
Unless his laws be trampled on — in vainl 
Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist. 
Unless his right to rule it bo dismiss'd ? 
Impudent blasphemy ! So folly pleads, 
.Vnd, avarice being judge, with ease succeeds. 

But grant the plea, and let it stand for just. 
That man make man his prey, because he must; 
Still there is room for ])ity to abate 
.Vnd soothe the sorrows of so sad a state. 
A Briton knows, or if he knows it not. 
The scripture placed within his reach, ho ought. 
That souls have no discriminating hue. 
Alike important in their Maker's view ; 
That none are free from blemish since the fall, ■ 
.\nd love divine has paid one price for all. 
The wretch that works and weeps without rchcf 
Has One that notices his silent grief 
He, from whose hand alone all power proceeds, 
Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds, 
Considers all injustice with a frown, 
But mark.'! the man that treads his fellow down. 
Begone !— the whip and bell in that hard haiul 
Are hateful ensigns of usurped command. 
Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim 
To scourge him, weariness his only blame. 
Remember, Heaven has an avenging rod. 
To smite the poor is treason against God ! 

Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd. 
While life'^sublimest joys are overlook'd; 
We wander o'er a sun-burnt thirsty soil. 
Murmuring and weary of our d^iily toil, 



548 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Forget to enjoy tlie palm-tree's offered shade, 
Or taste the fountain in the neighboring glade ; 
Else who would lose, that had the power to im- 
The occasion ot* transmuting fear to love 1 [prove 
Oh 'tis a godlike privilege to save ! 
And he that scorns it is himself a slave. 
Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 
" Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, 
And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 
Then would he say, submissive at thy feet, 
While gratitude and love made service sweet. 
My dear deliverer out of hopeless night. 
Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 
I was a bondman on my native plain. 
Sin forged, and ignorance made fast, the chain; 
Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew. 
Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue ; 
Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more 
For Africa's once loved, benighted shore ; 
Serving a benefactor, I am free ; 
At my best home, if not exiled from thee, [ceeds 

Some men make gain a fountain whence pro- 
A stream of liberal and heroic deeds ; 
The swell of pity, not to be confined 
Within the scanty limits of the mind. 
Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 
A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : 
These have an ear for his paternal call. 
Who makes some rich for the supply of all ; 
God's gift with pleasure in his jiraise employ ; 
And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 

Oh could I worship auglit beneath the skies 
That earth has seen, or fancy can devise, 
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, 
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand. 
With fragrant turf and flowers as wild and fiiir 
As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air. 
Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
The peep of morning shed a dawning light. 
Again, when evening in her sober vest 
Drew the grey curtain of the fading west, [praise 
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and 
For the chief blessings of my fairest days : 
But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine, 
But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 
Else I would say, and as I spake bid fiy 
A captive bird into tile boundless skv, 
This triple realm adores thee — thou art come 
From Sparta hither, and art here at home. 
We feel thy force still active, at this hour 
Enjoy unmunity from priestly power, 
While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
Owns no superior but the God she fears. 
Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
Thy rights have suffer'd, and our land, too long. 
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
The fears and hopes of a commercial care. 
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, 
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood ; 
And honest merit stands on slippery ground. 
Where covert guile and artifice abound. 
Let just restramt, for public peace design "d. 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of manliind ; 
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, 
But let insolvent innocence go free. 

Patron of else the most despised of men. 
Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; 
Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed, 
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed ; 



I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame 
(Charity chosen as my theme and aim) 
I must incur, forgetting How.ird's name. 
Blest with all wealth can give thee, to resign 
Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine, 
To quit the bhss thy rural scenes bestow, 
To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe, [home. 
To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and bring 
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome, 
But knowledge such as only dungeons teach, 
And only sym[)athy like thine could reach; 
That grief sequester'd from the public stage. 
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage ; 
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal. 
The boldest patriot might be proud to fee!. 
Oh that the voice of clamor and debate. 
That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state, 
Were hush'd in favor of thy generous plea, 
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's smile thy (be ! 

Philosophy, that does not dream or stray, 
Walks arm in arm with nature all his way ; 
Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends 
Whatever steep inquiry recommends. 
Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll 
Round other systems under her control, 
Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light. 
That cheers the silent journey of the night, 
.-Vnd brings at his return a bosom charged 
^VVith rich instruction, and a soul enlarged. 
The treasured sweets of the capacious plan, 
Tliat Heaven spreads wide before the view of 

man. 
All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursue 
Still prompt him, with a pleasure always new ; 
He too has a connecting power, and draws 
Man to the centre of the common cause, 
Aiding a dubious and deficient sight 
With a new medium and a purer light. 
All truth is precious, if not all divine ; 
And what dilates the powers must needs refine. 
He reads the skies, and, watching every change. 
Provides the faculties an ampler range ; 
And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, 
A prouder station on the general scale. 
But reason still, unless divinely taught, 
Whatc'cr she learns, learns nothing as she ought ; 
The lamp of revelation only shows. 
What human wisdom cannot but oppose. 
That man, in nature's richest mantle clad, 
.-\nd graced with all philosophy can add. 
Though fair without, and luminous within. 
Is still the progeny and heir of sin. 
Thus taught, down falls the plumage of his pride , 
He feels his need of an unen'ing guide. 
And knows that falling he shall rise no more. 
Unless the power that bade him stand restore. 
This is indeed philosophy ; this known 
JIakes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own ; 
.\nd without this, whatever he discuss ; 
Whether the space between the stars and us; 
Whether he measure earth, compute the sea, 
Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly. or spit a flea ; 
The solemn trifler with his boasted skill 
Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still : 
BUnd was he born, and his misguided eyes 
Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies. 
Self knowledge truly learned of course implies 
The rich possession of a nobler prize ; 
For self to self and God to man, reveal'd, 
(Two themes to nature's eye forever seal'd,) 
Are taught by rays, that fly with equal pace 



CHARITY. 



549 



Here stay thy foot ; how copious, and how clear. 
The o'ertlowinj^ well of Charity sprin;rs here ! 
Hark ! 'tis the music of a thousand rills, 
.Souie through the ijrovcs, some down the sloping 
hills" " ' ° 

Winding a secret or an open course. 
And all supphcd fro:n an eternal source. 
The ties of nature do but I'cehly hind. 
And commerce partially reclaims mankind; 
Philosophy, without his heavenly guide, 
Jlay hlow up sfll-cunceit, and nourish pride; 
Hut, while his province is the reasoning part, 
Has still a veil of midnight on his heart: 
'Tis truth divine exhibited on earth. 
Gives Charity her being and her birth. [flows. 

Suppose (when thought is warm, and fancy 
What will not argument sometimes suppose '!) 
An isle possessed by creatures of our kind. 
Endued with reason, yet by nature blind. 
Let supposition lend her aid once more, 
And land some grave optician on the shore: 
He claps his lens, if haply they may see, 
Close to the part where vision ought to be ; 
But finds that, though his tubes assist the sight. 
They cannot give it, or make darkness light. 
He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud 
A sense they know not to the wondering crowd; 
He talks of light and the prismatic hues, 
As men of depth in erudition use ; 

But all he gains for his harangue is — Well, 

What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ! 

The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace 
renews, 
Takes the resemblance of the good she views, 
.-Vs diamonds, strijjp'd of their opaque disguise, 
Rellect the noon-day glory of the skies. 
She speaks of Him Jier author, guardian, friend. 
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end. 
In language warm as all that love inspires; 
And, in the glow of her intense desires. 
Pants to communicate her noble fires. 
She sees a world stark blind to what employs 
Her eager thought, ami ii:cils her flowing joys ; 
Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call. 
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all : 
Herself as weak as her support is strong, 
She feels that frailty she denied so long; 
And, from a knowledge of her own disease. 
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees. 
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence, 
The reign of genuine Charity commence. 
Tlinugh scorn repay her sympathetic tears. 
She still is kind, and still she perseveres; 
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 
'TLs childish dotage, a delirious dream I 
The danger they discern not they deny ; 
L:uigh at their only remedy, and die. 
But still a soul thus touch'il can never cease, 
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace. 
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, 
Mrr wisdom seems the weakness of a child: 
She makes excuses where she might condemn, 
Reviled by those that hate her. prays for them; 
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast, 
The worst suggested she believes the best; 
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased, 
And, if perhaps matle angry, soon appL;ased ; 
She rather waives than will dispute lier right; 
And. injured, makes forgiveness her delight. 

Such was the portrait an apostle drew, 
The bright original was one he knew; 
Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true. 



When one, that holds communion with the 

skies, 
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, 
.\nd once more mingles with us meaner things, 
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings; 
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide. 
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 
So when a ship, well freighted with the stores 
The sun matures on India's spicy shores. 
Has dro])p"d her anchor, and her canvas furl'd, 
In some sa!*e haven of our western world, 
'Twere vain incjuiry to what port she went. 
The gale intbrms us, laden with the scent. 
Some seek, when queasy conscience has its 

qualms. 
To lull the painful malady with alms; 
But charity not feign'd intends alone 
.'Vnother's gootl — theirs centres in their own ; 
And, too short-Uved to reach the realms of peace, 
Must cease forever when the poor shall cease. 
F'lavia, most tender of her own good name, 
Is rather careless of her sister's fame : 
Her superlluily the poor supplies. 
But, if she touch a character, it dies. 
The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice, 
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price : 
No charity but alms aught values she, 
Kxcept in porcelain on her mantle-tree 
How many deeds, with which the world has 

rung. 
From priile, in league with ignorance, have 

sprung ! 
But Goil o'errules all human follies still, 
.And bends the tough materials to his will 
A conflagration, or a wintry flood, 
Has lell some hundreds without home or food : 
Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe, 
While fame and sell'-eomplaccncc are the bribe. 
The brief proclaim'd, it visits every pew, 
But lirst the .s<juire's, a compliment but tlue: 
With slow deliberation he unties 
His gUttering purse, that envy of all eyes ! 
.ind. while the clerk just puzzles out the psahn. 
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm; 
Till finding, what he might have found before, 
A smaller piece amidst the precious store, 
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb. 
He half exhibits, and then drops the sum. 
Gold, to be sure ! — Throughout the town 'tis told 
How the good squire gives never less than "old. 
From motives such as his, though not the best. 
Springs in due time supply for the distress'd ; 
Not less clVectual than what love bestows, 
Except that oflicc clips it as it goes. 

But lest I seem to sin against a (riend. 
And wound the grace I mean to recommend, 
(Though vice derided with a just design 
Implies no trespass against love divine,) 
Once more I fc'ould adopt the graver style, 
.\ teacher should be sparing of his smile. 
Unless a love of virtue light the flame. 
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; 
He hides behind a m.igisterial air 
His own olTences, and strips others bare ; 
.VlVects indeed a most humane conc:ern. 
That men, if gently tutor'<l, will not learn ; 
That mulish lolly, not to be radaim'd 
By softer methods, must be made ashamed ; 
But (1 might in.stanre in St. Patrick's dean) 
Too otlen rail.* to gratify his spleen. 
Most satirists are indeed a public scourge ; 
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge ; 



550 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, 
The iuilk of their good purpose all to curd. 
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 
I>y lean despair upon an empty purse, 
The wild ttssa.ssins start into the street, 
Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. 
N'o skill in swordmanship, however just, 
Can be secure against a madman's thrust ; 
And even virtue, so unfairly match'd. 
Although iamiortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd. 
When scandal iias new minted an old lie, 
Or taxed invention for a fresh supply, 
'Tis called a satire, and the world appears 
Gathering around it with erected ears : 
A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd : 
Some whLsper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, 
Just as the sapience of an author's brain 
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. 
Strange ! how the frequent interjected dash 
Quickens a market, and helps otf the trash ; 
The important letters that include the rest 
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ; 
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw, 
The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law. 
So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail. 
Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; 
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess. 
They meet with little pity, no redress ; 
Plung'd in the stream, they lodge upon the mud, 
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood. 

All zeal for a reform, that gives olTence 
To peace and charity, is mere pretence : 
A bold remark; hut which, if well applied, 
Would humble many a towering poet's pride. 
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit, 
And had no other play-place for his wit; 
Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, 
He sought the jewel in his neighbor's shame ; 
Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue. 
The cause of virtue could not be his view. 
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes. 
The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise, 
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms. 
That, while they please, possess us with alarms ; 
So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sight 
On all the winjis of holiday delight.) 
Where stands that monument of ancient power, 
Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, [small. 
Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and 
In starry forms disposed upon the wall : 
We wonder, as we gazing stand below. 
That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; 
But, though we praise the exact designer's skill. 
Account tnem implements of mischief still. 

No works shall find acceptance in that day. 
When all disguises shall be rent away. 
That square not truly with the scripture plan, 
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. 
As he ordains things sordid in tlieii*birth 
To be resolved into their parent earth ; 
And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs, 
Whate'cr this world produces, it absorbs; 
So self starts nothing, but what tends apace 
Home to the goal, where it began the race. 
Such as our motive is our aim must be ; 
If this be servile, that can ne'er be free : 
If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, 
We glorify that self, not Him we ought ; 



Such virtues had need prove their own reward, 

The Judge of all men owes them no recard. 

True Charity, a plant divinely nursed. 

Fed by the love trom which it rose at first, 

Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene, 

Storms but enliven its unfading green ; 

Exuberant is the shadow it supplies. 

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies. 

To look at Him. who lorm'd us and redeem'd. 

So glorious now, though once so disestecm'd ; 

To see a God stretch forth his human hand, 

To uphold the boundless scenes of his command ; 

To recollect that, in a form like ours, 

He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers, 

Captivity led captive, rose to claim 

The wreath he won so dearly m our name ; 

That, throned above all height, he condescends 

To call the few that trust in him his friends ; 

That, in the heaven of heavens, that space he 

deems 
Too scanty for the exertion of his beams, 
And shines, as if impatient to bestow 
Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; 
That sight imparts a ncver-dyinCT flame. 
Though feeble in degree, in kind the same. 
Like liim the soul, thus kindled from above 
Spreads wide her arms of universal love ; 
And, still enlarged as she receives the grace, 
Includes creation in her close embrace. 
Behold a Christian ! — and without the fires 
The Founder of that name alone inspires. 
Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet, 
To make the shining prodigy complete, 
Whoever boasts that name — behold a cheat! 
Were love, in these the world's last doting years, 
As frequent as the want of it appeal's, 
The churches warm'd, thev would no longer 

hold 
Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold ; 
Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease ; 
And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled live in pieace : 
Each heart would quit its prison in the breast, 
And flow in free communion with the rest. 
The statesman, sldll'd in projects dark and deep, 
Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep : 
His budget, oiien fill'd, yet always poor. 
Might swing at ease behind his study door. 
No longer prey upon our annual rents. 
Or scare the nation with its big contents: 
Disbanded legions freely might depart. 
And slaying man would cease to be an art. 
No learned disputants would take the field, 
Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield ; 
Both sides deceived, if rightly understood, 
Pelting each other for the public good. 
Did charity prevail, the press would prove 
A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love ; 
And I might spare myself the pains to show 
What few can learn, and all suppose they know. 

Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay 
With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray. 
In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost. 
The attention pleasure has so much engross'd. 
But if unhappily deceived I dream. 
And prove too weak for so divine a theme. 
Let Charity forgive me a mistake. 
That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, 
And spare the poet for his subject's sake. 



CONVERSATION. 



Nam ncque me taiitum venicntis sibilus austri, 
NfC percussa juviiiil Ihictu turn Htora, nee quiB 
Poxosas iuter deciuruiil Ilumina valles. 

ViRo.Ecl. 5. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

In conversation much depends on culture— Its results 
frequoutly ini*icrn ill cant — In(k'i\'nt Iaiii;iiai?e and oaths 
reprobatJd— Tin- aalhnr'i* ilislike of IIil- clash of ari<u- 
ine])t3 — The noisy wranclcr — Diibiua an example of in- 
decision—The posilivr prniiiniiicewirhout liositation— 
The point of honor lunitiiuin d— Duellini^ with lists in- 
stead of weapr)nA prnpDsud— Kflt'Ct of long tales — The 
retailer of priHliLries iind lies — Qnalities of a judicimis 
tale — Smoking condemned— The emphatic speaker — 
The perfumed beau— The crave coxcomb — Sickness 
made a topic of conversation— Pictiu-e of a fretful tem- 
per—The bashful speaker— An English company — The 
sportsman — InHuencx' of fashion on conversation — Con- 
verse of the two disciples (?i>inc; to Kn^maus- Delights 
of religious converHiiiion — Age mellows the speech — 
True piety often bnuided as i"imalic frenzy — i'leasure of i 
communion with the good— Conversation should be un- i 
constrained— Persons who make the Uible their com- ] 
pauion, charged with hypocrisy by the world- The ! 
charge repelled— The poet sarc:wlicully surmises th^it , 
his censure of llie world may proceed from ignorance : 
of its reformed manners— An apology for digression — 
Kc-ligion purities and enriches conversation. I 

Thocoh nature weijrh our talents, and dispense 
To every man his modicum ot" sense, 
And Conversation in its better part 
May be esteem'd a gill, and not an art. 
Yet much depends, as in tlie tiller's toil, 
On cuUurc, and the sowing ot" the soil. 
\Vords learn'd by role a parrot may reliearse. 
But talking is not always to converse ; 
Not more distinct from harmony divine, 
The constant creaking of a country sign. 
As alphabets in ivory employ. 
Hour after hour, the yet unletter'd boy, 
Sorting and puzzHng with a deal of glee 
Those seeds of science call'd his a b c ; 
So language in the mouths of tlie adult, 
Witness its insignilicant result. 
Too often proves an implement of play, 
A toy to sport witli, and pass time away. 
Collect at evening what the day brought forth, 
Compress the sum into its solid worth, 
And if it weigh the importance of a fly, 
The scales arc false, or algebra a lie. 
Sacred interpreter of human thought, 
How few respect or use thee as they ought! 
But all shall give account of every wrong. 
Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue ; 
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, 
Or sell their fflory at a market-price ; 
Who vote for hire, or point it witn lampoon, 
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buf- 
foon. 
There is a prurience in the speech of some, 
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them 
dumb: 



His wise forbearance has their end m view, 
They fill their measure, and receive their due. 
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, 
Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, 
Would drive them forth from the resort of men, 
And shut up every satyr in his den. 
Oh come not ye near innocence and truth, 
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ! 
Intectious as impure, your blighting power 
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower; 
Its odor pcrish'd and its charming hue, 
Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for its smells of you. 
Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage 
Of adolescence, or a firmer age. 
Affords a plea allowable or just 
For making speech the pamperer of lust; 
But when t1ie breath of age commits the fault 
'Tis nauseous as the vapor of a vault. 
So wither'd stumps disgrace the sylvan scene, 
No longer fruitful, and no longer green ; 
The sapless wood, divested of the bark, 
Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. 

Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife- 
Some men have surely then a peaceful life ! 
Whatever subject occupy discourse, 
The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, 
Asseveration blusterinfj in your face 
Makes contradiction such a hopeless case: 
In every tale they tell, or talse or true, 
Well known, or such as no man ever knew, 
They fix attention, heedless of your pain. 
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ; 
And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, 
They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt. 
A Persian, humble servant of the sun. 
Who. tliough devout, yet bigotry had none, 
Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address. 
With adjurations every word impress. 
Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, 
God s name so much upon his Ups, a priest ; 
Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs. 
And bcgs'^ an interest in his frequent prayers. 

Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferred, 
Henceibrth associate in one common herd; 
Religion, virtue, reason, common sense. 
Pronounce your human form a false pretence : 
A mere disguise in which a devil lurks, 
Who yet betrays his secret by his works. 

Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there 
are, 
And make colloquial happiness your care, 
Preser\'e me from the tbinw I dread and hate, 
A duel in the form of a debate. 
The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords, 



552 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Decide no question with their tedious length. 
For opposition <rives opinion strenfrth, 
Divert the champions prodigal ot' breath, 
And put the [icaceably disposed to death. 

thwart me not, 8ir Sopii. at every turn, 
Nor carp at every flaw you may discern; 
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 

1 am not surely always in the wrong; 
'Tis hard it' all is false that I advance, 

A iboi must now and then be right by chance. 

Not that all freedom of dissent 1 blarae ; 

No — there I grant the privilege I claim. 

A disputable point is no man s ground ; 

Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. 

Discourse may want an animated — No, 

To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 

But still remember, if you mean to please, 

To press your point with modesty and ease. 

The mark, at which my juster aiui I take, 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 

Knots and imp>jdiments make sometliing iiitcli ; 

Adopt his own, "tis equally in vain. 

Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 

The wrangler, rather than accord with you, 

Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. 

Vociierated logic kills me quite. 

A noisy man is always in the right, 

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 

FL\ on the wainscot a distressful stare. 

And, when I hope his blunders are all out, 

Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt! 

Due 1 us is such a scrupulous good man — 
Yes — you may catch him tripping if you can. 
He would not, with a peren^ptory tone, 
Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 
With hesitation admirably slow, 
He humbly hopes — presumes — it may be so. 
His evidence, if he were calPd by law 
To swear to some enormity he saw, 
For want of promiJience and just relief, 
Would hang an honest man and save a thief. 
Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 
He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not ; 
What he remembers seems to have forgot ; 
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, 
Centring at last in having none at all. 
Yet, though he tease, and balk your listening ear. 
He makes one useful point exceeding clear ; 
However ingenious on his darling theme 
A sceptic in philosophy may seem, 
Reduced to practice, his beloved rule 
Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 
Useless in him alike both brain and speech, 
Fate ha\ing placed all truth above his reach. 
His ambiguities his total sum. 
He might as well be bliJid, and deaf, and dumb. 

Where men of judgment creep and feel their 
The positive pronounce without dismay ; [way, 
Their want of light and intellect suppUed 
Bjr sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. 
Without the means of knowing right from wrong, 
They always are decisive, clear, and strong. 
Where others toil with philosophic force, 
Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course ; 
Flings at your head conviction in the lump, 
And gains remote conclusions at a jump : 
Their own defect, invisible to them, 
Seen in another, they at once condemn; 
And, though self-idolised in every case, 
Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. 



The cause is plain, and not to be denied, 
The proud are always most provoked by pride. 
Few competitions but engender spite ; 
And those the most, where neither has a right. 

The point of honor has been deem'd of use, 
To teach good manners, and to curb abuse : 
Admit it true, the consequence is clear, 
Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear, 
And at the bottom barbarous still and rude ; 
We are restrairiM indeed, but not subdued. 
The very remedy, however sure. 
Springs from tlie mischief it intends to cure, 
And savage in its principle appears, 
Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. 
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend 
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end ; 
That now and then a hero must decease, 
That the sur\iving world may live in peace. 
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show 
The practice dastardly, and mean, and low ; 
That men engage in it corapell'd l>y force ; 
And fear, not courage, is its proper source. 
The fear of tyrant custom, and tlie fear 
Lest fopsshould censure us, and fools should sneer. 
At least to trample on our Maker's laws, 
And hazard Ufe for any or no cause, 
To rusli into a flx'd eternal state 
Out of the very flames of rage and hate, 
Or send another shivering to the bar 
With all the guilt of such unnatural war. 
Whatever use may urge, or honor plead. 
On reason's verdict is a madman's deed. 
Am I to set my life upon a throw, 
Because a bear is rude and surly ? No — 
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man 
Will not afiront me, and no other can. 
Were I empower'd to regulate the lists. 
They should encounter with well loaded fists; 
A Trojan combat would be something new, 
Let DAiii:s beat Entellus black and blue; 
Then each might show to his admiring friends, 
In honorable bumps his rich amends, 
And carry, in contusions of his skull, 
A satisfactory receipt in full. 

A story, in which native humor reigns, 
Is oflen useful, always entertains: 
A graver fact enlisted on your side, 
May furnisii illustration, well applied ; 
But sedentary weavers of long tales 
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 
'Tis the most asinine employ on eartli, 
To hear them tell of parentage and birth. 
And echo conversations dull and dry, 
Embcllish'd with — He said. — and, So said I. 
At every interview their route the same, 
The repetition makes attention lame : 
We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, 
And in the saddest part cry — Droll indeed ! 
The path of narrative with care pursue. 
Still making probability your clue ; 
On all the vestiges of truth attend. 
And let them guide you to a decent end. 
Of all ambitions man may entertain. 
The worst that can invade a sickly brain, 
Is that which angles hourly for surprise, 
And baits iU hook with prodigies and lies. 
Credulous intancy, or age as weak. 
Are fittest auditors for such to seek, 
Who to please others will themselves disgrace. 
Yet please not. but an"ront you to your face. 
A great retailer of this curious ware, 
Having unloaded and made many stare, 



CONVERSATION. 



553 



Can this be true 1 — an arch observer cries ; 
Yes (rather moved). I saw it with these eyes! 
Sir ! I believe it on that crouiul alone ; 
I roiilil not, had I seen it with my own. 

.V talc should be judicious, clear, succinct ; 
The lansjua^e plain, the incidents well link'ii ; 
Tell not as new what everybody knows, 
And, new or old, still hasten to a close ; 
There, centring in a focus round and neat, 
Let all your ravs ot' intbrmation meet. 
What neither yields us prolit nor ilelight 
Is hke a nurses lullaby at night; 
Guy Karl of Warwick and fair Eleanore, 
Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more. 

The pipe, with solemn interposing pulT, 
Makes luilf a sentence at a time enough ; 
The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, [again. 
Then pause, and puiV — and speak, and pause 
Such olten, like the tube they so admire, 
Important trillers ! have more smoke than fire. 
Pernicious weed I whose scent the fair annoys, 
Untnendly to society's chief joys. 
Thy worst eflect is banishing lor hours 
The sex whose presence civilizes ours ; 
Thou art indeed the drug a gardener wants 
To poison vermin that infest his plants ; 
But are we so to wit and beautv blind, 
.As to despise the glory of our knid. 
And show the sotlest minds and laircst forms 
As little mercy as the grubs and worms'! 
They dare not wait the riotous abuse 
Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce. 
When wine has given indecent language birth, 
.And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth; 
For seaborn Venus her attachment shows 
Still to that element from which she ro,se, 
.■\nd, with a (luict which no fumes disturb, 
Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. 

The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, 
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 
As if the gnomon on his neighbor's phiz, 
Touch'd with the magnet, had attracted his. 
His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large. 
Proves alter all a wind-gun's airy charge, 
An extract of his diary — no more, 
A tasteless journal oC the day before. 
He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, 
Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stcpp'd home again, 
Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk. 
With one lie stumbled on, and lost his walk, 
I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
Adieu, dc'ar sir! lest you sliould lose it now. 

I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume ; 
The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau^ 
Who thrusts his nead into a raree-show 1 
His odoriferous attempts to please 
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees ; 
But we thai make no honey, though we sting. 
Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing, 
'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort, 
What makes some sick, and others d-ta-mortj 
An argument of cogence, we may say, 
Why such a one should keep himself away, 

.\ graver coxcomb we may soractuncs sec, 
Quite as absurd, though not so light as he: 
A shallow brain behind a serious mask, 
An oracle witliin an empty cask. 
The solemn lop ; significant and budge ; 
.V fool with judgt's, amongst fools a judge. 
He says but little, and that little said 
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. 



His wit invites you by his looks to come. 

But when you knock it never is at home : 

"ris like a parcel sent you by the stage, 

Some handsome present, as your hopes presage ; 

'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids i'air to prove 

.An absent frientl's fidelity and love. 

Hut when unpack'd your disappointment groans 

To find it stull"<l with lirickb.its, earth, and stones. 

Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, 
in making known how oil they have been sick. 
And give us. in recitals of disease. 
-A doctor's trouble, but without the fees; 
Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, 
How an emetic or cathartic sped ; 
Nothing is slightly touch'd. much less forgot. 
Nose, ears anil eyes, seem present on the spot. 
Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill. 
Victorious seemed, and now the tloctor's skill ; 
.And now — alas for unforeseen mishaps ! 
They put on a damp nightcap and relapse ; 
They thought they must have died, they were so 

bad: 
Their peevish hearers ahnost wish they had. 

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, 
Vou always do too little or too much : 
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, 
Your elevated voice goes through the brain ; 
You fall at once into a lower key, 
That's worse — the drone-pipe of an humble bee. 
The southern sash admits too strong a light, 
You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. 
He shakes with cold — you stir the (ire and strive 
To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. 
Serve him witli venison, and he wishes fish ; 
With sole — that's just the sort he would not 

wish. 
He takes what he at first professed to loathe, 
And in due time feeds heartily on both ; 
Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown. 
Ho does not swallow, but he gulps it down. 
Your hope to please him vain on every plan, 
Hunself should work that wonder if he can — 
.Alas ' his efforts double his distress, 
Ho likes yours httle, and his own still less. 
Thus always teasing others, always teased, 
His only pleasure is to be displeased, 

I pitv bashful men, who feel the paim 
Of 'fancied scorn and undese^^■ed disdain, 
.And bear the marks upon a blushing face 
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. 
Our sensibilities are so acute. 
The fear of being silent makes us mute. 
We sometimes think we could a speech produce 
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose ; 
But, being tried, it dies upon the lip. 
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip: 
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns. 
Like hidilen lamps in old sepulchral urns. 
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain'd ; 
It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd. 
By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, 
To fear each other, fearing none beside. 
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 
Self-searching with an introverted eye, 
Conceal'd within an unsuspected part 
The vainest corner of our own vain heart : 
Forever aiming at'thc world's esteem, 
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme j 
In other eyes our talents rarely shown. 
Become at length so splendid m our own, 
We dare not risk them into public view, 
Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. 



554 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



True modesty is a discerning grace, 

And only blushes in the proper place ; 

But counterlbit is blind, and skulks through fear, 

Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear: 

Humility the parent of the first, 

The last by vanity produced and nursed. 

The circle form'd, we sit in silent state, 

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate ; 

Yes, ma'am, and No. ma'am, utter'd softly, show 

Kvery five minutes how the minutes go ; 

Each individual, suffering a constraint 

Poi.tiy may. but colors cannot, pauit ; 

And, if in close committee on the sky, 

Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 

And finds a changing clime a happy source 

Ol* wise reflection and well-timed discourse. 

We next inquire, but sottly and by stealth, 

Like conservators of the public health, 

Of epidemic throats, if such there are, [tan'h. 

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and ca- 

That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, 

Fiird up at last with interesting news. 

Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, 

And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed : 

But fear to call a more important cause, 

As if 'twere treason against English laws. 

The visit paid, with ecstacy we come, 

As from a seven years' transportation, home, 

And there resume an umembarrass'd brow, 

Recovering what we lost, we know not how, 

The faculties that seem'd reduced to nought, 

Expression and the privilege of thought. 

The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, 
I give him over as a desperate case. 
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, 
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ; 
And though the fox he follows may be tamed, 
A mere tbx-follower never is reclaim'd. 
Some farrier should prescribe a proper course. 
Whose only fit companion is his horse, 
Or if, deserving of a better doom, 
The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. 
Yet e'en the rogue that serves him, though he 

stand 
To take his honor's orders, cap in hand, 
Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense, 
Their sl^U a truth, his master's a pretence. 
If neither horse nor groom affect the 'squire, 
W^here can at last his jockeyship retire 'i 
Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys, 
The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; 
There, in the sweet society of those 
Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, 
Let him improve his talent if he can. 
Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. 

Man's heart had been ijupenetrably seal'd. 
Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, 
Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand 
Given him a soul, and bade him understand ; 
The reasoniniT power vouchsafed, of course in- 

ferr'd 
The power to clothe that reason with his word ; 
For all is perfect that God works on earth, 
And he that gives conception aids the birth. 
If this be plam, 'tis plainly understood, 
What uses of his boon the Giver would. 
The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil, [soil; 
Should range where Providence has bless'd the 
Visiting every flower with labor meet, 
And gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet, 
She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, 
And shed the balmy blessing on tlie lips, 



That good diffused may more abundant grow, 
And speech may praise the power that bids it flow. 
Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, 
That fills the listening lover with delight, 
Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, 
To learn the twittering of a meaner bird"? 
Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice, 
That odious libel on a human voice ? 
No — nature, unsophisticate by man, 
Starts not aside from her Creators plan; 
The melody, that was at first designed 
To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, 
Is note for note deUver'd in our ears, 
In the last scene of her six thousand years. 
Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train, 
Whom man, for his own hurt, permits to reign, 
Who shifts and changes all things but his shape 
And would degrade her votary to an ape. 
The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, 
Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ; 
There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, 
Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace, 
And, when accomplish'd in her way ward school. 
Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 
'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree. 
That none could frame or ratify but she, 
That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin, 
Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, 
God and his attributes, (a field of day 
W^here 'tis an angel's happiness to stray.) 
Fruits of his love, and wonders of his might, 
Be never named in ears esteem'd polite ; 
That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, 
Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave, 
A close designer not to be believed, 
Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived. 
Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap, 
Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap ! 
Is it incredible, or can it seem 
A dream to any except those that dream, 
That man should love his Maker, and that fire, 
Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire 1 
Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, 
And veil your daring crest that braves the skies; 
That air of insolence aflVonts your God, 
You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : 
Now, in a posture that becomes you more 
Than that heroic strut assumed before, 
Know, your arrears with every hour accrue 
For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. 
The time is short, and there are souls on earth. 
Though future pain may serve for present rairth, 
Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame, 
By fashion taught, Ibrbade them once to name, 
And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, 
Have proved them truths too big to be express'd. 
Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground. 
Sure to succeed, the remedy they found; [mock, 
Touched by that power that you have dared to 
That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, 
Your heart shall yield a lite-renewing stream, 
That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. 

It happcn'd on a solemn eventide. 
Soon after He that was our surety died. 
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined. 
The scene of all those sorrows leil behind, 
Sought their own village, busied as they went 
In musings worthy of the great event : 
They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, 
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, 
Whose deeds had left., in spiti* of hostile arts. 
A deep memorial graven on their hearts. 



The recollection, like a vein of ore, 

The larthcr traced, enrich'd them still the more ; 

They thought him, ami they justly thought him, 

one 
Sent to ilo more than he appear'J to have done ; 
To exalt a people, and to place them high 
Ahove all else, and vvonder'd he should die. 
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, 
A stranger join'd them, courteous as a Iriend, 
And ask'd them, with a kind, engajring air, 
What their atUiction was, and begg d a share. 
Intbrm'd. he [jather'd up the broken thread, 
And, truth ami veisdom gracing all he said, 
Exphiin'd, illustrate<l, and search'd so well 
The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, 
Tliat, reaching home, the night, ihey said, is near, 
We must not now be parted, sojourn here — 
The new acquaintance soon became a guest, 
And made so welcome at their simple least, 
He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word. 
And loll them both exclaimins, 'Twas the Lord ! 
Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, 
Did they not burn within us by the way 1 

Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves 
Man to maintain, and such as God approves; 
Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, 
But yet successful, being aim'd at him. 
Christ and his character their only scope, 
Their object, and their subject, and their hope, 
They felt what it became them much to feel, 
And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, 
Found him as prompt as their desire was true, 
To spread the new-born glories in their view. 
Well — what are ages and the lapse of time 
Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime 1 
Can length of years on God himself exact 1 
Or make that llction which was once a fact ? 
No — marble and recording brass decay, 
And, like the graver's memory, pass away ; 
The works of man inherit, as is just, 
Their author's frailty, and return to dust: 
But truth divine forever stands secure, 
Its head is guarded as its base is sure; 
Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, 
The pillar of the eternal plan appears, 
The raving storm and dashing wave defies, 
Built by that Architect who i)uilt the skies. 
Hearts may be found, that harbor at this hour 
That ioveof ChrLst, and all its quickening power; 
And hps unstained by folly or by strife, 
Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of 

life, 
Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows 
A Jordan for the ablution of our woes. 
O ilays of heaven, aiiil nights of equal praise, 
Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days. 
When souls drawn upwards in couimunion sweet 
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, 
Discourse, as if released and safe at home. 
Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come. 
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast 
Upon the lap of covenanted rest ! 

What, always dreaming over heavenly things. 
Like angul-head.s in stonu with pigeon-wings T 
Cantin<i and whining out all day the word, 
And half the night 1 fanatic and absurd ! 
Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers, 
Who makes no bustle witli his soul's atVairs, 
\Vhose wit can brighten up a wintry day. 
And chase the splenetic dull hours away ; 
Content on earth in earthly things to shine, 
Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine, 



Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, 
And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach. 

Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame. 
Known by thy bleating. liinorance thy name. 
Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right'? 
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light 1 
Can hopes of heaven, briglit prospects of an hour, 
That come to waft us out of sorrow's power, 
Obscure or quench a faculty that finds 
Its happiest soil in the serenest minds 1 
Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, 
Anti brings the trifler under rigorous sway, 
But gives it usefubness unknown before, 
And purifying, makes it shine the more. 
A Christian's wit is inotTensive light, 
A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; 
Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth ; 
'Tis always active on the side of truth ; 
Temperance and peace ensure its heaUhful state, 
And make it brightest at its latest date. 
Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, 
Ere life go down, to see such sights again) 
A veteran warrior in the Christfan field, 
Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; 
Grave without dulness. learned without pride, 
Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eye'd ; 
A man that wouM have foil'd at their own play 
A dozen would-be's of the modern day ; 
Who, when occasion justified its use. 
Had wit as bright as reatly to produce, 
Could fetch from records of an earlier age, 
Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page, 
His rich materials, and regale your ear 
With strains it was a privdege to hear : 
Vet above all his luxury supreme, 
And his chief glory, was the gospel theme; 
There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, 
His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, 
Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 
But to treat justly what he loved so well. 

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, 
When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, 
Suppose themselves monopolists of sense. 
And wiser men's ability pretence. 
Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, 
Such men are not forgot as soon as cold. 
Their frajn'ant memory will outlast their tomb, 
Embalmed forever in its own perfume. 
And to say truth, though in its early prime, 
And when unstain'd with any grosser crime. 
Youth has a sprightlincss and fire to boast, 
That in the valley of dechne are lost. 
And virtue with peculiar channs appears, 
Crown'd with the garland oflife's blooming years; 
Yet age, by long experience well inforra'd, 
Well read, well tempcrd, with religion warm'd. 
That fire abated which hnpels rash youth. 
Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, 
As time improves the grape's authentic juice, 
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, 
And claims a reverence in its shortening day. 
That 'tis an honor and a joy to pay. 
The truits of age, less fair, are yet more sound, 
Than those a brighter season pours around ; 
And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, 
Tiirough wintry rigors unimpair'd endure. 

What is fanatic fren/.y, scorn'd so much. 
And dreaded more than a contagious touch 1 
I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, 
That fire is catching, if you draw too near ; 
But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 
And give true piety that odious name. 



556 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To tremble (as the creature of an hour 

Ought at the view of an almighty power) 

Before his presence, at whose awful throne 

All tremble in all worlds, except our own, 

To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, 

And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise, 

Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, 

And free from bias, must approve the choice, 

Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, 

And wild as madness in the world's esteem. 

But that disease, when soberly defined. 

Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind ; 

It views the truth with a distorted eye. 

And either warps or lays it useless by ; 

'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws 

Its sordid nourishment from man's applause ; 

And, while at heart sin unrclinquish'd lies, 

Presumes itself chief favorite of the skies. 

'Tis such a light as putrcfection breeds 

In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, 

Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day. 

The stench remains, the lustre dies away. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed 
Of hearts in union mutually disclosed ; 
And, farewell else all hope of pure delight. 
Those hearts should be reclaiin'd, renew'd, up- 
right. 
Bad men. profaning friendship's hallow'd name, 
Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame. 
A dark confederacy against the laws 
Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause : 
They build each other up with dreadful skill. 
As bastions set point-blank against God's will ; 
Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt. 
Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out; 
Call legions up from hell to back the deed ; 
And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed. 
But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 
Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, 
And with a fearless confidence make known 
The sorrows sympathy esteems its own, 
Daily derive increasing light and force 
From such coiiununion in their pleasant course. 
Feel less the journey's roughness and its length. 
Meet their opposers with united strength. 
And, one in heart, in interest, and design, 
Gird up each other to the race divine. 

But Conversation, choose what theme we may. 
And chiefly when Religion leads the way, 
Should flow, like waters after summer showers, 
Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. 
The Christian, in whose soul, though now dis- 

tress'd. 
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd. 
When all his glowing language issued forth 
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, 
Will speak without disguise, and must impart, 
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart. 
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, 
Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel. 
The song of Zion is a tasteless thing, 
Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, 
The soul can mix with the celestial bands, 
And give the strain the compass it demands. 

Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat 
All but their own exjjcricnce as deceit ! 
Will they liclieve. though credulous enough 
To swallow much upon much weaker proof, 
That there are blest inhabitants on earth. 
Partakers of a new ethereal birth, 
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged 
From things terrestrial, and divinely changed, 



Their very language of a kind that speaks 

The soul's sure interest in the good she seeks. 

Who deal with scripture, its importance felt, 

As Tully with Philosophy once dealt, 

And, in the silent watches of the night, 

And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, 

The social walk, or solitary ride. 

Keep still the dear companion at their side 1 

No — shame upon a self-disgracing age, 

God's work may serve an ape upon a stage 

With such a jest as fiU'd with hellish glee 

Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ; 

But veneration or respect finds none, 

Save from the subjects of that work alone. 

The World grown old her deep discernment 

Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, [shows. 

Peruses closely the true Christian's face, 

And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; 

Usurps God's otlice, lays his bosom bare, 

And finds hypocrisy close lurking there ; 

And. serving Gotl herself through mere constraint, 

Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. 

And yet, God knows, look human nature through, 

(And' in due time the world shall know it too) 

■That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, 

That af'ter man's defection laid all waste. 

Sincerity towards the heart-searching God 

Has made the new-born creature her abode. 

Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls 

Till the last fire burn all between the poles. 

Sincerity ! why 'tis his only pride, 

Weak and iinperfect in all grace beside. 

He knows that God demands his heart entire, 

And gives him all his just demands require. 

Without it, his pretensions were as vain 

As, having it, he deems the world's disdain ; 

That great defect would cost him not alone 

Man's favorable judgment but his own ; 

His birthright shaken, and no longer clear 

Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. 

Retort the charge, and let the world be told 

She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; 

That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead 

A cold misgiving and a killing dread : 

That while in heallh the ground of her support 

Is madly to forget that life is short ; 

That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, 

Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; 

That while she dotes and dreams that she believes, 

She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives, 

Her utmost reach historical assent. 

The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant ; 

That truth itself is in her head as dull 

And useless as a candle in a skull. 

And all her love of God a groundless claim, 

A trick upon the canvas, painted flame. 

Tell her again, the sneer upon her face. 

And all her censures of the work of grace, 

Are insincere, meant only to conceal 

A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel ; 

That in her heart the Christian she reveres, 

And, while she seems to scorn hint, only fears. 

A poet docs not work by square or line. 
As smiths and joiners perfect a design ; 
At least we moderns, our attention less, 
Beyond the example of our sires digress, 
And claim a right to scamper and run wide, 
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. 
The world and I fortuitously met ; 
I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt ; 
She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed. 
And, having struck the balance, now proceed. 



CONVERSATION. 



557 



Prrlmps, however, as some years haifc pass'd 

Since she and I conversed together Inst, 

And I have Uved recluse in rural shades, 

Which seldom a distinct report pervades, 

Great changes and new manners have occurr'd, 

And blest relbrms that I have nrver heard, 

And she may now be as discreet and wise, 

As once absurd in all discerninij eyes. 

Sobriety perhaps may now be Ibund, 

\Vhc!re once intoxication press'd the f^ound ; 

The subtle and injurious may be just, 

And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust; 

Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss'd ; 

Charity may relax the miser's fist ; 

The gamester may have cast his cards away, 

Forijot to curse, and only kneel to pray. 

It lias indeed been told me (with what weight, 

How credibly, 'tis hard for ine to state,) 

That tables old. that seera'd forever mute, 

Revived, arc hastening into fresh repute, 

.^n<l gods and goddesses, discarded long. 

Like useless lumber or a stroller's song, 

Are brin«TiniT into vogue their heathen train, 

And Jupiter bids I'air to rule again ; 

That certain feasts are instituted now. 

Where Venus hears the lover's -tender vow; 

That all Olympus through the country roves. 

To consecrate our few remaining groves. 

And Echo leurns politely to repeat 

The praise of names for ages obsolete ; 

That having proved the weakness, it should seem, 

Of revelation's inelVcctual beam. 

To bring the passions under sober sway. 

And give the moral s])rings their proper play, 

They mean to try what may at last be done. 

By stout substantial gods of wood and stone, 

And whether Koman rites may not produce 

The virtues of old Rome for Enghsh use. 

May such success attend the pious plan, 

May Mercury once more embellish man, 

Grace him again with long forgotten arts. 

Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts, 

i\Iakc iiim athletic, as in days of old. 

Learned at the bar, in the palaestra bold. 

Divest the rougher sex of femalo airs, 

.And teach the softer not to copy theirs: 

The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught, 

Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 

'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus, 

For us plain folks, and all who side with us, 

To build our altar confident anil bold. 

And say, as stern F-lijah said of old. 

The strife now stands upon a fair award. 

If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord : 

If he be silent, faith is all a whim. 

Then Baal is the God, and worship him. 



Digression is so much in modern use. 
Thought is so rare, ami fancy so profuse, 
Some never seem so wide of their intent, 
.4,3 when returning to the theme they meant ; 
As mendicants, whose business is to roam, 
Make every parish but their own their home. 
Though such continual zigzags in a book. 
Such drunken reelings have an awkward look. 
And I had rather creep to what is true. 
Than rove and stagger with no mark in view ; 
Yet to consult a iittfe seem'd no crime. 
The freakish humor of the present time : 
But now to gather up what seems dispersed, 
And touch the subject I design'd at first, 
May prove, though much beside the rules of art, 
Best for the public, antl my wisest part. 
And first, let no man charge me that I mean 
To clothe in sable every social scene. 
And give good company a face severe, 
As if they met around a father's bier; 
For tell some men that, pleasure all their bent. 
Am] laughter all their work, is life misspent. 
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, 
Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. 
To find the medium asks some share of wit, 
-A.nd therefore 'tis a mark f'ools never hit. 
But though life's valley be a vale of tears, 
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears. 
Whose glory. wilhalightthat never fades, [shades. 
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening 
.•\nil while it shows the land the soul desires, 
The language of the land she seeks inspires. 
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure 
Of all that was ab,surtl, profane, impure ; 
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech 
Pursues the course that truth and nature teach ; 
No longer labors merely to produce 
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use : 
Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, 
Sprightly and fresh, enriches evcrj' theme, 
While all the happy man possess'd bef'ore. 
The gitl of nature or the classic store. 
Is made sub.servient to the grand design. 
For which Heaven formed the faculty divine. 
So, should an idiot, while at large he strays. 
Find tile sweet lyre on which an artist plays. 
With rash and awkward force the cuords he 

shakes, 
.^nd grins with wonder at the jar he makes; 
But let the wise and well-instructed hand. 
Once take the shell beneath his just command, 
In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd 
Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd, 
Till, tuned at lengtli to some immortal song. 
It sounds Jeliovah's name, and pours his praise 

along. 



RETIREMENT. 



. studiis florens ignobilis oti. 

ViRG. Georg. lib. iv. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

The busy imiversally desirous of retirement— Impoi-tant 
purpose for which this desire was given to man — Mus- 
ing on the works of the creation, a happy employment 
— ^The service of God not incompatible, however, with 
a life of business— Human life ; its pursuits — Various 
motives for seeking retirement — The poet's deUght in 
the study of nature — The lover's fondness for retire- 
ment — The hypochondriac — Melancholy, a malady that 
claims most compassion, receives the least — Sufferings 
of the melancholy man — The statesman's retirement — 
His new mode of life and company — Soon weary of re- 
tirement, he returns to his former pursuits — Citizens' 
villa.s — Fashion of frequenting watering-places — The 
ocean— The spendthrift in forced retirement — The 
sportsman ostler— The management of leisure a diffi- 
cult task — Man will be summoned to accoimt for the 
employment of life— Books and friends requisite for 
the man of leisure ; and divine communion to fill the 
remaining void— Religion not adverse to innocent 
pleasures — ^The poet concludes with reference to his 
own pursuit. 

Hacknky'd in business, wearied at that oar, 
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no 

more, 
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low, 
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ; 
The statesman, lawyer, man of trade, 
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, 
Where, all his long anxieties forgot 
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, 
Or recollected only to gild o'er, 
And add a smile to what was sweet before, 
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, 
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease, 
Improve the remnant of his wasted span. 
And, having lived a trifler. die a man. [breast, 
Thus conscience pleads her cause within the 
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, 
And calls a creature form'd for God alone, 
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own. 
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, 
From what debilitates and what inflames, 
From cities humming with a restless crowd, 
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud. 
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain. 
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, 
Where works of man are clustered close around, 
And works of God are hardly to be found, 
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe, 
Traces of Eden are still seen below. 
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, 
Remind him of his Maker's power and love. 
'Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day, 
In the last scene of such a senseless play, 
True wisdom will attend his feeble call, 
And grace his action ere the curtain fall, [birth, 
Souls, that have long despised their heavenly 
Their wishes all impregnated with earth, 



For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless 
In catching smoke and feeding upon air, [care 
Conversant only with the ways of men. 
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. 
Inveterate habits choke the untruitful heart, 
Their fibres penetrate its tendercst part. 
And, draining its nutritious powers to feed 
Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. 

Happy, if full of days — but happier far, 
If ere we yet discern life's evening star, 
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds 
Its patient drudges with dry chalf and weeds, 
We can escape irom custom's idiot sway, 
To serve thi-^ sovereign we were born to obey. 
Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd 
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! 
To trace in nature's most minute ilcsign 
The signature and stamp of power divine, 
Contrivance intricate, express'd with ease, 
Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, 
The shapely limb and lubricated joint. 
Within the small dmiensions of a point. 
Muscle and nen'e miraculously spun. 
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done. 
The invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd. 
To whom an atom is an ample field: 
To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 
These hatch'd, and those resuscitated worms, 
New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share, 
Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air, 
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk 

and size, 
More hideous foes than fancy can devise; 
With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn'd, 
The ]nighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, 
Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, 
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth: 
Then with a glance of fancy to survey, 
Far as the faculty can stretch away. 
Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command, 
From urns that never fail, through every land ; 
These like a deluge with impetuous force. 
Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
The cloud-surmounting Alps, the Irulttul vales ; 
Seas, on which every nation spreads her sails; 
The sun, a world whence other worlds drink 
The crescent moon, the diadem of night; [light. 
Stars countless, each in his appointed place, 
Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space — 
At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, 
And with a rapture like his own exclaim 
These are thy glorious works, thou Source of 

Good, 
How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care, 
This universal frame, thus wondrous fair; 



RETIREMENT. 



559 



Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought, 
Adored and pruiscd in all that thou hast wrought. 
Absorb"d in tliat immensity I see, 
I shrink abashed, antl yet aspire to thee ; 
Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly day 
Tliy words more elearly than thy works display, 
That, while thy Irultis my grosser thoughts refine 
I may reseinlde liure, and call thee mine. 

O blest ^iroticiency ! surpassing all 
That men erroneously their glory call. 
The recompense that arts or arms can yield, 
The bar, the senate, or the tented field. 
Compared with this sublimest life below, 
Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show 7 
Thus studied, used, and consecrate<l thus. 
On earth what is, seems tbrm'd indeed tor us; 
Not as the plaything ot" a froward child, 
Fretful unless diverted and beguiled, 
^luch less to feed and fan the tatal fires. 
Of pritle, ambition, or impure desires, 
But as a scale, by which the soul ascends 
From mighty means to more important ends. 
Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, 
Mounts from inferior beings up to God, 
.■\nd sees, by no I'allacious light or dim. 
Earth made for man. and man himself for him. 

Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce, 
A superstitious and monastic course : 
Truth is not local, God alike pervades 
.\nd fills the world of traffic and the shades, 
.-Ind may be tear'd amidst the busiest scenes, 
Or scorn'd where business never Intervenes. 
Hut. 'tis not easy with a mind like ours. 
Conscious of weakness in its noblest powers. 
Ami in a world where, other ills apart. 
The roving eye misleads the careless heart 
To limit thought, by nature prone to stray 
Wherever freakish fancy points the way ; 
To bid the pleadings of self-love be still. 
Resign our own and .seek our Maker's will; 
To spread the page of scripture, and compare 
Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; 
To measure all that passes in the breast. 
Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test ; 
To dive into the secret deeps within. 
To spare no passion and no favorite sin, 
.\nd search the themes, important above all. 
Ourselves, and our recoverj' from onr fall. 
But leisure, silence, and a mind released 
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be in- 
creased, 
How to secure, in some propitious hour. 
The point of interest or the post of power, 
A soul serene, and equally retired 
From objects too much dreaded or desired, 
Safe from the clamors of perverse dispute, 
.^t least arc friendly to the great pursuit. 

Opening the map of God's extensive plan. 
We finil a little isle, this life of man ; 
F.tcrnity's unknown expanse appears 
Circling around and limiting his years. 
The busy race examine and explore 
F.ach creek and cavern of the dangerous shore, 
With care collect what in their eyes excels. 
.Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and 

shells. 
Thus laden dream that they are rich apd great. 
And happiest he that groans beneath his weight. 
The waves o'ertake them in their serious play. 
And every hour sweeps multitudes away ; 
They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep. 
Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep. 



A few forsake the throng ; with lifted eyes 
.isk wealth of Heaven, and gain a real prize. 
Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above, 
Seal'd with his signet, whom they serve and 

love; 
Scorn'd by the rest, with patient hope they wait 
A kind release from their imperfect state. 
And unregretted are soon snatch'd away 
From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. 

Nor these alone prefer a life recluse, 
\\'ho seek retirement for its proper use ; 
The love of change that lives in every breast, 
Genius, and temper, and desire of rest. 
Discordant motives in one centre meet, 
.\nd each inclines its votary to retreat. 
Some minds by nature are averse to noise, 
And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, 
The lure of avarice, or the pompous prize 
That courts display betbre ambitious eyes; 
The fruits that liang on pleasure's flowery stem, 
Whate'er enchants them, are no snares to them. 
To them the deep recess of dusky groves. 
Or forest, where the deer securely roves. 
The fall of waters, and the song of birds, 
-Vnd hills that echo to the distant herds, 
.-Vre luxuries excelling all the glare [share. 

The world can boast and her chief favorites 
With eager step, and carelessly array'd, 
For such a cause the poet seeks the shade, 
From all he sees he catches new dcliglit. 
Pleased Fancy claps her pinions at the si^ht, 
The rising or the setting orb of day. 
The clouds that flit, or slowly float away. 
Nature in all the various shapes she wears, 
Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs, 
The snowy robe her wintry state assumes. 
Her summer heats, her fruits, and her perfumes, 
.^11, all alike transport the glowing bard. 
Success in rhyme his glory and reward. 
O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disclose 
His bright perfections at whose word they ro.se. 
Next to that power who Ibrm'd (liec, and sustains, 
Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. 
Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand 
Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand, 
That I may catch a fire but rarely known. 
Give useful light, though 1 should miss renown, 
.Vnd, poring on thy pa<;e, whose every line 
Bears proof of an intelligence divine. 
May feel a heart cnrich'd by what it pays, 
That builds its glory on its Maker's praise. 
Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use, 
Glittering in vain, or only to seduce. 
Who studies nature with a wanton eye, 
Admires the work, but slips the lesson by ; 
His hours of leisure and recess employs 
In drawing picturi^s of forbidden joys. 
Retires to bhizon his own worthless name. 
Or shoot the careless ivilli a surer aim. 

The lover too shuns business and alarms. 
Tender idolater of absent charms. 
Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayers 
That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 
'Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time, 
And every thought that wanders is a crime. 
In sighs he worsliii)s his supremely fair. 
And weeps a sad libation in despair ; 
.'Vdores a creature, and, devout in vain. 
Wins in return an answer of disdain. 
.•\s woodbine weds the jilant within her reach. 
Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or glossy 
beech. 



560 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays 
Her ffolden tassels on the lealy sprays, 
But does a mischief while she lends a grace, 
Straitening its growth by such a strict embrace ; 
So love, that clings around the noblest minds 
Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds ; 
The suitor's air indeed he soon improves, 
And forms it to the taste of her he loves, 
Teaches his eyes a language, and no less 
Refines his speech, and fashions his address ; 
But farewell promises of happier fruits. 
Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits; 
Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break, 
His only bliss is son'ow for her sake ; 
Who will may pant for glory and excel, 
Her smile his aim. all higher aims farewell ! 
Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name 
May least offend against so pure a flame. 
Though sage advice of friends the most sincere 
Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear. 
And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild. 
Can least brook management, however mild. 
Yet let a poet (poetry disarms 
The fiercest animals with magic charms) 
Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood. 
And woo and win thee to thy proper good. 
Pastoral iaiages and still retreats. 
Umbrageous walks and solitary seats. 
Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams. 
Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams, 
Arc all enchantments in a case like thine. 
Conspire against thy peace with one design. 
Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey, 
And feed the fire that wastes thy powers away. 
Up — God has formed thee with a wiser view. 
Not to be led in chains, but to subdue ; 
Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first 
Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst. 
Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow 
When he design'd a Paradise below. 
The richest earthly boon his hands afford, 
Deserves to be beloved, but not adored. 
Post away swiftly to more active scenes. 
Collect the scatter'd truth that study gleans, 
Mix with the world, but with its wiser part, 
No longer give an image all thine heart; 
Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 
'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine. 

Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill 
Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, 
Gives melancholy up to nature's care. 
And sends the patient into purer air. 
Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove 
Stand close conceal'd. and see a statue move : 
Lips busy, and eyes iix'd, foot falUng slow. 
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below. 
Interpret to the marking eye distress, 
Such as its symptoms can alone express, 
That tongue is silent now ;■ that silent tongue 
Could argue once, could jest, or join the song. 
Could give advice, could censure or commend. 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
Renounced alike its office and its sport. 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; 
Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway. 
And like a summer-brook are past away. 
This is a sight for pity to peruse, 
Till she resemble laintly what she views, 
Till sympathy contract a kindred pain. 
Pierced with the woes tliat she laments in vain. 
This, of all maladies that man infest. 
Claims most compassion, and receives the least: 



Job felt it, when he groan'd beneath the rod 

And the harb'd arrows of a frowning God ; 

And such emollients as his friends could spare, 

Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. 

Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel, 

Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel, 

With mouths made only to grin wide and eat, 

And minds that deem derided pain a treat, 

"With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire, 

And wit that puppet prompters might inspire, 

Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke 

On pangs cnlbrced with God's severest stroke. 

But, with a soul that ever felt t!ie sting 

Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing: 

Not to molest, or irritate, or raise 

A laugh at his expense, is slender praise ; 

He that has not usurp'd the name of man 

Does all, and deems too little all, he can. 

To assuage the throbbings of tlie fester'd part, 

And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart. 

'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, 

Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes ; 

Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, 

Each yielding harmony dispo.sed arigtit ; 

The screws reversed (a task which if he please 

God in a moment executes with case,) 

Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, 

Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 

Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 

As ever recompensed the peasant's care, 

Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, 

Nor view of waters turning busy mills. 

Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, 

Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds. 

Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves, 

And wall it to the mourner as he roves. 

Can call up Hfe into his faded eye. 

That passes all he sees unheeded by ; 

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels. 

No cure for such, till God who makes tliem heals. 

And thou, sad sufierer under nameless ill 

That yields not to the touch ol' human skill. 

Improve the kind occasion, understand 

A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand. 

To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon. 

The purple evening and resplendent moon. 

The stars that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night, 

Seem drops descending in a sliower of light, 

Shine not, or undesired and hated shine. 

Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : 

Vet seek him, in his favor life is found. 

All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : 

Then heaven, eclipsed so long and this dull earth, 

Shall seem to start into a second birth ; 

Nature, assuming a more lovely face. 

Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 

.Shall be despised and overlook'd no more, 

Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before. 

Impart to things inanimate a voice. 

And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ; 

The sound shall run along the winding vales. 

And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 

Ve groves, (the statesman at his desk exclaims. 
Sick of a thousand disappointed aims,) 
My patrimonial treasure and my pride. 
Beneath your shades your grey possessor hide. 
Receive me, languishing for that repose 
The servant of the public never knows, 
Ve saw me once (ah, those regretted days, 
When boyish innocence was all my praise !) 
Hour after hour delitrlitfully allot. 
To studies then familiar, since forgot. 



RETIREMENT, 



561 



Anil cukivnte a taste for ancient song, 
Catchintr its artlor as I musfd aionjT; 
Nor seltlom. as propitious Heaven mit^ht send. 
VVliat once I valued and couhl boast, a triend, 
Were witnesses how cordially I press'd 
His undisseiublintr virtui; to my breast: 
Receive mc now. not uncorrupt as then 
Nor (juiltless ot" corrupting other men, 
Hut vrrscil in arts that, wliile they seem to stay 
A t'aliini; empire, Iiastcn its decay. 
To the fair haven of my native home, 
Tile wreck of what I was, fatiirucd, I come ; 
For once I can approve the patriot's voice. 
And make the course he recommends my choice: 
We meet at hist in one sincere desire, 
His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. 
"Tis done, he steps into the welcome chaise, 
Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays, 
That whirl away t'roni business and debate 
The discncuiiiber'd Atlas of tlie stale. 
Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn 
First sliakes th(^ gliltt.rinjr drops from every thorn, 
Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush 
Sits hnkint; cherrj'-stones, or phitting rush, 
How fair is freedom 7 — he was always free : 
To carve his rustic name upon a tree. 
To snare the mole, or witli ill-fashion'd hook 
To draw the incautious minnovv from the brook, 
Are lifer's prime pleasures in his simple view, 
His flock the chief concern he ever knew ; 
She shines but little in his heedless eyes, 
The f,'ood we never mis.s we rarely prize: 
But ask the noble drudge in state aff"airs, 
Escaped from office, and its constant cares, 
Whateharmshescesin Freedom's smile ex press'd, 
In tVeedoni lost so long, now reposscss'd ; [mands, 
The tongue whose strains were cogent as corn- 
Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands, 
Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause, 
Or pleud its silence as its best applause. 
He knows indeed that, whether dress'd or rude, 
Wild without art. or artfully subdued, 
Nature in every form inspires delight, 
Rut never mark'd her with so just a sight. 
Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store, 
With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er. 
Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that 
It.s cooling vapor o'er the dewy meads, [spreads 
Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye. 
That melt and fade into the distant sky, 
Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd, 
Seem all created since he travell'd last. 
Master of all the enjoyments he design'J, 
No rough annoyance rankling in his mind, 
What early philosophic hours he keeps, 
How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps ! 
Not sounder he that on the mainmast heatl, 
While morning kindles with a windy red, 
Begins a long look-out for distant land. 
Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand, 
Then, swill descending with a seaman's haste, 
Slips to his hammock, and ftVrgets the blast. 
He chooses conipany, but not the squire's, 
Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires ; 
Nor yet the parson's, who would gladly corae. 
Obsequious when abroad, tliough prouil at home; 
Nor can he much alTect the neighboring peer, 
Whose toe of emulation treads too near ; 
But wisely seeks a more convenient friend. 
With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend. 
A man. whom marks of condescending grace, 
Teach, wliile they flatter hiai, his proper place; 



Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, 

Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause ; 

Some plain mechanic, who, without pretence. 

To birth or wit. nor gives nor takes olfcnce ; 

On whom he rests well pleased his weary powers, 

And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. 

The tide of life, switt always in its course. 

May run in cities with a brisker force, 

Hut nowhere with a current so serene, 

Or half so clear, as in the rural scene. 

Vet how fallacious is all earthly bliss. 

What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss; 

Some pleasures live a month, and some a year, 

Rut short the date of all we gather here ; 

No happiness is felt, except the true. 

That does not charm thee more for being new. 

This observation, as it chanced, not made, 

Or, if the thought occurr'd, not duly wcigh'd, 

He sighs — for atler all Ity slow degrees 

The spot he loved has lost the power to please; 

To cross his amliling pony day by day 

Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; 

The prospect, such as might enchant despair, 

He views it not. or sees no beauty there ; 

With aching heart, and discontented looks, 

Returns at noon to billiards or to books, 

But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, 

A secret thirst of his renounced employs. 

He chides the tardiness of every post, 

Pants to be told of battles won or lost, 

Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, 

'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state, 

Flies to the levee, and, received with grace. 

Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. 

Suburban villas, highway-side retreats, [streets, 
That dread the encroachment of our growing 
Tight boxes, neatly sash'd, and in a blaze 
With all a July sun's collected rays, 
Delight the citizen, who, gasping there. 
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. 
O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought 
That could afi"ord retirement, or could not ] 
'Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight, 
The second milestone fronts the garden gate; 
A step if fair, and, if a shower approach. 
You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach. 
There, prison'd in a parlor snug and small, 
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall, 
The man of business, and his friends comprcss'd 
Forget their labors, and yet find no rest ; 
But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen 
From every window, and the fields are green; 
Ducks paddle in the ])ond before the door, 
And what could a remoter scene show morel 
A sense of elegance we rarely find 
The portion of a mean or vulgar mind, 
An<l ignorance of better things makes man. 
Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can ; 
And he, that deems his leisure well bestow'd 
In contemplation of a turnpike-road, 
I.S occupied as well, employs his hours 
As wisely, and as much improves his powers, 
As he that slumbers in pavdions graced 
With all the chiixms of an accomplish'd taste. 
Vet hence, alas ! insolvencies; and hence 
The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense, 
From all his wearisome engagements treed, 
Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed. 

Vour prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, 

Content with Bristol, Bath, and TunbridLTe Wells, 

When health recjuired it, would consiiit to roam, 

Else more attach'd to pleasures tbund at home; 

30 



562 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, 

Ingenious to diversify dull life, 

In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys, 

Ply to the coast for daily, nightly joys, 

And all, impatient of dry land, agree 

With one consent to rush into the sea. 

Oci an exhibits, fathomless and broad, 

MuL-h of the power and majesty of God. 

He i^Avathes aliout the swelling of the deep. 

That shines and rests, as in fants smile and sleep ; 

Vast as it is, it answers as it flows 

The breathings of the lightest air that blows; 

Curling and whitening over all the waste, 

The rising waves obey the increasing blast, 

Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars, 

Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores. 

Till lie that rides the whirlwind checks the rem, 

Then all the world of waters sleeps again. 

Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads, 

Now in the floods, now pantmg in the meads. 

Votaries of pleasure stilt, where'er she dwells. 

Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells, 

grant a poet leave to recommend 

(A poet fond of nature, and your friend) 
Her slighted works to your admiring view ; 
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you. 
Would ye, when rambling in your morninir ride, 
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side, 
Condemn the prattler for his idle pains. 
To waste unheard, the music of his strains, 
And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue, 
That, while it courts, aflronts and docs you wrong, 
Mark well the iinish'd plan without a fault. 
The seas globose and huge, the o'erarching vault, 
Earth's millions daily fed, a world c mploy'd 
In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy 'd, 
Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise 
Of God, bench. -cnt in all his ways ; [shine ! 

Graced with siu-h wisdom how would beauty 
Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. 

Anticipated rents and bills unpaid, 
Force many a shining youth into the sliade, 
Not to redeem his time, but his estate, 
And play the tool, but at a cheaper rate. 
There, hid in loathed obscurity, removed 
From pleasures left, but never more beloved, 
He just endures, and with a sickly spleen 
Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. 
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme ; 
Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime : 
The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong, 
Are musical enough in Thomson's song; 
And Cobham's groves, and Windsor's green re- 
treats. 
When Pope describes them, have a thousand 

sweets ; 
He Hkes the country, but in truth must own, 
Most likes it when he studies it in town. 

Poor Jack — no matter who — for when I blame, 

1 pity, and must therefore sink the name. 
Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, 
And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. 
The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, 
Was quickly distanced, raatch'd against a peer's. 
Jack vanish'd, was regretted, and forgot; 

'Tis wild good-nature's never failing lot. 

At length, when all had long supposed him dead. 

By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead, 

My lord, alighting at his usual place, 

The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. 

Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise 

He might escape the most observing eyes. 



And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay, 
Curried his nag and look'd another way ; 
Convinced at last, upon a nearer view, 
'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, 
O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy. 
He press'd him much to quit his base employ; 
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand, 
Influence and power, were all at his command : 
Peers are not always generous as well bred, 
But Granby was, meant truly what he said. 
Jack bow'd, and was obliged — confess'd 'twas 

strange. 
That so retired he should not wish a change. 
But knew no medium between guzzling beer. 
And his old stint — three thousand pounds a-year. 

Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe ; 
Some seeking happiness not found below; 
Some to comply with humor, and a mind 
To social scenes by nature disinchned ; 
Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust; 
Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must; 
But few, that court Retirement, are aware 
Of half the toils they must encounter there. 

Lucrative offices are seldom lost 
For want of powers proportion 'd to the post: 
Give e'en a dunce the ejnployment he desires, 
And he soon finds the talents it requires; 
A business with an income at its heels 
Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. 
But in his arduous enterprise to close 
His active years with indolent repose, 
He flnds the labors of tliat state exceed 
His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 
'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, 
But not to manage leisure with a grace; 
Absence of occupation is not rest, 
A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd. 
The veteran steed, excused his task at length, 
In kind compassion of his failing strength, 
And turn'd into the park or mead to graze, 
Exempt from future service all his days, 
There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind, 
Ranges at liberty, and snufl's the wind ; 
But when his lord would quit the busy road, 
To taste a joy hke that he has bestow'd, 
He proves, less happy than his favor'd brute, 
A lile of ease a diliicult pursuit. [seem 

Thouglit, to the man that never thinks, may 
As natural as when asleep to dream; 
But reveries (i'or liuman minds will act) 
Specious in sliow, impossible in fact, 
Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought, 
Attain not to the dignity of thought : 
Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain, 
Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure 

reign ; 
Nor such as useless conversation breeds, 
Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds, [dain'd 1 
Whence, and what are we ? to what end or- 
\Vhat means the drama by the world sustain'd 1 
Business or vain amusement, care or mirth. 
Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. 
Is duty a mere sport, or an employ 1 
Life an entrusted talent, or a toy 1 
Is there, as reason, conscience. Scripture say, 
Cause to provide for a ffveat future day. 
When, earth's assign 'd duration at an end, 
Man shall be suaimon'd and the dead attend! 
The trumpet — will it sound ? the curtain rise 1 
And show the august tribunal of the skies, 
Where no prevarication shall avail. 
Where eloquence and artifice shall fail, 



RETIREMENT. 



563 



The pride of arrogant Jistinct'ions fall, 
And conscience and our conduct judije us all 1 
Panion mc, ye tiia* <jivc the midni(;ht oil 
To learnfd cares or philosophic toil, 
Thout^h I revere your honoralile names, 
Vour useful labors, and impurtunt aims, 
And iiold til'- world indehtcil to your aid, 
Rnricli'd witli thr discoveries ye have made; 
Vet let mc stand (.xcused, if i esteem 
A mind employ'd on so suhlinie a theme, 
Pushing; her bold inquiry to the date 
And outline of the present transient state, 
And. atler [loisin^ her adventurous wings, 
ScttlinjT ut last upon eternal things, 
Far more intelligent, and better taught 
The strenuous use of profitable thought, 
Than yc. when happiest, and enhghten'd most, 
And liifrhist in renown, can justly boast. 
A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear 
The wei^(bt ol' sulijeets worthiest of her care, 
Whatever hop?s a change of scene inspires, 
Must change her nature, or in vain retires. 
An idler is a watch that wants both iiands; 
As useless if it goes as when it stands 
Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves, 
In which lewd sensualists print out themselves; 
Nor those, in which the stage gives vice a blow, 
With what success let modern manners show ; 
Nor his w!io, for the banc of thousands born, 
iJuilt God a church, and laugh'tl liis words to 
Skihul alike to seem devout and just, [scorn, 
And stab religion with a s!y side-thrust ; 
Nor those of learn "d philolngi.sts, who chase 
A panting syllable through ti:ne and space 
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, 
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark; 
But such as learning, without false pretence. 
The friend of truth, the associate of sound sense, 
And such as, in the zeal of good design. 
Strong judgment laboring in the scripture mine. 
All such as manly and great souls jiroduce, 
Worthy to live, and of eternal use; 
Behold in these what leisure hours demand, 
Amusement and true knowledge hand'in hand. 
Luxury gives the mind a childish cast. 
And, while she polishes, pcn'erts the taste; 
Habits of close attention, thinking heads, 
Become more rare as dissipation spreads, 
Till authors hear at length one general cry, 
Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 
The loud demand, from year to year the same, 
Beggars invention, and makes fancy lame; 
Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune, 
Calls for the kind assistance ol' a tunc ; 
And novels (witness every month's review) 
Belie their name, and ofler nothing new. 
The mind, relaxing into needful sport, 
Should turn to writers of an abler sort, 
Whose wit well managed, and whose classic stylCj 
Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile. 
Friends, (for I cannot stint, as some have done. 
Too rigid in my view, that name to one; 
Though one. I grant it, in the generous breast 
Will stand advanced a step above the rest ; 
Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, 
But one, the rose, the regent of them all.) — 
Friends, not adoptett with a schoolboy's hasto. 
Hut chosen with a nice discerning taste. 
Well born, well disciplined, who. placed apart 
From vulgar minds, have honor much at heart, 
Ard, though the world may think the ingredients 
The love of virtue, and the fear of God ! [odd, 



Such friends prevent what else would soon 
A tamper rustic as the life we lead, [succeed, 
And keep the polish of the manners clean, 
As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene ; 
For solitude, however some may rave, 
Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, 
A sepulchre, in which the living lie, 
Where all good qualities grow sick and die. 
I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd, 
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude ! 
But grant rac still a friend in my retreat, 
Whom I may whisper — Solitude is sweet. 
Yet neitlier these delights, nor aught beside, 
That appetite can ask, or wealth provide, 
Can save us always trom a tedious day. 
Or shine the dulncss of still life away ; 
Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd, 
Or sought with energy, must fill tlie void. 
Oh sacred art ! to which alone life owes 
Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close, 
Scorn'd in a world, indebted to that scorn 
For evils daily felt and hardly borne. 
Not knowing thee, we reap, with bleeding hands, 
Flowers of rank odor upon thorny lands, 
And, while experience cautions us in vain, 
Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain. 
Despondence, sell-deserted in her grief, 
Lost by abandoning her own relief. 
Murmuring and ungrateful discontent, 
That scorns afflictions mercifully meant, 
Those humors, tart as wines upon the fret, 
Which idleness and weariness beget ; [breast, 
These, and a thousand plagues that haunt the 
Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, 
Divine communion chases, as the day 
Drives to their dens the obedient beasts of prey. 
See Judah's promised king, bereft of all, 
Driven out an exile from the face of Saul, 
To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies, 
To seek that peace a tyrant's lYown denies. 
Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, 
Hear hiai, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice ; 
No womanish or wailing grief has part. 
No, not a moment, in his royal heart ; 
'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make, 
SutTcring with gladness for a Saviour's sake. 
His soul exults, hope animates his lays, 
vThe sense of mercy kindles into praise, 
And wilds, familiar with the lion's roar, 
Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before : 
'Tis love like his that can alone defeat 
The foes of man, or make a desert sweet. 

Religion does not censure or exclude 
Unnumbcr'd pleasures harmlessly pursued; 
To study culture, and with artful toil 
To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; 
To give dissimilar yet fruitlul lands 
The grain, or herb, or plant that each demands ; 
To cherish virtue in an humble state. 
And share the joys your bounty may create ; 
To mark the matchless workings of the power 
That shuts within its seed the future flower, 
Bids these in elegance of form excel, 
In color these, and those delight the smell. 
Sends Nature forth the tlaughter of the skies, 
To dance on earth and cliarm all human eyes; 
To teach the canvas innocent deceit. 
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet— 
These, tiiesc arc arts pursued witliout a crime, 
That leave no stain upon the wing of time. 



564 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim 
Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) 
Employs, shut out from more important views, 
Past by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse ; 



Content if, thus sequester'd, I may raise 
A monitor's, though not a poet's praise, 
And, while I teach an art too little known, 
To close life wisely, may not waste my own. 



THE TASK, 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The history of the following prociuclion is 
briefly this : A lady, fond of blank verse, 
demanded a poem of that kind from tlie au- 
thor, and gave him tlie Sofa for a subject. 
He obeyed; and having much leisure, con- 
nected another subject «'ith it ; and, pursuing 
the train of thought to which his situation 
and turn of mind led him, brought forth at 
length, instead of the trifle which he at first 
intended, a serious afiair — a volume. 

In the poem on the subject of Education 
he would be very sorry to stand suspected of 
having aimed his censure at any particular 
school. His objections are such as naturally 
apply themselves to schools in general. If 
there were not, as for the most part there is, 
wilful neglect in those who manage them, 
and an omission even of such discipline as 
they are susceptible of, the objects are yet 
too numerous for minute attention ; and the 
aching hearts of ten thousand parents, mourn- 
ing under the bitterest of all disappointments, 
attest the truth of the allegation. His quar- 
rel therefore is with the mischief at large, and 
not with any particular instance of it. 



BOOK I. 

THE SOFA. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Historicnl deduction of scats, from tlie stool to tlie sofa— 
A schoolboy's ramble — A walk in the conutry — The 
scene tlescribt'd — Rural sounds as well ai sights 
delishti'ul— Andlier walk— Mi^liike cunrL'riiiii^ the 
charm-i ntsi. Hindi- correcli'd—Culnniiaih-^ nun mended 
— Aleovi'. and the view from it— The wilderness— The 
Grove— The Thresher— The neceseity and the henelits 
of exercise — The works of nature superior to, and in 
some instances inimitable by, art — The wearisoineness 
of "What is commonly called a life of pleasure — Chan^'e 
of scene sometimes expedient — A common described, 
and the character of crazy Kate introduced — Gipsies— 
The blessings of civilized lil. — That state most favor- 
able to virtue— The Soiilh ^ea islanders compassion- 
ated, but chiefly Oniai— His present state of mind sup- 
posed—Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great 
cities — Great cities, and London in particular, allowed 
their due praise, but censured — Fftte cliamp&trc — The 
book concludes with a reflectimi on the effects of dis- 
sipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. 

I smr, the Sofa. I who lately sang 

Truth, Hope, and Charity,* and touch'd with awe 



The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, 
Escaped with pain Iroiu that adventurous flight, 
Now seek repose upon an humbler theme ; 
The theme though humble, yet august and proud 
The occasion — tor the tair commands the song. 

Time was. when clothing sumptuous or for use, 
Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. 
As yet black breeches were not ; satin smooth, 
Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile : 
The hardy chief upon the rugged rock, 
Wash'd by tbe sea, or on the gravelly bank 
Thrown up by v/intry torrents roaring loud, 
Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength. 
Those barbarous aiies past, succeeded next 
The birthday of Invention ; weak at first, 
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform, 
.loint-stools were then created ; on three legs 
Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm 
A massy slab, in fashion square or round. 
On such a stool immortal Altred sat, 
And swayVl the sceptre of his inlant realms: 
And such in ancient halls and mansions drear 
May sliil be seen ; but perforated sore, 
And drill'd in holes, the sohd oak is found. 
By worms voracious eating through and through. 

At length a generation more refined 
Improved the simple plan; made three legs four, 
Gave them a twisted tbrm vermicular. 
And o'er the seats with plenteous wadding stufTd, 
Induced a splendid cover, green and blue, 
Yellow and red. of tapestry richly wrought 
And woven close, or needlework sublime. 
There might ye see the piony spread wide, 
The full blown rose, the slu-phcrd and his lass, 
Lapdotj and lambkin with black staring eyes, 
And p;irrots witli twin cherries in tlieir beak. 

Now came the cane from India, smooth and 
With Nature's varnish, sovcr'd into stripes [bright 
That interlaced each other, these supplied 
Of texture firm a lattice wo''k, that braced 
The new machine, and it became a chair. 
But restless was the chair ; the back erect 
Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease ; 
The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part 
That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down, 
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor, [placed 
These for tlie rich ; the rest, whom Fate had 
In modest mediocrity, content 
With base materials, sot on well tann'd hides. 
Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth. 
With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn. 
Or scarlet crewel, in tlie cushion fix'd, 
If cushion might be calfd, what harder seem'd 
Than the firm oak of which the frame was fbrm'd. 
No want of timber then was felt or fear'd 
In Albion's happy isle. The lumber .stood 
Ponderous and fix'd by its own massy weight. 
But elbows still were wanting ; these, some say. 



THE TASK.— THE SOFA. 



663 



An uklcrinan of Cripplcgate contrived ; 

Anil some inscribe the inTention to a priest, 

Burly and liii;. and studious of his case. 

I?ut, rude at Hrst. and not with easy slope 

Kecedinj; wide, tlicy prcss'd against the ribs, 

And bruised the side, and, elevated lligh, 

Tautrht tlie raised slioulders to invade the ears. 

Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires 

Coin])lain'd, tiiough incommodiously pent in, 

An<l ill at ea.sc beliind. The ladies first 

'Gan murmur, as became the soller sex. 

Ingenious Fancy, never better pleased 

Than when employed to accommodate the fair. 

Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised 

Tile soli settee ; one elbow at each end, 

And in the midst an elbow it received, 

United yet divided, twain at once. 

So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne ; 

And so two citizens, who take the air. 

Close pack'd and smiling, in a chaise and one. 

But relaxation of the languid Iraine, 

By soft recumbency of outstretch'd Uinbs, 

Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slow 

The growth of what is excellent ; so hard 

To attain pcrt'ection in this nether world. 

Thus first necessity inventeil stools. 

Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, 

And Luxury the aecomplish'd Sofa last, [sick, 

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the 
Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he 
Who quits the coach-bo.x at the midnight hour, 
To sleep within the can'iage more secure. 
His legs depending at the open door. 
Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk. 
The tedious rector drawling o'er his head ; 
.\nd sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep 
Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead. 
Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour. 
To slumber in the carriage more secure. 
Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk. 
Nor yet the ilozings of the clerk, are sweet 
Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. 

Oh may I live exempted (while I live 
Guiltless of pampered appetite ob.scene) 
From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe 
Of libertine Kxcess I The Sofa suits 
The gouty limb, 'tis true ; but gouty limb. 
Though on a .Sofa, may I never feel; 
For I have loved the rural walk through lanes 
Of grassy swarth.closecropp'd by nibbling sheep. 
And skirted thick with intertexturc firm 
Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk 
O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink. 
E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds 
To enjoy a raaible on the lianks of Thames ; 
And still remembi r, nor without regret 
Of hours that sorrow since has much endcar'd, 
How oil. my slice of pocket store consumed, 
Still hungering, pennyless, and far from home, 
1 I'eil on scarlet hips and stony haws, 
Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss 
The bramlde, black as jet or sloes austere. 
Hard fare ', but such as boyish appetite 
Disdains not ; nor the palate, undcpraved 
By culinary arts, unsavory deems. 
No Sofa then awaited my return ; 
No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs 
His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil 
Incurring short fatigue ; and though our years, 
As lil'e declines, speed rapidly away. 
And not a year but pilfers as he goes 
Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep ; 



A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees 
Their length and color irom the locks they spare ; 
The elastic spring of an unwearied foot. 
That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, 
That play of lungs, inhaling and again 
Respiring i'reely the fresh air, that makes 
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me. 
Mine have not piller'd yet ; nor yet impair 'd 
My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that soothed 
Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find 
Still soothuig, and of power to charm me still. 
And witness, dear companion of my walks. 
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, 
Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth, 
And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire — 
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. 
Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, 
.\nd that my raptures are not conjured up 
To serve occasions of poetic pomp. 
But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
How oil upon yon eminence our pace 
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
The rulHing wind, scarce conscious that it blew. 
While Admiration, feeding at the eye. 
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. 
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd 
The distant plough slow moving, and beside 
His laboring team, that swerved not from the track. 
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy ! 
Here Ousc, slow winding through a level plain 
Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er. 
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
Delighted, There, fast rooted in their bank, 
Stand, never overlook'd, our t'avoritc elms, 
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; 
While t'ar beyond, and overthwart the stream, 
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, 
The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; 
Displaying on its varied side the grace 
Of liedge-row beauties numberless, square tower. 
Tall spire, from which the sound of^ cheerful bells 
Just undulates upon the listening ear, 
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 
Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, 
Please daily, and whose novelty survives 
Long knowledge, and the scrutiny of years^ 
Praise justly due to those that I describe. 

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The da,sh of ocean on his winding shore. 
And lull the spirit while they fill ttie mind ; 
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, 
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds. 
But animated nature sweeter still. 
To soothe and satisl'y the human ear. 
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The livelong night ; nor these alone, whose notes 
Nice-finger d .Vrt must emulate in vain. 
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
In still-repeated circles, screaming loud. 



566 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, 
That iiails the rising moon, have charms for me 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 
And only there, please highly for their sake. 

Peace to tlie artist, whose ingenious thought 
Devised the weather-house, that useful toy ! 
Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, 
Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself! 
More delicate his timorous mate retires. 
When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet. 
Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, 
Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, 
The task of new discoveries falls on me. 
At such a season, and with such a charge. 
Once went I forth ; and found, till then unknown, 
A cottage, whither oft we since repair; 
'Tis perched upon the green hill top, but close 
Environ'd with a ring of branching elms, 
That overhang the thatch, itself unseen 
Peeps at the vale below ; so thick beset 
With foliage of such dark redundant growth, 
I cali'd the low-roof 'd lodge the peasant's nest. 
And, hidden as it is, and far remote 
From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear 
In village or in town, the bay of curs 
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels. 
And infants clamorous whether pleased orpain'd, 
Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. 
Here, I have said, at least I should possess 
The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge 
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. 
Vain thought ! the dweller in that still retreat 
Dearly obtains the refuge it aflbrds. 
Its elevated site forbids the wretch 
To drink sweet waters of the crystal well ; 
He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch. 
And, heavy laden, brings his beverage home. 
Far fetch'd and little worth ; nor seldom waits, 
Dependent on the baker's punctual call. 
To hear his creaking panniers at the door, 
Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed. 
So farewell envy to the peasant's nest ! 
If solitude make scant the means of life, 
Society tor mo ! — thou seeming sweet. 
Be still a i)lcasing object in my view ; 
My visit still, but never mine abode. 

Not distant far, a length of colonnade 
Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, 
Now scorn 'd, but worthy of a better fate. 
Our fathers knew the value of a screen 
From .sultry suns ; and, in their shaded walks 
» And long protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon 
The gloom and coolness of declining day. 
We bear our shades about us; self deprived 
Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread. 
And range an Indian waste without a tree. 
Thanks to Benevolus,* he spares me yet 
These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; 
And, though himself so polished, still reprieves 
The obsolete prolixity of shade. 

Descending now, — but cautious, lest too fast, — 
A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge. 
We pass a gulf in which the willows dip 
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. 
Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, 
We mount again, and feel at every step 
Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft. 
Raised by the mole, (he miner of the soil. 



* .lolin Ooilrtuey Throchniorton, Esq., of Weston Un- 
derwood. 



He. not unlike the great ones of mankind, 
Disfigures earth : and plotting in the dark. 
Tolls much to earn a monumental pile. 
That may record the mischiefs he has done. 

The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove 
That crowns it! yet not all its priile secures 
The grand retreat from injuries imprcss'd 
By rural carvers, who witli knives deface 
The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, 
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
So strong the zeal to immortalize himself 
Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few. 
Few transient years, won from the abyss ab- 
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, [horr'd 
Antl even to a clown. Now roves the eye; 
And, posted on this speculative height, 
Exults in its command. The she»pfold here 
Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
At first, progressive as a stream, they seek 
The middle field ; but. scattered by degrees. 
Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward 

creeps 
The loaded wain ; while, lighten'd of its charge, 
The wain that meets it passes swiftly bj' ; 
The boorish driver leaning o'er his team 
Vociierous and impatient of delay. 
Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, 
Diversified with trees of every growth. 
Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks 
Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine. 
Within the twilight of their distant shades ; 
There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood 
Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. 
No tree in all the grove but has its charms. 
Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, 
And of a wannish grey; the willow such, 
And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf. 
And asli far stretching his umbrageous arm; 
Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still. 
Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak. 
Some glcssy-leaved, and shining in the sun. 
The maple, and the beech of oily nuts 
Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve 
DiiTusing odors : nor unnoted" pass 
The sycamore, capricious in attire, 
Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet 
Have changed the woods, in scarlet honors 

bright. 
O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map 
Of hill and valley interposed between,) 
The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land. 
Now glitters in the sun, and now retires. 
As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. 

Hence the declivity is sharp and short, 
And such the re -ascent ; between them weeps 
A little naiad her impoverish'd urn 
All summer long, which winter fills again. 
The ibided gates would bur my progress now, 
But that the lord'* of this enclosed demesne, 
Communicative of the good he owns, 
Admits mc to a share : the guiltless eye 
Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. 
Refreshing change ! where upw the blazing sun 'i 
By short transition we have lost his glare, 
And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. 
Ye fallen avenues ! once more I mourn 
Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice 
That yet a remnant of your race survives. 
How airy and how light the graceful arch, 

♦ Ibid. 



THE TASK.— THE SOFA. 



567 



Yet awful as the consccratPil roof 
Hc-cchoing pious antlmms! while beneath 
The rhoquer'd earth seems restless as a AoolI 
Urush'd by the wind. So sportive is the Hi^hl 
Shot through tlic boughs, it dances as they 

danee, 
Shadow and sunsliine intermingling quick, 
And darkenini; and enUghtcning. as the leaves 
Play wanton, every moment, every spot. 

And now, with nerves new braced and spirits 
cheer'd, 
We trend the wilderness whose well roli'd walks, 
With curvature of slow and easy sweep — 
Decepti{)n innocent — give ample space 
To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; 
Uetween the ujmght shatts of whose tall elms 
We may discern the thrtshrr at his task. 
Thump aficr thump resounds the constant flail, 
That seems to swin-r uncertain, and yet talis 
Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff"; 
The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist 
Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday bf^am. 
Come hhher, ye that press your beds of down 
And sleep not ; see him sweating o'er his bread 
llefoTC he eats it. — 'Tis the primal curse, 
But soflcnM into mercy ; made the pledge 
Of checrtul days and nights without a groan. 

By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel 
That Nature rides upon maintains her health, 
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads [moves. 
An instant's pause, and lives but while she 
Its own revolvency upholds the world. 
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, 
An<l fit the limped elemi-nt for use, 
KIse noxious : oceans, rivers lakes, and streams 
All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed 
By restless undulation: e'en the oak 
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : 
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
The impression of the blast with proud disdain, 
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
He h< Id the thunder: but the monarch owes 
His firm stability to what he scorns — 
More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 
The law. by which al! creatures else are bound. 
Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives 
iS'o mean advantage from a kindred cause. 
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. 
The sedentary stretch their lazy length 
When custom bids, but no refreshment find, 
For none they nf^ed : the languid eye, the check 
Uf.serted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, 
And withrr'd muscle, and the vapiil soul, 
Reproach their owner with that love of rest 
To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. 
Not such the alert and active. Measure life 
By its true worth, the comforts it affords. 
And theirs alone sfems worthy of the name. 
Good iiealth. and, its associate in the most, 
Good temper: spirits prompt to undertake, 
And not soon sp'^nt. though in an arduous task ; 
Thi' powers of tancy and strong thought are 
F/»n age itself seems privileged in tliein [theirs; 
With clear exemption from its own defects. 
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
The veteran sliows. and, gracing a grey beard 
With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave 
Sprightly, and old almost without decay. 

I, ike a coy maiden, lipase, when courted most. 
Farthest retires — an idol, at whose shrine 
Who oilencst sacrifice arc favor'd least. 



The love of Nature and the scenes she draws 
Is Nature's dictate. Strange ! there should be 

found, 
Who, sell-imprison'd in their proud saloons, 
Renounce the odors of the open field 
For the unscent'^l fictions of the loom: 
Who, satisfied with onlv pcncil'd scenes, 
Prefer to the performance of a God 
The inferior wonders of an artist's hand ! 
Lovt.ly indeed the mimic works of Art; 
But Nature's works far lovelier. 1 admire. 
None more admires, the painter's magic skill, 
Who shows me that which I shall never see, 
Conveys a distant country into mine. 
And throws Italian light on English walls. 
But imitative strokes can do no more 
Than pleasi; the eye — sweet Nature every sense. 
The air salubrious of her lofty hills. 
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, 
And music of her woods — no works of man 
May rival these ; these all bespeak a power 
Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; 
'Tis tree to all — 'tis every day renew'd ; 
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. 
He does not scorn it, who imprison'd long 
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey 
To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank 
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, 
F.scapcs at last to liberty and light ; 
His cheek recovers soon its heahht'ul hue; 
His eye relumines its extinguish'il fin-s; 
He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with joy, 
And riots in the sweets of every breeze. 
He does not scorn it, who has long endured 
A fever's agonies, and fed on druijs. 
Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed 
With acrid salts : his very heart athirst 
To gaze at Nature in her green array. 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 
With visions i)rompted by intense desire : 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left. 
Far distant, such as he would die to find — 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more 

The spleen is seldom lelt where Flora reigns; 
The lowering eye, the petulance, the I'rown, 
And sullen sadness, that o'ershaile, distort, 
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause 
For such immeasurable woe appears, 
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair [own. 
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her 
It is the constant revolution, stale 
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys, 
That palls ami satiates, and makes langui<l life 
A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. 
Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart 
Recoils from its own choice — at the full feast 
Is famish'd — finds no music in the song, 
No smarlnes-; in the jest; and wonders why. 
Vet thousands still desire to journey on. 
Though halt, and weary of the path they tread 
The paralytic, who can hold her cards. 
But cauiiDt play them, borrows a iViend's hand 
To deal anri shuffle to divide and sort 
Her mingl d suit^ and sequence's; and sits, 
Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad 
And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. 
Others are dragg'tl into the crowdeil room, 
Between supporters: and, once seated, sit, 
Tlirough downright inaliility to rise. 
Till the stout bearers litl the corpse aj^ain. 
These speak a loud memento. Vet e en these 



568 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he 
That overhangs a torrent to a twig. 
They love it, and yet loathe it ; fear to die, 
Vet scorn the purposes for which they live. 
Then wherefore not renounce them ) No — the 
The slavish dread of solitude that breeds [dread, 
Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, 
And their inveterate habits, all forbid. [long 

Whom call we gay 1 That honor has been 
The boast of mere pretenders to the name. 
The innocent are gay — the lark is gay, 
That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, 
Beneath the rosy clouds, while yet the beams 
Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest. 
The peasant too, a witness of his song, 
Himself a songster, is as gay as he. 
But save me from the gayety of those 
Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed ; 
And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes 
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs 
For property stripp'd off by cruel chance ; 
From gayety that fills the bones with pain, 
The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. 

The earth was made so various, that the mind 
Of desultory man, studious of change, 
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. 
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen 
Till half their beauties fade ; the weary sight, 
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off 
Fastidious, seeking less famihar scenes. 
Then snug inclosures in the shelter'd vale, 
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, 
Delight us ; happy to renounce awhile. 
Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, 
That such short absence may endear it more. 
Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, 
That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts 
Above the reach of man. His hoary head, 
Conspicuous may a league, the mariner. 
Bound homeward, and in hope already there, 
Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist 
A girdle of hall-wither'd shrubs he shows, 
And at his feet the baffled billows die. 
The common, overgrown with fern, and rough 
With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and detbrm'd. 
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, 
And decks itself with ornaments of gold, 
Yields no unpleasing ramble ; there the turf 
Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs 
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense 
With luxury of unexpected sweets. 

There often wanders one, whom better days 
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd 
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. 
A serving maid was she. and fell in love 
With one who left her, went to sea, and died. 
Her fancy foHow'd him through foaming waves 
To distant shores ; and she would sit and weep 
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too. 
Delusive most where warmest wishes are. 
Would oft anticipate his glad return, 
And dream of transports she was not to know. 
She heard the doleful tidings of his death — 
And never smiled again ! and now she roams 
The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day. 
And there, unless when cnarity forbids, 
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, 
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 
More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 
A bosom heaved with never-ceasmg sighs. 
She begs an idle pin of all she meets, 
And hoards them in her sleeve j but needful food, 



Though press'd with hunger oft, or comclier 

clothes, [crazed ! 

Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is 

I see a column of slow-rising smoke 
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. 
A vagabond and useless tribe there cat 
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 
Between two poles upon a stick transverse. 
Receives the morsel — flesh obscene of dog, 
Or vermin, or at best of cock purloined 
From his accustom 'd perch. Hard-faring race! 
They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un- 

quench'd 
The spark of lite. The sportive wind blows wide 
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, 
The vellum of the pedigree they clamj, 
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more 
To conjure clean away the gold they touchy 
Conveying worthless dross into its place ; 
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. 
Strange ! that a creature rational, and cast 
In human mould, should brutalize by choice 
His nature ; and. though capable of arts. 
By which the world might profit, and himself, 
Self-banish'd from society, prefer 
Such squalid sloth to honorable toil ! 
Yet even these, -though, feigning sickness oft, 
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, 
And vex their flesh with artificial sores, 
Can change their whine into a mirthful note 
When safe occasion offers ; and with dance, 
And music of the bladder and the bag, 
Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. 
Such health and gnyety of heart enjoy 
The houseless rovers of the sylvan world [much, 
And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering 
Need other physic none to heal the effects 
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 

Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd 
By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure. 
Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside 
His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn, 
The manners and the arts of civil life. 
His wants indeed are many ; but supply 
Is obvious, placed within the easy reach 
Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. 
Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil ; 
Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, 
And terrilile to sight, as when she springs 
(If e'er she sprint spontaneous) in reaiote 
And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, 
And strength is lord of all ; but gentle, kind, 
By culture tam'd. by liberty refresh'd, 
And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. 
War and the chase engross the savage whole, 
War tbliovv'd for revenge, or to supplant 
The envied tenants of some happier spot: 
The chase lor sustenance, precarious trust ! 
His hard condition with severe constraint 
Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth 
Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns 
Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, 
Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. 
Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, 
And thus the rangers of the western world, 
Where it advances far into the deep, 
Towards the antarctic. E'en the lavor'd isles, 
So lately found, although the constant sun 
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, 
Can boast but Uttle virtue ; and, inert 
Through plenty, lose in morals what they gam 



In manners — victims of luxurious case. 
Tiiese thcrcibrc I can pity, placed remote 
From all that science traces, art invents, 
Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed 
In boundless oceans, never to be pass'd 
By navigators uninlbrurd as thi-y, 
Or ploui;li'd perhaps by British bark again : 
But, far beyond the rest, and with most cause, 
Thee, gentle savage !* whom no love of thee 
Or thine, but curiosity, perhaps, 
Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw 
Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here 
With what superior skill we can abuse 
The girts of Providence, and squander life. 
The dream is past; and thou hast found again 
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms antl yams, 
And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast 
thou found [state, 

Their former charms t And. liaving seen our 
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp 
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports. 
And heard our music ; are thy simplt; frientls. 
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights 
As dear to thee as once ! And have thy joys 
Lost nothing by comparison with ours '? 
Iluile as thou art, (lor we returned thee rude 
And ignorant, except of outward show), 
I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart, 
And spiritless as never to regret 
Sweets tasted here, and letl as soon as known. 
Mclhinks I see thee straying on the beach, 
And asking of the surge that bathes thy loot, 
If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. 
I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, 
A patriot's lor his country : thou art sad 
At thought of her tbrlorn and abject state. 
From which no power of thine can raise her up. 
Thus iancy paints thee, and though apt to err, 
Perhai)s errs little when she paints thee thus. 
.She tells me, too, that duly every morn 
Thou climb'st the mountain top. with eager eye 
Exploring far and wide the watery waste 
For sight of ship from England. Every speck 
Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale 
With eonlliet of contending hopes and fears. 
But comes at la.st the dull and dusky eve, 
And sends ihee to thy cabin, well prepared 
To dream all night of what the day ilenied. 
Alas I expect it not. We ibund no bait 
To tempt us in thy country. Doing good. 
Disinterested good, is not our trade. 
We travel far, 'lis true, but not lor nought; 
And must be bribed to compass earth again 
By other hopes antl richer fruits than yours. 

But though true worth ami virtue in the mild 
And genial soil of cultivateil life 
Thrive most, and may perhaps tliiive only there, 
Vet not in cities oft ; in proud, and gay. 
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow. 
As to a common and most noisome sewer, 
The dregs and feculence of every land. 
In cities foul example on most minds 
Begets its likenesss. Rank abundance breeds 
In gross and pampcr'd cities sloth, and lust. 
And wantonness and gluttonous excess. 
In cities vice is hidden with most ease, 
Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught 
By fri quent lapse, can hope no triumnh there 
Beyond the aehievement of successful flight. 
I Jo confess them nurseries of the arts, 

• OmaL 



In which they flourish most ; where, in the beams 

Of warm encouragement, and in the eye 

Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 

Sueli London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 

The fairest capital of all the world : 

By riot and incontinence tlie worst. 

There, touch'd by Reynolds a dull blank becomes 

."V lucid mirror, in which Nature sees 

All her reflected features. Bacon there. 

Gives more than female beauty to a stone. 

And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. 

Nor does the chisel occupy alone 

The power of sculpture. Ijut the style as much; 

Each province of her art her equal care. 

With nice incision of her guided steel 

She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil 

So sterile with what charms soe'er she will. 

The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. 

Where finds Fhilosopliy her eagle eye, 

With which she gazes at yon burning disk 

Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots 1 

In London : where her Lnplements exact. 

With which she calculates, computes, and scans 

jVU distance, motion, magnitude, and now 

Measures an atom, and now girds a world 1 

In London. Where has commerce such a mart, 

So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, 

As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 

Increasing London ? Babylon of old 

Not more the glory of the earth than she, 

A more accom[)lish*d world's chief glory now. 

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, 
That so much beauty would do well to purge ; 
And show this queen of cities that so fair 
May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise. 
It is not seemly, nor of good report. 
That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt 
To avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
That she is rigid in denouncing death 
On petty robbers, and indulges life 
And liberty, and ofttimes honor too, 
To peculators of the public gold : [puts 

That thieves at home must hang ; but he, that 
Into his over-gorged and bloated purse 
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. 
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, 
That, through profane and infidel contempt 
Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul 
.\nil abrogate, as roundly as she may, 
The total ordinance and will of God; 
.Vdvancing Fashion to the post of Truth, 
.\nd centring all authority in modes 
Anil customs of her own, till sabbath rites 
Have dwindled into unrespeeted forms, 
.And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. 

Goil made the country, and man made the 
town. 
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts 
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught 
That life holds out to all, should most abound 
.And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves! 
Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about 
In chariots and sedans, know no tatiguc 
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes 
But such as art contrives, possess ye still 
Vour element ; there only can yc shine; 
There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
Our groves were planted to console at noon 
The jjensive wanderer in their shades. At eve 
The moonbeam, sliding sortiv in between 
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish. 
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 



570 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound 
Our more harmonious notes; tlie thrush departs 
Scared, and the oflended nightingale is mute. 
There is a public mischief in your mirth ; 
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours. 
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done. 
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, 
A mutilated structure, soon to fall. 



BOOK II. 

THE TIME-PIECE. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former 
book — Peace amontr the nalions recommended on llie 
gromid of their common fellowship in sorrow — Prodi- 
gies enumerated— Sicilian earthquake— Man rendered 
obnoxious to these calamities by sin — God the agent 
in them— The philoyophy that slops at BL^condary causes 
rejiroved — Our own late miscarriages accounted for — 
Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau — 
But the pulpit, not satire, the proper en^'ine of reforma- 
tion — The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons — 
Petit-mailre parson — The good preacher — Picture of a 
theatrical clerical coxcomb — Story-tellers and jesters in 
the pulpit reproved — Apostrophe to popular applause 
— Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with— 
Sura of the whole matter — Etfects of sacerdotal mis- 
management on the laity — Their folly and extrava- 
gance — The mischiefs of profusion — Profusion itself, 
with all its consequent evils, ascribed-, as to its princi- 
pal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities. 

Oh for a lod^e in some vast wilderness, 

Some boundless contiguity of shade, 

Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 

Of unsuccessful or successful war, 

Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 

My soul is sick, with every day's report 

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fiU'd. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, 

It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 

Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 

Not color'd like his own; and. having power 

To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 

Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 

Lands inter.seeted by a narrow frith 

Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 

Make enemies of nationSj who had else 

Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 

And, worse than all, and most to be deplored. 

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 

With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 

And having human feelings, does not blush, 

And hang his head, to think himself a man 1 

X would not have a slave to til! my ground, 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 

No: dear as freedom is. and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 



We have no slaves at home : — then why abroad 1 
And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their Iuuts 
Receive our air, that moment they are free; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, 
And let it circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire; that where Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 

Sure there is need of social intercourse, 
Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid. 
Between the nations in a world that seems 
To toll the death-bell of its own decease, 
And by the voice of all its elements [winds 

To preach the general doom.* When were the 
Let slip with such a warrant to destroy 1 
When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap 
Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry 7 
Fires from beneath, and meteors f from above, 
Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd. 
Have kindled beacons in the skies ; and the old 
And crazy earth has had her shaking fits 
More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. 
Is it a time to wrangle, when the props 
And pillars of our planet seem to fail, 
And Nature 4^ with a dim and sickly eye 
To wait the close of alH But grant her end 
More distant, and that prophecy demands 
A longer respite, unaccomplished yet ; 
Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak 
Displeasure in Ms breast who smites the earth 
Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. 
And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve 
And stand exposed by common peccancy 
To what no few have felt, there should be peace, 
And brethren in calamity should love. 

Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 
Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood. 
Her palaces are dust. In ail her streets 
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show 
Sutler a syncope and solemn pause ; 
While God performs upon the trembling stage 
Of his own works the dreadful part alone. 
How does the earth receive him ] — with what 
Of gratulation and delight her King 1 [signs 
Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad. 
Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, 
Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads 1 
She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb 
Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps 
And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. 
The hills move lightlv, and the mountains smoke. 
For he has touch'd them. From the extremcst 
Of elevation down into the abyss [point 

His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. 
The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, 
The rivers die into oflcnsivc pools. 
And. charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross 
And mortal nuisance into all the air. 
What solid was, by transformation strange. 
Grows fluid ; and the fix'd and rooted earth, 
Tormented into billows, heaves and swells. 
Or with a vortiginous and hideous whirl 
Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense 
The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs 

* AUudinc; to the calamities in Jamaica, 
t AuLTust 18, 1783. 

I AUudins to the fo^ that covered both Exirope and 
Asi.i during the whole summer of 17tf3. 



And ajonics of Imnifin nnd of brute 
IMultituih's, luiritive on every side, 
And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene 
Migrates uiiliflcil: and with all its soil 
Alightini; in far distant lirhls, finds out 
A new possessor, and survives the change. 
Ocean has caught the fren/.y, and, upvvrought 
To an enormous and o'erliearing height, 
Not hy a mighty wind, hut liy that Voice 
Whicii winds and waves obey, invaiU's tiie sliore 
Resisth'ss. Never sucii a sudden flood. 
Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge. 
Possess'il an inland scene. Where now the 

throng 
That press'd the beach, and. hasty to depart. 
Look (1 to the sea for safety 1 They are gone. 
Gone with the refluent wave into the deep — 
A prince with half his p "oijle ! Ancient towers. 
And roofs emliattled high, the gloomy scenes 
Where beauty oil and lettcr'd worth consume 
Life in the uni)roduetive sliades of death. 
Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, 
And, happy in their unforeseen release 
Frosn all the rigors of restraint, enjoy 
The terrors of the day that sets them free, [fast, 
Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee 
Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret. 
That e'en a judg.iient, making way for thee, 
Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. 

Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame 
Kindled in heaven, that it liurns down to earth. 
And. in the furious inquest that it m.akes 
On Goil's behalf lay.^ waste his fairest works. 
The verj- elements, ihough each he meant 
The minister of man, to serve his wants, 
Conspire against him. With his breath he draws 
A plague into his blood ; and cannot use 
Lilc's necessary means, but he must die. 
Storms rise to o'erwhelm him : or if stormy winds 
Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise. 
And, needing none assistance of the storm. 
Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. 
The earth shall shake him out of all his holds. 
Or make his house his grave : nor so content, 
Shall counlcrl'iit the motions of the flood. 
And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. 
What then ! — were they the wickcil above all. 
And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle 
Moved not, while theirs was rock'd like a light 

skilT. 
The sport of every wave 1 No: none are clear. 
And none than we more guilty. But. where all 
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shaft.s 
Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark: 
May ])unish. if he j)!ease. the less, to warn 
The mon: malignant. If he spared not them, 
Tremble and he ama/eil at thine cseupe. 
Far guiltier [Ongland, lest he spare not thee! 

Hapi)y the man who sees a God employ 'd 
In all the good and ill that chequer life ! 
Resolving all events, with their efleets 
And UKinifold results, into the will 
And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
Dili not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns (since from the least 
The greatest oft originate ;) <'ould chance 
Find place in his do;ninion. or dispose 
One lawless particle, to thwart his plan ; 
Then God nnght be sur))risi d, and unforeseen 
Contingence might alarm Idm, and disturb 
The smooth and equal course of his an"airs. 
This truth Philosoj)hy, though eagle-eyed 



In nature's tetidencies, oft overlooks; 
.Anil having Ibund his instrument, tbrgets, 
t)r disregards, or more presumptuous still. 
Denies the ]>ower that wields it. God proclaims 
His hot displeasure against foolish men. 
That live an atheist lilc : involves the heaven 
In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
.And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin. 
.And putrify the breath of blooming Health. 
He calls for Famine, and the meagre fientl 
Blows mildew from between bis shrivell'd lips, 
And taints the golden ear. He springs liis mines, 
.And desolates a nation at a blast. 
Forth steps the s])ruco philoso()lier. and tells 
Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
And principles; of causes, how they work 
By necessary laws their sure eflects ; 
Of action and re-action. He has found 
The source of the disease that nature leels, 
.And bids the world take heart and banish fear. 
Thou fool ! will thy discovery of the cause 
Suspend the efl'ect, or heal it ! Has not God 
Still wrought by means since first he made the 
.And did he not of old employ his means [world ! 
To ilrown it '! What is his creation less 
Than a capacious reservoir oiT means 
Form'd for his use and ready at his will ? 
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of Iiira, 
Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of nil. 
England, with all tliy faults, I love thee still — 
My country I and. while yet a nook is left 
Where English minds arul manners may be 
found, [chmc 

Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy 
Be fickle, and thy year most part detbrm'd 
With ilripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
And fields without a flower, lor warmer France 
With all her vines ; nor for .Ausonia's groves 
Of golden truitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime 
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task ; 
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart 
As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
Thy follies too, and with a just disdain 
Frown at efleminates, whose very looks 
Reflect dishonor on the land I love. 
How. in the name of soldiership and sense, 
Should England prosper, when such things, as 
.And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er, [smootll 
With odors, and as profligate as sweet ; 
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, [these 
.And love when they should light; when such as 
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 
Of her magniiieent and awful cause 1 
Time was when it was praise and boast enough 
In evi-ry clime, and travel where we might, 
That wi' were born her children. Praise enoutrh 
To fill the ambition of a private man. 
Tluat CJhatham's language was his mother tongue, 
.And Wolfe's groat name compatriot with his own. 
Farewell those honors, and farewell with them 
The hope of such hereafter ! They have fallen 
Each in the fielrl of glory; one in arms, 
.And one in council — Wolfe ujion I he lap 
Of smiling victory that moment won, 
.And (;;hatham heart-sick of his country's shame ; 
They made us many soldiers. Chatham still 



572 



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Consulting England's happiness at home, 

Secured it by an unforgiving frown, 

If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, 

Put so much of his heart into his act, 

That his example had a magnet's force, 

And all were swirtto follow whom all loved. 

Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such ! 

Or all that we have left is empty talk 

Of old achievements, and despair of new. 

Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float 
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck. 
With lavender, and sprinkle hquid sweets, 
That no rude savor maritime invade 
The nose of nice nobihty ! Breathe soft, 
Ye clarionets ; and softer still, ye flutes ; 
That winds and waters, luU'd by magic sounds. 
May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore ! 
True, we have lost an empire, let it pass. 
True ; we may thank the perfidy of France, 
That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, 
With all the cunning of an envious shrew. 
And let that pass — 'twas but a trick of state ! 
A lirave man knows no malice, but at once 
Forgets in peace the injuries of war. 
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 
And, shamed as we have been, to the very beard 
Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved 
Too weak for those decisive blows that once 
Ensured our mastery there, we yet retain 
Some small pre-eminence ; we justly boast 
At least superior jockeyship, and claim 
The honors of the turf as all our own ! 
Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, 
And show the shame ye might conceal at home 
In foreign eyes ! — be grooms and win the plate, 
Where once your nobler fathers won a crown ! — 
'Tis generous to communicate your skill 
To those that need it ! Folly is soon learn 'd : 
And under such preceptors who can fail ! 

There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
The expeilients and inventions multiform, 
To which the mind resorts in chase of terms 
Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win — 
To arrest the fleeting images that fill 
The mirror of the muid, and hold them fast 
And force them sit till he has pencil'd off 
A faithful likeness of the forms he views: 
Then to dispose his copies with such art, 
That each may find its most propitious light, 
And shine by situation, hardly less 
Than by the labor and the skill it cost; 
Are occupations of the poet's mind 
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought 
With such address from themes of sad import, 
That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 
He feels the anxieties of hfe, denied 
Their wonted entertainment, all retire. 
Such joys has he that sings. But ah ! not such, 
Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. 
Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps 
Aware of nothing arduous in the task 
They never undertook, they little note 
His dangers or escapes, and haply find 
Their least amusement where he found the most. 
But is atmisement all 1 Studious of song, 
And yd ambitious not to sing in vain. 
1 would not trifle merely, though the world , 

Be loudest in their praise who do no more. 
Yet what can satire, whether trrave or gay 1 
It may correct a foible, may chastise 
The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, 



Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch ; 
But where are its sublimer trophies found 1 
What vice has it subdued 1 whose heart reclaimed 
By rigor ] or whom laugh'd into retbrm] 
Alas ! Leviathan is not so tamed ; 
Laugh'd at. he laughs again ; and, stricken hard, 
Turns t> the stroke his adamantine scales, 
That tear no discipline of human hands. 

The pulpit tlierefore (and I name it fiU'd 
With solemn awe. that bids me well beware 
With what intent I touch that holy thing) — 
The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, 
Strutting and vaporing in an empty school, 
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) — 
I say the puipit (in the sober use 
Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) [stand, 

Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall 
The most important and effectual guard. 
Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. 
There stands the messenger of truth : there stands 
The legate of the skies! — His theme divine. 
His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 
Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. 
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, 
Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, 
And, arm'd himself in panoply complete 
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
Bright as his own. and trains, by every rule 
Of noly disciphne, to glorious war, 
The sacramental host of God's elect ! [were ! 
Are all such teachers ? — would to heaven all 
But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- 
tween 
Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks 
Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
Than all invective is his bold harangue, 
While through that public organ of report 
He hails the clergy ; and, detying shame, 
Announces to the world his own and theirs! 
He teaches those to read, whom schools disiniss'd, 
And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, 
And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer 
The adagio and andante it demands. 
He grinds divinity of other days 
Down into motlern use ; transtbrras old print 
To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 
Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. 
Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware 1 
Oh, name it not in Gath ! — it cannot be', [aid. 
That grave and learned clerks should need such 
He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll. 
Assuming thus a rank unknown before — 
Grand caterer and drynurse of the church ! 
I venerate the man whose heart is warm, 
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and 

whose life, 
Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
That he is honest in the sacred cause. 
To such I render more than mere respect, 
Whose actions say that they respect themselves, 
But loose in morals, and in manners vain, 
In conversation frivolous, in dress 
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse ; 
Frequent in park witii lady at his side, 
Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes; 
But rare at home, and never at his books, 
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; 
Constant at routs, familiar Vv-ith a round 
Of ladyships — a strangt;r to the poor; 
Ambitious of preferment for its gold, 



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673 



And well preptired. liy ifrnoranco nnd sloth, 

By infiiK'lity and lovci of world, 

To make God's work a sinecure ; a slave 

To liis own pleasures and his patron's pride : 

From sncli apostles, O ye mitred heads, 

Preserve the ehureh ! and lay not eareless hands 

On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. 

Would I ilescribe a preacher, such as Paul, 
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and 

own — 
Paul should himself direct nie. I would trace 
His master strokes, and draw from his design. 
I would express him simple, grave, sincere; 
In doctrine uneorrupt; in language plain, 
And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, 
And natural in gesture ; nmch impress'd 
Ilimsell' as conscious of his awful charge, 
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds 
May teel it too; aflVctionate in look 
And tender in adilress, as well becomes 
A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
Behold the picture ! Is it like 1 — Like whom 7 
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
.^nd then skip down again ; pronounce a text; 
Cry — hem; and reading what they never wrote, 
Just firteen minutes, huddle up their work. 
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene ! 

In man or woman, but far most in man, 
And most of all in man that ministers 
.\nd serves the altar, in my soul I loathe 
All affectation. 'Tis mj' perfect scorn ; 
Object of my implacable disgust. 
What ! will a man play tricks? will he indulge 
A silly fond conceit of his fair form. 
And just proportion, fashionable mien. 
And pretty face, in presence of his God ? 
Or wdl he seek to dazzle me with tropes. 
As with the diamond on his lily hand, 
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, 
When I aui hungry for the bread of life 1 
He mocks his 3Iaker, prostitutes and shames 
His noble ollice, and. nistead of truth. 
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock ! 
Therefore avaunt all attitude, and stare, 
And start Iheatric, practised at the glass ! 
I seek divine simplicity in him 
Who handles things divine ; and all besides, 
Though learn d with labor, and though much 

admired 
By curious eyes and judgments ill inform 'd, 
To me is odious as the nasal twang 
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men. 
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
Through the press'd no.stril, spectacle bcstrid. 
Some, decent in demeanor while they preach. 
That task perform'd, relapse into themselves ; 
And, having spoken wisely, at the close 
Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, 
Whoe'er was cdilied. themselves were not ! 
Forth comes the pocket-mirror. — First we stroke 
An eyebrow : next com])Ose a straggling lock; 
Then with an air most graccfull}^ perform'd 
Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, 
.4nd lay it at its ease with gentle care, 
With handkert^hief in hand depending low; 
The better hand more busy gives the nose 
Its bergamot. or aids the indebtetl eye, 
With o]>eru glass to watch tht: moving scene. 
And recognize the slow-retiring tair. — 
Now this is fulsome ; nnd offends me more 
Than in a churchman slovenly neglect 
And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly min.l 



May be indifferent to her house of clay, 

.\nd sliglit the hovel as beneath her care ; 

liut how a body .so fantastic, trim, 

.And (|uaint, in its deportment and attire. 

Can lodge a heavenly mind — demands a doubt. 

He that negotiates between God and man, 
.\s God's and)assador, the grand concerns 
Of judgment and of mercy, should beware 
Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful 
To court a grin, when you should woo a soul ; 
To break a jest when pity would inspire 
Pathetic exhortation ; and to address 
The skittish fancy with facetious tales. 
When sent with God's commission to the heart I 
.So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip 
Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, 
And I consent you take it for your text, 
Your only one, till sides and benches fail. 
No : he was serious in a serious cause, 
And understood too well the weighty terms [stoop 
That he had taken in charge. He would not 
To conquer those by jocular exploits 
Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain. 

O popular applause ! what heart of man 
Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms 1 
The wisest and the best feel urgent need 
Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales ; 
But, swell'd into a gust — who then, alas ! 
With all his canvas set, and inexpert, 
.And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power'? 
Praise, from the rivcll'd lips of toothless, bald 
Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean 
And craving Poverty, and in the bow 
Respectful of the smutch'd artificer. 
Is oil too welcome, and may much disturb 
The bias of the purpose. How much more, 
Pour'd Ibrth by beauty splendid and polite. 
In language soft as adoration breathes 1 
Ah, spare your idol ! think him human still. 
Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! 
Dote not too iiuieh. nor spoil what ye admire. 

.VII truth is from the sempiternal source 
Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome 
Drew from the stream below. More favor'd, wo 
Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head. 
To tliem it llow'd much mingled and defiled 
\Vitli hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams 
Illusive of philosophy, so call'd, 
But falsely. Sages after sages strove 
In vain to fdter off a crystal draught 
Pure from the Ices, which often more enhanced 
The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred 
Intoxication and delirium wild. 
In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth [man's 
.Anil sprinw-time of the world ; ask'd. Whence is 
Why formd at all ! and wherefore as he is? 
Where must he lii)d his Maker? with what rites 
Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless? 
Or does he sit regardless of his works ? 
Has man within him an inunortal seed ? 
Or does the toml) take all >. If he survive 
His ashes, where >. and in what weal or woe? 
Knots worthy of solution, which alone 
A Deity could .solve. Their answers, vague 
Anil all at random, fabulous and dark, 
Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life. 
Defective and unsanction'd, proved too weak 
To bind the roving appetite, and lead 
Blind nature to a God not yet rcvcal'd. 
'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, 
Explains all mysteries, except her own, 
.VikI so illuminates the path of life 



674 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



That ibols discover it, and stray no more. 
Now tell me, digniiied and sapient sir, 
My man ol' morals, nurtured in the shades 
Of Academus — is this false or true 7 
Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools'? 
If Christ, then why resort at every turn 
To Atliens or to Rome, for wisdom short 
Of man's occasions, when in him reside 
Griice, knowledge, comfort— an unfathom'd store ] 
How oil, when Paul has served us with a text, 
Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully preach'd ! 
Men that, if now alive, would sit content 
And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, 
Preach it who might. Such was their love of 

truth, 
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candor too ! 

And thus it is. — The pastor, either vain 
By nature, or by flattery made so, tauirht 
To gaze at his own splendor, and to exalt 
Absurdly, not his office, but himself; 
Or uneniighten'd, and too proud to learn ; 
Or vicious, and not thcretbre apt to teach; 
Perverting often, by the stress of lewd 
And loo^e example, whom he should instruct ; 
Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace 
The noblest function, and discredits much 
The brightest truths that man has ever seen. 
For ghostly counsel — if it either fall 
Below the exigence, or be not back'd 
With show of love, at least with hopeful proof 
Of some sincerity on the giver's part ; 
Or be dishonord in the exterior form 
And mode of its conveyance by such tricks, 
As move derision, or by ibppish airs 
And histrionic mummery, that let down 
The pulpit to the level of the stage — 
Drops from the lips a disregarded tiling. 
The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, 
While prejudice in men of stronger minds 
Takes deeper root, confirm VI by what they see. 
A relaxation of religion's hold 
Upon the roving and untutorVl heart 
Soon follows, and, the curb ofconscience snapp'd, 
The laity run wild. — But do they now'? 
Note their extravagance, and be convinced. 

As nations, ignorant of God, contrive 
A wooden one, so we, no longer taught 
By monitors that mother church suppUes, 
Now make our own. Posterity will ask 
(If e'er posterity see verse of mine) 
Some filly or a hundred lustrums hence, 
What was a monitor in George's days'? 
My very gentle reader, yet unborn, 
Of whom I needs must augur better things, 
Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world 
Productive only of a race like ours, 
A monitor is wood — plank shaven thin. 
We wear it at our backs. There closely braced 
And neatly fitted, it compresses hard 
The prominent and most unsightly bones, 
And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use 
Sovereign and most efi'ectual to secure 
A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, 
From rickets and distortion, else our lot. 
But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect — 
One proof at least of manhood ! while the friend 
Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. 
Our habits, costlier than Luculus wore, 
And by caprice as multiplied as his. 
Just please us while the fashion is at full, 
But change with every moon. The sycophant 
Who waits to dress us arbitrates their date ; 



Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye j 

Finds one ill made, another obsolete. 

This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; 

And, making prize of all that he condemns, 

With our expenditure defrays his own. 

Variety's the very spice of hfe. 

That gives it all its ilavor. We have run 

Through every change that Fancy, at the loom 

Exhausted, has had genius to supply; 

And, studious of mutation still, discard 

A real elegance, a little used. 

For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. 

We sacrifice to dress, till household joys 

And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry 

And keeps our larder lean ; puts out our fires ; 

And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, 

Where peace and hospitality might reign. 

What man that lives, .and that knows how to live, 

Would fail to exhibit at the public shows 

A form as splendid as the proudest there, 

Though appetite raise outcries at the cost ? 

A man of tne town dines late, but soon enough, 

With reasonable forecast and despatch. 

To ensure a side-box station at half price. 

You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, 

His daily fare as delicate. Alas! 

He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems 

With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet! 

The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws 

With magic wand. So potent is the spell, 

That none decoy'd into that fatal ring. 

Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. 

There we grow early grey, but never wise^ 

There forai connexions, but acquire no friend; 

Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success; 

Waste youth in occupations only fit 

For second childhood, and devote old age 

To sports which only childhood could excuse. 

There they are happiest who dissemble best 

Their weariness; and they the most polite 

Who squander time and treasure with a smile, 

Though at their own destruction. She that asks 

Her dear five hundred friends contemns them all, 

And hates their coaiin"-. They (what can they 

lessl) 
Make just reprisals ; and, with cringe and shrug. 
And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. 
All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, 
Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, 
And gild our chamber cciUngs as they pass, 
To her, who, frugal only that her thrilt 
May feed excesses she can ill atVord, 
Is hackney 'd home unlackcy'd ; who. in haste 
Alijrhting. turns the key in her own door, 
And. a tthe watchman's lantern borrowing light, 
Finds a cold bed her only comfort lell. [wives, 
Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their 
On Fortune's velvet altar ofi'cring up 
Tluir last poor pittance — Fortune, most severe 
Of goddesses yet known, and coslhcr far 
Than all that held their rOuts in Juno's heaven. — 
So fare we in this prison-house, the world; 
And 'tis a fearful spectacle to sec 
So many maniacs dancing in their chains. 
They gaze upon the hnks that hold them fast 
With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot. 
Then shake them in dt-spnir, and dance again ! 

Now basket up the family of plagues 
That waste our vitals; peculation, sale 
Of honor, perjury, corruption, frauds 
By forgery, by subterfuge of law, 
By tricks and lies as numerous and as keen 



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676 



As the necessities their authors feel ; 
Then cast them, closi.-iy buiulled, every brat 
At the rijriit door. I'Tofusioii is the sire. 
Profusion unrestrained with all that's base 
In cliaractcr. lias litttT'd ail tiie land, 
And bred, within the memory of no lew, 
A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, 
A people sucli as never was till now. 
It IS u hungry vice : — it eats up all 
That (fives society its beauty, strength. 
Convenience, and security, and use; 
JIakes men mere vermin, worthy to he trappM 
And gibbeted, as fust as catchpole claws 
Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot 
Of union, and converts the sacred band, 
That holds mankind together, to a scourge 
Profusion, deluging a state with lusts 
Of grossest nature and of worst effects, 
Prepares it for its ruin : hardenrf. blinds. 
And warps the consciences of public men, 
Till they can laugh at Virtue ; mock the fools 
That trust them; and in the end disclose a face 
That would have shock'd Credulity herself, 
Unmask'd. vouchsafing this their sole excuse — 
Since all alike are selhsh, why not they ] 
This docs Profusion, and the accursed cause 
Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. 
In colleges and halls, in ancient days, 
When learning, virtue, piety, and truth 
Were precious and inculcated with care, 
There dwelt u sage call'd Disciphne. His head, 
JVot yet by time completely silver'd o'er, 
Ui'spoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, 
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. 
His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile 
PIay\l on his lips ; and in his speech was heard 
Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. 
The occupation dearest to his heart 
Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke 
The head of modest and ingenuous worth, 
That blush'd ut its own praise ; and press the 

youth 
Close to his siile that pleased him. Learning grew 
Beneath his care a tliriving vigorous plant ; 
The mind was well-inform d, the pas.sions held 
Subordinate, and diligence was choice. 
If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, 
That one among so many overleap'd 
The limits of control, his gentle eye 
Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: 
His frown was full of terror, ami his voice 
Shook the d' linnuent with such fits of awe 
As letl him not tdl penitence had won 
Lost favor back again, and closed the breach. 
But discipline, a faithful servant long, 
Declined at len":th into the vale of years: 
A palsy struck his arm ; Ins sparklinj; eye 
Was quencii'd in rheums of age"; his voice, un- 
strung, 
Grew tremulous, and moved derision more 
Than reverence in perverse rebellious youth. 
So colleges and halls negb^cted much 
Their good old friend ; and Discipline at length, 
O'erlook'd and unemploy'd. fell sick and died. 
Then Study languisli'd. Emulation slept, 
And Virtue lied. The schools became a scene 
Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, 
His cap well lined with loixic not hi.*; own, 
With parrot tongue prrfornud the scholar's part, 
Proceeding soon a graduat :d dunce. 
Then Compromise had place, and Scrutiny 
Became stone blind ; Precedence went in truck, 



And he was competent whose purse was so. 
A dissolution of all bonds ensued ; 
The curbs invented for the mulish mouth 
Of headstrong youth were broken ; bars and bolts 
Grew rusty by disuse; and massy gates 
Forgot their oifice, opening with a touch; 
Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade, 
The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, 
A mockery of tlie world ! VVIiat need of these 
Kor gamsters, jockeys, brothetlers impure. 
Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oftencr seen 
With belted waist and pointers at tiieir heels 
Than in the bounds of duty ? What was learn 'd, 
If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot; 
And such expense as pinches parents blue, 
And mortilies the liberal hand of love, 
Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports 
And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name 
That sits a stigma on his tather's house, 
And cleaves through \i{e inseparably close 
To him that wears it. What can after-games 
Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, 
The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon, 
Add to such erudition, thus acquired. 
Where science and where virtue are profess'd ? 
They may confirm his habits, rivet fast 
His folly, but to spoil him is a task 
That bids defiance to the united powers 
Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, .stews. 
Now blame we most the nurslings or the nurse t 
The children, crook'd and twisted, and deform'd, 
Through want of care; or her, whcse winking 
Ancl slumbering oscitancy mars th^i brood J [eye 
The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of hercharge, 
She needs herself correction ; needs to learn 
That it is dangerous sporting with the world, 
With things so sacred as a nation's trust. 
The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge, 
.Ul are not such. I had a brother once — 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth, 
A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears, 
W^hcn gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. 
He graced a college,* in which order yet 
Was sacred ; and was honor'd. loved, and wept 
By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 
Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd 
With such ingredients of good sense and taste 
Of what is excellent in mun, they thirst 
With such a zeal to be what they approve. 
That no restraints can circumscribe them more 
Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's 

sake. 
Nor can example hurt them : what they see 
Of vice in others but enhancing more 
The charms of virtue in their just esteem. 
If such escape contagion, and emerge 
Pure from so foul a pool to shine abroad. 
And give the world their talents and themselves, 
Small thanks to those, whose negligence or sloth 
Ej^posed their inexperience to the snare. 
And left them to an undirected choice. 

See then the quivi-r broken and dccay'd. 
In which are kept our arrows ! Rusting there 
In wild disorder, and unlit for use. 
What wonder, if, discharged into the world. 
Thev sliamc their shooters with a randoai flight, 
Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with 

wine ! 
Well may the church wage unsucceessful war, 

* DeneH College, Cambridge. 



576 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



With such artillery arm'd. Vice parries wide 
The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, 
And stands an impudent and fearless mark. 

Have we not track'd the felon home, and found 
His birthplace and his dam? The country 

mourns, 
Mourns because every plague that can infest 
Society, and that saps ami worms the base 
Of the edifice that Policy has raised, 
Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, 
And suffocates the breath at every turn. 
Profusion breeds them; and the cause itself 
Of that calamitous mischief has been found : 
Found too where most otTensive, in the skirts 
Of the robed pedagogue ! Else let the arraign'd 
Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. 
So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, 
And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, 
Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, 
Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains 
Were cover'a with the pest ; the streets were fill'd ; 
The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook, 
Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'scaped ; 
And the land stank — so numerous was the fry. 



BOOK III. 

THE GARDEN. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Self-recollection and reproof— Address lo domestic hap- 
piness — Some accoiml of myself— The vanity of mrmy 
of tlieir pursuits who arc reputed wise — Justification 
of my censures — Divine iUuuiination necessary to the 
most expert philosopher — The question, What is 
trvUh? answered by other que^^tions — Domestic happi- 
ness addressed again — Few lovers of the country — My 
tame hare— Occupations of a retired gentleman in his 
garden— Pruning— Framing— Greenhouse — Sowing of 
flower seeds— The country preferable to the town even 
in the winter — Reasons why it is deserted at that season 
— Ruinous effects of gaming, and of expensive im- 
provement — Book concludes with an apostrophe to the 
metropolis. 

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes 

Entangled, winds now this way and now that 

His devious course uncertain, seeking home ; 

Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd, 

And sore discomfited, from slough to slough 

Plunging, and half despairing of escape ; 

If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth 

And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, 

He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, 

And winds his way with pleasure and with ease ; 

So I, designing other themes, and call'd 

To adorn the Sofa with culogium due, 

To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, 

Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat 

Of academic fame (howe'er deserved,) 

Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. 

But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road 

I mean to tread. I feel myself at large. 

Courageous, and refresh'd for fviture toil, 

If toil awaits me, or if dangers new. 

Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect 
Most part an empty ineflcctua! sound. 
What chance that I, lo tame so little known, 
Nor conversant with men or manners much, 
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope 
Crack the satiric thong '] 'Twere wiser far 



For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes. 
And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, [vine, 
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or 
My languid lunbs, when summer sears the plains j 
Or. when rough winter rages, on the sofl 
And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air 
Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth ; 
There, undisturb'd by Folly, and apprised 
How great the danger of disturbing her, 
To muse in silence, or at least confine 
Remarks that gall so many to the few, 
My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal'd 
If olltimcs proof of wisdom, when the fault 
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. 

Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss 
Of Paradise that has survived the fall I 
Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure, 
Or tasting long enjoy thee ! too infirm, 
Or too incautious, lo preserve thy sweets 
Unmix'd with drops of bhter, which neglect 
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup: 
Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms 
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, 
Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. 
Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, 
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist 
And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm 
Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support; 
For thou art meek and constant, hating change, 
And finding in the calm of truth-lried love 
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. 
Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made 
Of honor, dignity, and tair renown! 
Till prostitution elbows us aside. 
In all our crowded streets; and senates seem 
Convened for purposes of empire less 
Than to release the adultress from her bond. 
The adultress ! what a theme for angry verse ! 
What provocation to the indignant heart, 
That feels for injur'd love ! but I disdain 
The nauseous task, to paint her as she is. 
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame ! 
No: — let her pass, and, charioted along 
In guilty splendor, shake the public ways; 
The frequency of crimes has washed them white ; 
And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, 
Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch'd, 
And ciiaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. 
Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time, 
Not to be pass'd : and she, that had renounced 
Her sex's honor, was renounced herself 
By all that prizeil it; not for prudery's sake, 
But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif^ 
Desirous to return, and not received; 
But was a wholesome rigor in the main, 
And taught the unblemish'd to preser\'c with care 
That purity, whose loss was loss of all. 
Men too were nice in honor in those days. 
And judged offenders well. Then he that 

sharp'd, 
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtainVl, 
Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that 

sold 
His country, or was slack when she required 
His every nen'e in action and at stretch, 
Paid, with the blood that he had basely spared, 
The price of his default. Rut now — yes, now 
We are become so candid and so (air. 
So liberal in construction, and so rich 
In Christian charity, (good-natured age !) 
That they are safe, sinners of either sex, 



THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 



577 



Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, 

well bred, 
Well equipaixf<l. is ticket good enough 
To )iiiss us readily through every door. 
Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, 
(.•In J no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet,) 
May claim this merit still — that she admits 
The worth of what she mimics with such care, 
.A.nd thus gives virtue indirect applause; 
But she has hurnt her mask, not needed here. 
Where Vice has such allowance, that her shifts 
And specious semblances have lost their use. 

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since : with many an arrow deep infix'd 
My pantuig side was charged, when I withdrew, 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I tbund by One who had himself 
Been hurt liv the archers. In his side he bore, 
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts, [live. 

He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me 
Since then, with few associates, in remote 
And silent woods I wander, far from those 
My former partners of the peopled scene ; 
^Vith lew associates, and not wishing more. 
Here much I ruminate, as much I may, 
With other views of men and manners now 
Than once, and others of a hfe to come. 
I see that all are wanderers, gone astray 
Each in his own delusions ; tfiey arc lost 
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd 
And never won. Dream after dream ensues; 
And still they dream that they shall still succeed ; 
And still are dis.ippointed. Rings the world 
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, 
Anil adil two-thirds of the remaining halt' 
.\nd find the total of their hopes and fears 
Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay 
As if created only hke the fly, [noon, 

That s])reads his motley wings in the eye of 
To sport their season, and be seen no more. 
The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, 
And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. 
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats 
Of heroes little known ; and call the rant 
A history : describe the man. of wliom 
His own coevals took but little note ; 
And paint his person, character, and views, 
As thev had known him trom his mother's womb. 
They disentangle from tiie puzzled skein. 
In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, 
The threads of poUtic and shrewd design. 
That ran through all his purposes, and charge 
His mind with meanings that he never had. 
Or having, kept conceai'd. Some drill and bore 
The solid earth, and from the strata there 
Extract a register, by which we learn. 
That he who made it, and rcveal'd its date 
To Moses, was mistaken in its age. 
Some, more acute, and more industrious still. 
Contrive creation : travel nature up 
To the sharp peak of her sulilimest height. 
And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix'd. 
And planetary some; what gave them first 
Rotation, li-om what fountain flow'd their light. 
Great contest follows, and much learned dust 
Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth, 
And truth disclaiming both. And thus they 

spend 
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp 
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws 
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. 



Is't not a pity, now, that tickling rheums 
Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight 
Of oracles like these ? Great pity too. 
That, having wielded the elements, and built 
A thousand systems, each in his own way. 
They should go out in fume, and be forgot f 
Ah ! what is life thus spent 1 and what are they 
But frantic who thus spend it 1 all for smoke — 
Eternity for bubbles proves at last 
A senseless bargain. When I see such games 
Play'd by the creatures of a Power who swears 
That he will judge the earth, and call the fool 
To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain ; 
And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, 
And prove it in the infallible result 
So hrllow anil so false — I feel my heart 
Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd. 
If this be learning, most of all deceived. 
Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps 
While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. 
! Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, 
From reveries so airy, from the toil 
Of dropping buckets into empty wells. 
And growing old in drawing nothing up ! 

'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profotind, 
Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose. 
And overbuilt with most impending brows, — 
'Twere well, could you permit the world to live 
As the world pleases : what's the world to you 1 
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk 
As sweet as charity from human breasts. 
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, 
And exercise all functions of a man. 
How then should I and any man that lives 
Be strangers to each other ? Pierce my vein, 
Take of the crimson stream meandering there, 
And catechise it well : apply thy glass. 
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood 
Congenial with thine own : and if it be. 
What eilge of subtlety canst thou suppose 
Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art. 
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which 
One common Maker bound me to the kind 7 
True ; I um no proficient, I confess, 
In arts hke yours. I cannot call the swift 
And perilous lightnings from the anirry clouds, 
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath : 
I cannot analyze the air, nor catch 
The parallax of yonder luminous point, 
That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss: 
Such powers I boast not — neither can I rest 
A silent witness of the headlong rage. 
Or heedless folly by which thousands die. 
Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. 

God never meant that man should scale the 
heavens 
By strides of human wisdom. In his works. 
Though wondrous, he commands us in his word. 
To seek him rather where his mercy shines. 
The minri indeed enlighten'd from above. 
Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
The grand effect; acknowledges with joy 
His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
But never yet did philosophic tube. 
That brings the planets home into the eye 
Of Observation, and discovers, else 
Not visible, his family of worlds. 
Discover him that rules them ; such a veil 
Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, 
And dark in things divine. Full often too 
Our wayward intellect, the more we learn 
Of natiire, overlooks her Author more ; 

37 



578 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



From instrumental causes proud to draw 

Conclusions retrograde and mad mistake. 

But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray 

Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 

Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, 

Then ail is plain. Philosophy, baptized 

In the pure fountain of eternal love, 

Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees 

As meant to indicate a God to man, 

Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. 

Learning has borne such fruit in other days 

On all her branches: piety has found 

Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 

Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. 

Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-Uke sage ! 

Sagacious reader of the works of God, 

And his word sagacious. Such, too. thine, 

Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, 

And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom 

Our British Themis gloried with just cause. 

Immortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised, 

And sound integrity, not more than famed 

For sanctity of manners undeiiled. 

All flcsli is grass, and nil its glory fades 
Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind ; 
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 
The man wc celebrate must find a tomb, 
And we that worship him ignoble graves. 
Nothing is proof against the general curse 
Of vanity, that seizes all below. 
The only amaranthine flower on earth 
Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. 
But what is truth ] ^Twas Pilate's question put 
To truth itself tliat deign Vi him no reply. 
And whcrelbre 1 will not God impart his light 
To them that ask it ? — Freely — 'tis his joy, 
His glory, and his nature to impart. 
But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 
Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 
What's that which brings contempt upon a book. 
And him who writes it, tliough the style be neat, 
The method clear, and argument exact 1 
That makes a minister in holy things 
The joy of many and the dread of more. 
His name a theme for praise and for reproach 1- 
That, while it gives us worth in God's account, 
Depreciates and undoes us in our own ? 
What pearl is it that rich men cannot Iniy, 
That learning is too proud to gather up ; 
But which the poor, and the despised of all, 
Seek and obtain, and otlen find unsought 1 
Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. 

friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. 
Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd ! 
Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets 
Though many boast thy tavors, and alfect 
To understand and clioose thee for their own. 
But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss. 
E'en as his first progenitor, and quits. 
Though placed in Paradise (for earth has still 
Some traces of her youthful beauty letl,) 
Substantial happiness tor transient joy. 
Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse 
The growing seeds of wisdom ; that suggest, 
By every pleasing image they present. 
Reflections such as meliorate the heart. 
Compose the passions, and exalt the mind ; 
Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight 
To fill with riot, and defile with blood. 
Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes 
We persecute, annihilate the tribes 



That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, 
Fearless and rapt away from all his cares; 
Should never game- fowl hatch her eggs again, 
Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye ; 
Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, 
Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreat; 
How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, 
Who dream they have a taste for fields and 

groves, 
Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen. 
And crowd the roads, impatient for the town ! 
They love the country', and none else, who seek 
For their own sake its silence and its shade. 
Delights which who would leave, that has a heart 
Susceptible of pity, or a mind 
Cultured and capable of sober thought, 
For all 'the savage din of the swift pack, 
And clamors of the field ? — Detested sport, 
That owes its pleasures to another's pain; 
That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks 
Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued 
With eloquence, that agonies inspire 
Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs 7 
Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that never find 
A corresponding tone in jovial souls ! 
Well — one at least is safe. One shclter'd hare 
Has never heard the sanguinary yell 
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. 
Innocent partner of my peaceful home, 
Whom ten long years' experience of my care 
Has made at last familiar; she has lost 
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread. 
Not needtul here, beneath a roof like mine. 
Ves — thou mayest eat thy bread, and lick the 

hand 
That feeds thee ; thou mayest frolic on the floor 
At evening, and at night retire secure 
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; 
For 1 have gained thy confidence, have pledged 
All that is human in me to protect 
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. 
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave; 
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, 
" I knew at least one hare that had a friend." 

How various his employments whom the world 
Calls idle; and who justly in return 
Esteems that busy world an idler too ! 
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen. 
Delightful industry enjoy 'd at home, 
And Nature, in her cultivated trim 
Drcss'd to his taste, inviting him abroad — 
Can he want occupation who has these 1 
Will he he idle who has much to enjoy? 
Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease. 
Not slothful, happy to deceive the time. 
Not waste it, and aware that human life 
Is but a loan to be repaid with use, 
When He shall call his debtors to account. 
From wliom arn all our blessings, business finds 
E'en here ; while sedulous I seek to improve, 
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, 
The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack 
Too otl, and much impeded in its work, 
By causes not to he divulged in vain, 
To its just point — the service of mankind. 
He, that attends to his interior self. 
That has a heart, and keeps it: has a mind 
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks 
A social, not a dissipated life. 
Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve 
No unimportant, though a silent, task. 
A life all turbulence and noise may seem 



THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 



579 



To him that leads it wise, and to be praised ; 
But wisdom is a pearl with most success 
.Sou-rht in still water and beneath clear skies. 
He that is ever orcupicd in sUtnns, 
Or dives not for it. or brinies up instead, 
Vainly in<lustrious. a disgraceful prize. 

The morninj^ finds the selt-sc(|uestrred man 
Fresh for his task, intend wiiat tusk he may. 
VVlulher inclement seasons recommend 
His warm hut shiiple home, where he enjoys, 
With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, 
Swict converse, sippin^ calm the fragrant lymph 
\\ hicli neatly she prepares; then to his book 
Well chosen, and not sullenly perused 
In selfish silence, hut imparted ott. 
As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear, 
Or turn to nourishment, digested well. 
Or if the ganlen, with its many cares. 
All well repaid, demand him, he attends 
The welcome call, conscious how much the hand 
Of lubbard Labor needs his watchful eye, 
Oft loiterin;,' lazily, if not o'erseen, 
Or misapplyinn; his unskilful strength. 
Nor docs he govern only or direct. 
Hut much performs himself No works, indeed. 
That ask robust, lough sinews, bred to toil, 
Servile employ; hut such as may amuse, 
Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. 
Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees, 
That meet, no barren interval between. 
With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford; 
Which, save himself who trains them, none can 

feel. 
These therefore are his own peculiar charge ; 
No meaner hand may discipline th^ shoots, 
None but his steel approach them. What is weak, 
Distemper'd, or has lost prolific powers, 
Impair'd by age, his unrelenting hand 
Dooms to the knife : nor does he spare the soft 
Anil succulent, that feeds its giant growth, 
But barren, at the expense of neighboring twigs 
Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick 
With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left 
That may disgrace his art, or disappoint 
Large expectation, he disposes neat 
At measured distances, that air and sun, 
Admitted freely, may alTord their aid. 
And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. 
Hence Sunnner has her riclies, ,\utumn hence, 
And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand 
With blushing t'ruils, and plenty not his own.* 
Fiiir recompense of labor well bestow'd, 
And wise precaution ; which a clime so rude 
Makes needful still, whose .Spring is but thcchild 
Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods 
Discovering much the temper of her sire. 
For oi^. as if in her the stream of mild 
Maternal nature had reversed its course, 
She brings her infants forth witli many smiles; 
Hut. once delivered, kills thiMu with a frown. 
He therefore, timely warn'd. himself supplies 
Her want of care, screening and keepmg warm 
The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may 

sweep 
His garlands from the houghs. Again, as oft 
As the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild, 
The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam, 
And spreads his hopes belore the blaze of day. 

To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, 
So grateful to tkc palate, and when rare 

* Miraturque novos fruclus ct non s»m poma.— f^irg. 



So coveted, else base and disesteem'd — 
Food for the vulgar merely — is an art 
That toiling ages have hut just matured, 
And at this moment unassay'd in song, [since, 
Vet gnats have had, and frogs and mice, long 
Their eulogy ; those sang the Mantuan bard ; 
And these tne Grecian, in ennobling strains; 
And in thy numbers, Phillips, sliines tor aye, 
The solitary shilling. Pardon then, 
Ve sage dispensers of poetic fame, 
The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers, 
Presuming an attemj^t not less sublime. 
Pant for tlic praise of dressing to the taste 
Of critic appetite no sordid fare, 
A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. 
The stable yields a stercoraceous heap. 
Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, 
And potent to resist the t'reezing blast : 
For. ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf 
Deciduous, when now November dark 
Checks vegetation in the torpid plant 
Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. 
Warily therefore, and with prudent heed, 
He seeks a favor 'd snot; that where he builds 
The agglomerated pile his frame may front 
The sun's meridian disk, and at the back 
Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge 
Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread 
Dry fern or litter'd hay. that may imbibe 
The ascending damps ; then leisurely impose, 
And lightly, shaking it with agile hand 
From the full fork, the saturated straw. 
What longest binds the closest forms secure 
The shapely side, that as it rises takes, 
By just degrees, an overhanging breadth, 
sheltering the base with its projected eaves ; 
The uplitlcd frame, compact at every joint, 
And overlaid with clear translucent glass, 
He settles next upon the sloping mount, 
Whose sharp declivity shoots ot^" secure 
From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. 
He shuts it close, and the first labor ends. 
Thrice must the voluble and restless earth 
Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, 
Slow gathering in the nudst, through the square 

mass 
Diffused, attain the surface: when, behold! 
A pestilent amd most corrosive steam, 
LiKe a gross fog Hcrotian, rising fast, 
And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, 
Asks egress; which obtain'd, the overcharged 
And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, 
In volumes wheeling slow, the vapor dank; 
And. i)urified. rejoices to have lost 
Its foul inhabitant. Hut to assuage 
The impatient fervor, which it first conceives 
Within its recking bosom, threatening death 
To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. 
Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft 
The way to glory by miscarriage foul, 
Must prompt him, and admonisli how to catch 
The auspicious moment, when the tcmper'd heat, 
Friendly to vital motion, may afford 
Sotl fomentation, and invite the seed. 
The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, 
And glos.'^y, he commits to pot-s of size 
Diminutive, well fill'd with well prepared 
And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long. 
And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds. 
These on the warm and genial eartli, that hides 
The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, 
He places lightly, and, as time subdues 



580 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The rage of fennentation, plunges deep 
In the soft medium, tiii they stand immersed. 
Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick, 
And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first 
Pale, wan, and hvid; but assuming soon, i 

If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air, ( 

Strain 'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. '. 
Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, j 
Cautious he pinches from the second staik j 

A pimple, that portends a future sprout, ! 

And interdicts its growth. Thence straight 
succeed j 

The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish ; 
Prolific all, and harbingers of more. i 

The crowded roots demand enlargement now, i 
And transplantation in an ampler space. i 

Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply i 
Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers-, I 
Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. I 

These have their sexPs ; and when summer 
The bee transports the fertilizing meal [shines, i 
From flower to flower, and e'en the breathing air 
Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. j 

Not so when winter scowls. Assistant Art I 

Then acts in Nature's oflice, brings to pass i 

The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. I 

Grudge not, ye rich, (since Luxury must have 1 
His dainties, and the World's more numerous '■ 
Lives by contriving dclicates for you,) [half , 

Grudge not the cost. Ye httle know the cares, 
The vigilance, the labor, and the skill, 
That day and night are exercised, and hang 
Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, 
That ye may garnish your profuse regales 
With summer fruits brought tbrth by wintry suns. 
Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart 
The process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and 
steam, [ing flies. 

Moisture, and drought, mice, worms, and swarm- 
Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work 
Dire disappointment, that admits no cure, 
And which no care can obviate. It were long. 
Too long, to tell the expedients and the shifts 
Which he that fights a season so severe 
Devises, while he guards his tender trust ; 
And oft at last in vain. The learn'd and wise 
Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song 
Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit 
Of too much labor, worthless when produced. 

Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. 
Unconscious of a less propitious clime, 
There blooms exotic beauty, wanu and snug, 
While the winds whistle, and the snows descend. 
The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf 
Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast 
Of Portuiral and western India there, 
The ruddier orange, and the paler lime. 
Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, 
Ana seem to smile at what they need not fear. 
The amomum there with interminghng flowers 
And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts 
Her crmison honors; and the spangled beau, 
Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long. 
All plants, of every leaf that can endure [bite, 
The winter's frown, if screened from his shrewd 
Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, 
Levantine regions these ; the Azores send 
Their jessamine, her jessamine remote 
Caff"raria: foreigners from many lands, 
They form one social shade, as if convened 
By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. 
Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass 



But by a master's hand, disposing well 
The gay diversities of leaf and flower, 
Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, 
And dress the regular yet various scene. 
Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van 
The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still 
Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. 
So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, 
A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ; 
And so, wliile Garrick, as renown'd as he, 
The sons of Albion ; fearing each to lose 
Some note of Nature's music from his Hps, 
And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen 
In every flash of his tar beaming eye. 
Nor taste alone and well contrived display 
Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace 
Of their complete eflect. Much yet remains 
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind, 
And more laborious; cares on which depends 
Their vigor, injured soon, not soon restored. 
The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd 
Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, 
And disappoints the roots; the slender roots 
Close interwoven, where they meet the vase. 
Must smooth be shorn away ; the sapless branch 
Must fly before the knife; "the wither'd leaf 
Must be detach'd, and where it strews the floor 
Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else 
Contagion, and disseminating death. 
Discharge but these kind offices (and who 
Would spare, that loves them, office.s like these?) 
Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased, 
The scent regaled, each odoriterous leaf, 
Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad 
Its gratitude^ and thanks him with its sweets. 

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, 
All healthful, are the employs of rural life. 
Reiterated as the wheel of time 
Runs round ; still ending and beginning still. 
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll. 
That softly swell'd and gaily dress'd appears 
A flowery island, from the dark green lawn 
Emerging, must be deem'd a labor due 
To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. 
Here also grateful mixture of well match'd 
And sorted hues, (each giving each relief. 
And by contrasted beauty shining more.) 
Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous 

spade, 
May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home ; 
But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, 
And most attractive, is the fair result 
Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. 
Without it all is gothic as the scene 
To which the insipid citizen resorts 
Near yonder heatn; where Industry misspent. 
But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, 
Has made a heaven on earth ; with suns and 

moons [cumber'd soU, 

Of close ramm'd stones has charged the en- 
And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. 
He therefore, who would see his flowers disposed 
Sightly and in just order, ere he gives 
The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds. 
Forecasts the future whole; that when the 

scene 
Shall break into its preconceived display, 
Each for itself, and all as with one voice 
Conspiring, may attest his bright design. 
Nor even then, dismissing as pertbrra a 
His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. 
Few self-supported flowers endure the wind 



THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 



581 



Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid 

Ot' the smooth shaven prop, and, neatly tied, 

Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, 

For interest sake, the living to the dead. 

Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused 

And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair, 

Like virtue, thriving most where little seen ; 

Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbor shrub 

With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, 

Else unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon 

.And fragrant chaplet, recomprnsijig well [lend. 

The strength they borrow with the grace they 

All hate the rank society of weeds, 

Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust 

The impovcrish'd earth ; an overbearing race, 

That, like the multitude made laction-mad. 

Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. 

O blest seclusion from a jarring world. 
Which he, thus occupied, enjoys ! Retreat 
Cannot indeed to guilty man restore 
Lost innocence, or cancel follies past ; 
But it has peace, and much secures the mind 
Krom all assaults of evil ; proving still 
A faithful barrier, not o'erleap'd with ease 
By vicious Custom, raging uncontroll'd 
Abroad, .and desolating public life. 
When fierce temptation, seconded within 
By traitor .\ppetite, and arm'd with darts 
Tcmpcr'il in Hell, invades the throbI)ing breast. 
To couibat may be glorious, and success 
Perhaps may crown us ; but to fly is safe. 
Had I the choice of sublunary good. 
What could I wish, that I possess not here ■? 
Health, leisure, means to uuprove it, friendship, 

peace. 
No loose or wanton, though a wandering, muse. 
And constant occupation without care. 
Thus blest I draw a picture of that bliss; 
Hopeless indeed, that dissipated minds, 
.And profligate abusers of a world 
Created fair so much in vain for them. 
Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, 
.\llured by my reiwrt; but sure no less 
That sclf-condemn'd they must neglect the prize, 
.\nil what they will not taste must yet approve. 
What we admire we praise ; and, when we praise. 
Advance it into notice, that, its worth 
.Acknowledged, others may admire it too. 
I therefore recommend, though at the risk 
Of popular diiigust, yet boldly still. 
The cause of piety and sacred truth, 
.And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd 
Should best secure them anil promote them most. 
Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive 
Forsaken, or through folly n<$, cnioy'd. 
Pure is the nymph, though hberal of her smiles, 
And chaste, though uncondned, whom I extol. 
Not as the prince in .Slmsban. when he call'd. 
Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth. 
To grace the full pavilion. His design 
Was but to boast nis own pccuhar good. 
Which all might view with envy, none partake. 
My charnier is not mine alone; my sweets, 
,Anil she that sweetens all my bitters too. 
Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form 
And lineaments divine I trace a hand 
That errs not, and finds raptures still renew d. 
Is free to all men — universal prize. 
Strange that so fair a creature should yet want 
.Admirers, and be destined to divide 
With meaner objects e'en the few she finds ! 
Strippd of her ornaments, her leaves, and flowers, 



She loses all her influence. Cities then 
.Attract us, and neglected nature pines, 
Abandon d, as unworthy of our love. 
But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumcd 
By roses ; and clear suns, though scarcely felt ; 
.And groves, if unharmonious, yet secure 
From clamor, and whose very silence charms ; 
To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse 
That metropolitan volcanoes make, [long ; 

Whose .Stygian throats breatlie darkness all day 
.And to the stir of Couuuerce, driving slow, 
.And thundering loud with his ten thousand 

wheels 1 
They would be, were not madness in the head, 
.And folly in the heart ; were England now 
What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, 
.And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell 
To all the virtues of those better days, 
And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once 
Knew their own masters ; and laborious hinds. 
Who had survived the father, serv'd the son. 
Now the legitimate and rightful lord 
Is but a transient guest, newly arrived, 
.And soon to be supplanted. He that saw 
His patrimonial timber cast its leaf 
Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price 
To somi: shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. 
Estates are landscapes gazed upon awnile, 
Then advertised, and auctioneer'd away. 
The country starves, and they that feed the o'cr- 

charged 
And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, 
By a just judgment strip tind starve themselves. 
The wings that wall our riches out of sight. 
Grow on the gamester's elbows ; and the alert 
And nimble motion of those restless joints, 
That never tire, soon fiins them all away. 
Improvement too, the idol of the age. 
Is ttd with many a victun. Lo, he comes ! 
The omnipotent magician, Brown appears ! 
Down falls the venerable pile, the abode 
Of our Ibrcfathers — a grave whisker'd race. 
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, 
But in a distant spot ; where more exposed 
It may enjoy the advantage of the north, 
.And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd 
Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. 
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn; 
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise ; 
.And streams, as if created for his use, 
Pursue the track of his directing wand, 
.Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, 
Now nmrmuring soil, now roaring in cascades — 
E'en as he bids ! The enraptured owner smiles. 
'Tis finish'd, and yet finish'd as it seems. 
Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, 
.A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. 
Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth. 
He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplish'd 

plan, 
That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day 
I.abor'd, anil many a night pursued in dreams. 
Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the 
He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy! [heaven 
And now perhaps the glorious hour is come 
When, having no stake left, no pledge to endear 
Her interests, or that gives Iter sacred cause 
.A moment's operation on his love. 
He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal, 
To serve his country. Jlinisterial grace 
Deals him out money from the public chest; 
Or, if that mine be shut, some private parse 



582 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Supplies his need with a usurious loan, 

To be refunded duly, when his vote 

Well managed shall have earn'd its worthy price. 

O innocent, compared with arts like these, 

Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball 

Sent through the traveller's temples! He that 

finds 
One drop of Heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, 
Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content, 
So he may wrap himself in honest rags 
At his last gasp ; but could not for a \voM 
Fish up his dirty and dependent bread 
From pools and ditches of the commonwealth. 
Sordid and sickening at his own success. 

Ambition, avarice, penury incurr'd 
By endless riot, vanity, the lust 
Of pleasure and variety, despatch. 
As duly as the swallows disappear, [town. 

The world of wandering knights and squires to 
London engulfs them all ! The shark is there, 
And the shark's prey ; the spendthrift, and the 

leech 
That sucks him ; there the sycophant, and he 
Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bows. 
Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail 
And groat per diem, if his patron frown. 
The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp 
Were character'd on every statesman's door, 
"Batter'd and bankrupt fortunes mended 

HERE." 

These are the charms that sully and eclipse 
The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe 
That lean hard-handed Poverty inflicts. 
The hope of better things, the chance to win. 
The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused. 
That at the sound of winter's hoary wine 
Unpeople all our counties of such herds 
Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose. 
And wanton vagrants as make London, vast 
And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. 

O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, 
Chequer'd with all complexions of mankmd, 
.4nd spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see 
Much that I love, and more that I admire, 
And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair, 
That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I can laugh. 
And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, 
Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee ! 
Ten righteous would have saved a city once. 
And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — 
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, 
And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour. 
Than Sodom in her day had power to be. 
For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain. 



BOOK IV. 

THE WINTER EVENING. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

The post comes in— The newspaper read — The world 
contemplated at a distance — Address to winter — The 
rural amusements of a winter eveninc; compared with 
the fashionable ones— Address to evening — A brown 
study — Fall of snow in the evenint;; — The wjigoner— A 
poor family piece — The rural thief— Public houses— 
The multitude of them censured — The farmer's daugh- 
ter: what she was; what she is— The simplicity of 
country manners almost lost— Causes of the change — 
Desertion of the coimtry by the rich — Net;;lect of magis- 



trates—The militia principally in fault— The new re- 
cruit and his transfui-raation- Redection on bodies cor- 
porat*;— The love of rural objects natural to all, and 
never to be totally extinguished. 

Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridcfe, 
That with its wearisome but needful length 
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bricrht ; — 
He comes, the herald of a noisy world, [locks; 
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen 
News from all nations lumbering at his back. 
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, 
Vet, careless what he brings, his one concern 
Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; 
And, having dropp'd the expected bag. pass on. 
He whistles as he goes, hght-hearted wretch, 
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief 
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; 
To him indiflerent whether grief or joy. 
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
With tears, that trickled down the writers' ctieeks 
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, 
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
But the important budget ! usher'd in 
With such heart-slmking music who can say 
What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? 
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, 
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave"? 
Is India free "? and does she wear her plumed 
And jeweli'd turban with a smile of peace, 
Or do we grind her still 1 The grand debate, 
The popular harangue, the tart reply, 
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; 
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free. 
And give them voice and utterance once again. 
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And. while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups. 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
Not such his evening, who with shining face 
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed 
And bored with elbow points through both his 

sides, 
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
Or placemen, all tranquilhty and smiles. 
This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds 
Inquisitive attention, while I read. 
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, 
Though eloquent themselves, yet tear to break; 
What is it but a map of busy life. 
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns'? 
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge 
That tempts Ambition. On the summit see 
The seals of office glitter in his eyes; [heels, 
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his 
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, 
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, 
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. 
Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 
Meanders, lubricate the course they take ; 
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved 
To engross a moment's notice ; and yet begs, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 



583 



Begs n propitious car for his poor thoughts, 
However trivial all that he eonecivcs. 
Sweet Imshfiiljiess ! it claims at least this praise ; 
The dearth of infomialion anil good sense, 
That it foretells us, always comes to pass. 
Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; 
There forests of no meaning spread the page. 
In which all comjirchension wanders lost; 
While fields <if pleasantrj- amuse us there 
With merrv descants on a nation's woes. 
The rest appears a wilderness of strange 
Hut gay confusion; roses for the cheeks 
And lilies for the brows of faded age, 
Teeth ibr the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 
Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their 
Ncctarcous essences. Olympian dews, [sweets, 
Sermons, ami city feasts, and favorite airs, 
/Ethereal journeys, submarine e.xploits, 
And Katerfelto, with his hair on end 
At his own wonders, wondering tor his bread. 

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, 
To peep at such a world ; to see the stir 
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; 
To hear the roar she semis through all her gates 
At a safe distance, where the dying sound 
Falls a sot\ nmrmur on the uninjured ear. 
Thus sitting, ami surveying thus at ease 
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 
To some secure and more than mortal height. 
That liberates and exempts me from them all. 
It turns submitted to my view, turns round 
With all its generations : I behold 
The tumult and am still. The sound of war 
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; 
Grieves, hut alarms me not, I mourn the pride 
And avarice that make man a wolf to man; 
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats 
By which he speaks the language of his heart, 
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. 
He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
From flower to flower, so he from land to land ; 
The manners, customs, policy of all 
Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; 
He sucks intelligence in even,- clime. 
And spreads the honey of his deep research 
At his return — a rich repa.st lor me. 
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. 
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes 
Discover countries, with a kindred heart 
SulVi'r his woes, and share in his escapes; 
While fancy, like the finger of a clock. 
Runs the great circuit and is still at home. 

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd. 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other 

snows 
Than tho-sc of ajje, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A slidinif car, indebted to no wheels. 
But urgd by storms along its slippery way, 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 
And hurrying him, impatient of his staj-, 
Down to the ro,<y west; hut kindly still 
Compensating his loss v\'ith added hours 
Of social converse aii<l instructive ease. 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought. 
Not less dispersed by daylight and iu cares. 



I crown thee king of intimate delights. 

Fireside enjoyments, homehorn hapjrtness, 

And all the comforts that the lowly roof 

Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 

Of long uninterrupted evening know. 

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates ; 

No powder'd pert proficient in the art 

Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors 

Till the street rings ; no stationary steeds 

Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the 

sound, 
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
But here the needle plies it,s busy task. 
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
^Vrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprifrs, 
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, 
Follow the nimble finger of the lair; 
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that hlow 
With most success when all besides decay. 
The poet's or historian's page by one 
Made vocal for the amusement of the rest ; 
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes 

out; 
And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct, 
And in the charming strife triumphant still. 
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
On f'emale industry : the threaded steel 
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 
The volume closed, the customary rites 
Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal. 
Such as the mistress of the world once found 
Delicious, when her patriots of high note. 
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors. 
And under an old oak's domestic shade, 
Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg! 
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, 
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play 
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : 
Nor do we madly, like an impious world, 
Who deem religion frenzy, ami the God 
That made them an intruder on their joys, 
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise 
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, 
Exciting oft our gratitude and love. 
While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand. 
That calls the past to our exact review. 
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, 
The disappointed foe, deliverance found 
Unlook'd tor, life preserveil and peace restored, 
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
O evenings worthy of the gods ! exchiim'd 
The Sabine bard. O evenings. I reply. 
More to be prized and coveted than yours. 
As more illumined, and with nobler truths, 
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. 

Is Winter hideous in a garb like this 1 
Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps. 
The pent-up hreath of an unsavory thron". 
To thaw him into feeling ; or the smart 
And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits 
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile 1 
The selfcomplacent actor, when he views 
(Stealing a .sidelong glance at a full house) 
■The slope of faces from the floor to the roof 
(As if one master sprin" controll'd them all,) 
Relax'd into a universal grin, 
.Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy 
Half so refined or so sincere as ours. 
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks 
That idleness has ever yet contrived 



684 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, 
To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. 
Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
Unsoil'd and swill, and of a silken sound ; 
But the World's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
Theu's, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged 
With motly plumes; and, where the peacock 

shows 
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red 
With spots quadrangular of diamond form, 
Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife. 
And spades, the emblem' of untimely graves. 
What should be, and what was an hour-glass 

once, 
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace 
Well does the work of his destructive scythe. 
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion 

bUnds 
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; 
Whose only happy are their wasted hours. 
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore 
The backstring and the bib, assume the dress 
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school 
Of card-devoted Time, and, night by night 
Placed at some vacant corner of the board. 
Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. 
But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, 
Where shall I find an end, or liow proceed 1 
As he that travels far oft turns aside. 
To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower. 
Which seen delights him not; then, coming 

home. 
Describes and prints it, that the world may know 
How fur he went for what was nothing worth ; 
So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread, 
With colors mix'd for a far different use. 
Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing 
That Fancy finds in her excursive flights. 

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; 
Return, sweet Evening, and continue long ! 
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west. 
With matron step slow moving, while the Night 
Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand em- 
In letting tail the curtain of repose [ploy'd 

On bird and beast, the other charged for man 
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 
Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid, 
Like homely featured Niwht, of clustering gems; 
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow. 
Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high 
With ostentatious pageantry, but set 
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, 
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. 
Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, 
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift : 
And, whether I devote thy gentle hours 
To books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; 
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels. 
When they command whom man was born to 

please ; 
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 

Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze 
With fights, by clear reflection multiplied 
From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, 
GoUath, might have seen his giant bulk 
Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, 
My pleasures too begin. But me prhaps 
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile 
With faint illmnination, that uplifts 
The shadows to the ceifing, there by fits 



Dancin" uncouthly to the quivering flame. 

Not undelightful is an hour to me 

So spent in parlor twilight : such a gloom 

Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind. 

The mind contemplative, with some new theme 

Pregnant, or indisposed aUke to all. [powers. 

Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial 

That never felt a stupor, know no pause. 

Nor need one ; I am conscious, and confess, 

Fearless, a soul that does not always think. 

Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild 

Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, 

Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd 

In the red cinders, while with ponng eye 

I gazed, myself creating what I saw. 

Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch'd 

The sooty films that play upon the bars. 

Pendulous and foreboding, in the view 

Of superstition, prophesying still, [preach. 

Though still deceived, some stranger's near ap- 

'Tis thus the understanding takes repose 

In indolent vacuity of thought. 

And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face 

Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask 

Of deep deliberation, as the man 

Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. 

Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour 

At evening, till at length the freezing blast, 

That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home 

The recollected powers; and, snapping short 

The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves 

Her brittle toils, restores me to myself 

How calm is my recess ; and how the frost. 

Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear 

The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within ! 

I saw the woods and fields at close of day 

A variegated show ; the meadows green. 

Though faded ; and the lands, where lately waved, 

The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 

Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 

With verdure not unprofitable, grazed 

By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 

His favorite herb ; while all the leafless groves, 

That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue. 

Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. 

To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 

Which even now, though silently perform d, 

.\nd slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 

Of universal nature undergoes. 

Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes 

Descending, and with never ceasing lapse, 

Softly alighting upon all below, 

.Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 

Gladly the thickening mantle ; and the green 

And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, 

Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. 

In such a world, so thorny, and where none 
Finds happiness unblighted ; or, if found. 
Without some thistly sorrow at its side ; 
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
Against the law of love, to measure lots 
With less distinguished than ourselves ; that thus 
We may with patience bear our moderate ills, 
And sympathize with others suffering more. 
Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks 
In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. 
The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
By congregated loads, adhering close 
To the clogg'd wheels ; and in its sluggish pace 
Noislcss appears a moving hill of snow. 
The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 



585 



While every breath, by respiration strong 
Forced downward, is consolidated soon 
Upon their juttinj; chests. He, tbnn'd to bear 
Tne peitinii brunt ol" the tempestuous night, 
With hall'-siiut eyes, and pucker'd checks, and 

teeth 
Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 
One hand secures his hat, save when with both 
He brandishes hLs pliant Icnglh of whip. 
Resounding oil. ami never heard in vain. 
O happy ; and. in my account, denied 
That sensibihty of pain with which 
Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! 
Thv frame, roltust and hardy, feels indeed 
The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. 
The learned finger never need explore 
Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, 
That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone 
Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 
Thy days roll on exempt from household care ; 
Thy wagon is thy vviti?. and tlie poor beasts, 
That drag the dull companion to and fro, 
Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 
Ah. treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st, 
Yet show that thou hast mercy ! which the great. 
With needless hurry whirl'd tVom place to place, 
Humane as they would seem, not always show. 

Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, 
Such claim compassion in a night like this. 
And have a friend in everj' feelinw heart. 
Wann'd, while it lasts, by labor all ilay long 
They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
III clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. 
The frugal housewitc trembles when she lights 
Her scant)' stock of brushwood blazing clear, 
But djnng soon, like all terrestrial joys. 
The few small embers loll she nurses well ; 
.\nd while her infant race, with outspread hands, 
.\nd crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks, 
Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd, 
The man feels least, as more inured than she 
To winter, and the current in his veins 
More briskly moved by his severer toil ; 
Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. 
The taper soon extinguishd. which I saw 
Dangled along at the cold finger's end 
Just when the day declined ; and the brown loaf 
Lodged on the shelf half eaten without sauce 
Of savory cheese, or butler, costlier still ; 
Sleep seems their only reiuge : tor. alas. 
Where penury is felt the thought is chained . 
And swert colloquial pleasures are but few : 
With all this thrill they thrive not. All the c ./e, 
Ingenious Parsimony takes, but just 
.•Savi s the small inventory, bed, and .stool. 
Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. 
They live, and five %vithout extorted alms 
From grudging hands ; but other boast have none 
To soothe their honest pritle, that scorns to beg, 
Nor comtbrt else, but in their mutual love. 
I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair. 
For ye are worthy ; choosing rather far 
A dry but independent crust hard earn'd. 
And eaten with a sigh, than to endure 
The rugged frowns and insolent rebufls 
Of knaves in oHice, partial in the work 
Of distribution ; hberal of their aid 
To clamorous importunity in rags. 
But olUimes deaf to suppliants, who would blush 
To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, 
Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth: 
These ask with painful shyness, and, refused 



Because deserving, silently retire ! 
But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 
Shall much befriend you. Time shall give in- 
crease ; 
.Vnd all your numerous progeny, well train'd. 
But helpless, in few years shall" find their hands. 
And labor too. Meanwhile ye shall not want 
What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare. 
Nor what a weallhi. r than ourselves may send. 
I mean the man who, when the distant poor 
Need help, denies them nothing hut his name. 

But poverty with most, who whimper forth 
Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe j 
The effect of laziness or sottish waste. 
Now TOes the nightly thief prowling abroad 
For plunder; much'solicitous how best 
He may compensate for a day of sloth 
By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. 
Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge, 
Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakes 
Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength, 
Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame 
To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, 
An ass's burden, and, when laden most 
And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away, 
Nor docs the boarded hovel better nuard 
The well-stack'd pile of riven logs and roots 
From his pernicious force. Nor "will he leave 
Unwrench'd the door, however well secured 
Where Chanticleer aaiidst his harem sleeps ' 
In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the 

perch. 
He gives the princely lurd, with all his wives, 
To his voracious bag, strugglino- in vain, 
And loudly wondering at the sudden change, 
Nor this to feed Jis own. 'Twere some excuse, 
Did pity of their sufferings warp aside 
His principle, and tempt him into sin 
For their support, so destitute. But they 
Neglected pine at home ; themselves, as more 
Exposed than others, with less scruple made 
His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. 
Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst 
Of ruinous ebriety that prompts 
His every action, and imbrutes the man. 
O lor a law to noose the villain's neck 
Who starves his own ; who persecutes the blood 
He rave them in his children's veins, and hates 
And wrongs the woman he has sw.irn to love ! 

Pass where we may, through city or through 
■Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, [town, 
Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace 
Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whill" 
Of stale debauch, forth issuing from the styes 
That law has licensed, as makes temperance 

reel. 
There sit, involved and lost in curUng clouds 
Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor. 
The lackey, and the groom : the crallsman there 
Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil ; 
Smith, cobbler, joiner, he th,at plies, the shears. 
And he that kneads the dough ; all loud ahke. 
All learned, and all drunk ! the fiddle screams 
Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and waileil 
Its wasted tones and harmony unheanl : [she. 
Fierce tlie ilispute, whate'er the theme; while 
Fell Discord, arbitress of such deb.ite, 
Perch d on the sign-post, holds with even hand 
Her undcJisive scales. In this she lays 
A weight of ignorance ; in that, of pride ; 
And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. 
Dire is the freijuent curse, and its twin sound, 



686 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The cheek distending oath, not to be praised 

As ornamental, musical, poUte, 

Like those which modern senators employ, 

Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame ! 

Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, 

Once simple, are initiated in arts, 

Which some may practise with politer grace, 

But none with readier skill ! — 'tis here they learn 

The road that leads from competence and peace 

To indigence and rapine; till at last 

Society, grown weary of the load, 

Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. 

But censure profits little : vain the attempt 

To advertise in verse a public pest, 

That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds 

His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. 

The excise is fatten'd with the rich result 

Of all this riot: and ten thousand casks, 

Forever dribbfintj out their base contents, 

Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state, 

Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. 

Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! 

Gloriously drunk, obey the important call ! 

Her cause demands the assistance of your 

throats ; — 
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 

Would I had fall'n upon those happier days. 
That poets celebrate; those golden times, 
And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings, 
And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. [hearts 
Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had 
That felt their virtues : Innocence, it seems, 
From courts dismissal, found shelter in the 
The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd [groves ; 
Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing) 
Then were not all efl'aced : then speech profane 
And manners profiigate were rarely found, 
Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. 
Vain wish ! those days were never: airy dreams 
Sat for the picture : and the poet's hand, 
Imparling substance to an empty shade, 
Imposed a gay delirium for a trutli. 
Grant it: — 1 still must envy them an age 
That favor'd such a dream; in days like these 
Impossible, when Virtue is so scarce. 
That to suppose a scene where she presides. 
Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief 
No: we are polish'd now ! The rural lass. 
Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, 
Her artless manners, and her neat attire, 
So dignified, that she was hardly less 
Than the fair shepherdess of old romance. 
Is seen no more. The character is lost! 
Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, 
And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised. 
And magnified beyond all human size, 
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand 
For more than half the tresses it sustains; 
Her elbows rufiU-d. and her tottering form 
III propp'd upon French heels ; she might be 

deem'd 
(But that the basket danghng on her arm 
Interprets her more truly) of a rank 
Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs. 
Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, 
No longer blushing for her awkward load, 
Her train and her umbrella all her care ! 

The town has tinged the country : and the stain 
Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, 
The worse tor what it soils. The fashion runs 
Down into scenes still rural ; but. alas ! 
Scenes rarely graced with lairal manners now ! 



Time was when in the pastoral retreat 
The ungarded door was safe ; men did not watch 
To invade another's right, or guard their own. 
Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscarcd 
By drunken bowlings; and the chilling tale 
Of midnight murder was a wonder heard 
With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes, 
But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, 
And slumbers unalarm'd. Now, ere you sleep, 
See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care. 
And drop the night-bolt ; — rutfians are abroad ; 
And the first 'larura of the cock's shrill throat 
May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear 
To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. 
E'en daylight has its dangers; and the walk 
Through pathless wastes and woods, uncon- 
scious once 
Of other tenants than melodious birds. 
Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. 
Lamented change ! to which full many a cause 
Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. 
The course of human things from good to ill, 
From ill to worse, is fatal, never fads. 
Increase of power begets increase of wealth; 
Wealth luxury, and luxury excess: 
Excess, the scrofulous ami itchy plague, 
That seizes first the opulent, descentls 
To the next rank contagious, and in time 
Taints downward all the graduated scale 
Of order, from the chariot to the plough. 
The rich, and they that have an arm to check 
The license of the lowest in deijree, 
Desert their office ; and themselves, intent 
On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus 
To all the violence of lawless hands 
Resign the scenes their presence might protect. 
Authority herself not seldom sleeps, 
Though resident, and witness of the wrong. 
The plump cop-vivial parson often bears 
The magisterial sword in vain, and lays 
His reverence and his worship both to rest 
On the same cushion of habitual sloth. 
Perhaps timidity restrains his arm ; 
When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, 
Himself enslaved by terror of the band, 
The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind. 
Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, 
He too may have his vice, and somelunes prove 
Less dainty than becomes his grave outside 
In larrative concerns. Examine well 
tfist ?ilk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean — 
B>scciere and there an ugly smutch appears. 
FotJ! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'd 
Corruption ! whoso seeks an audit here 
Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, 
Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. 
But faster far, and more than all the rest, 
A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark 
Of public virtue, ever wish'd removed,* 
Works the deplored and mischievous effect. 
'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd 
The heart of merit in the meaner class. 
Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage 
Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, 
Seem most at variance with all moral good. 
And incompatible with serious thought. 
The clown, the child of nature, without guile, 
Blest with an infant's ignorance of all 
But his own simple pleasures; now and then 
A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair; 
Is balloted, and trembles at the news : 
Sheepish he dofls his hat, and mumbhng swears 



A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please. 
To ilii he knows not what. The task perform'd, 
That ijislant he lieeomes tlie Serjeant's care, 
His pupil, unil his torment, and liis jest. 
His awkwani jjait, his introverted toes. 
Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks. 
Procure liiiu many a curse. By slow degrees. 
Unapt to learn, anil formVI of stubborn stuff. 
He yet by slow dei,jroes i)Uts off hitrisell', 
Grows conscious of a change, and Ukes it well ; 
He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; 
He steps right onward, martial in his air, 
His tbrni, ajid movement; is as smart above 
As meal and larded locks can make him ; wears 
His hat, or his plunicd helmet, with a grace ; 
And, his three years of herosliip expired. 
Returns indignant to the slighted plough. 
He hates the field, in which no life or drum 
Attends him; drives his cattle to a march ; 
And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 
'Twere well if his e.\terior change were all — 
But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost 
His ignorance and harmless manners too. 
To swear, to game, to drink ; to show at home, 
By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach, 
The great proficiency he made abroad ; 
To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends; 
To break some maiden's and his mother's heart ; 
To be a pest where he was useful once ; 
Are his sole aim, and all his glory now. 

Man in society is like a flower 
Blown in its native bed : 'tis there alone 
His facuhies. expanded in full bloom, 
Shine out ; there only reach their proper use. 
But man, associated and leagued with man 
By regal warrant, or self-join'd by liond 
For interest sake, or swarming into clans 
Beneath one head lor purposes of war. 
Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound 
Anil bundled close to iill some crowded vase, 
Failes rapidly, and, by compression marr'd. 
Contracts delilement not to be endured. 
Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues ; 
And burghers, mtin iauuaculate perhaps 
In ail their private functions, once combined, 
Become a loathsome body, only fit 
For dissolution, hurtful to the main. 
Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin 
Against the charities of domestic life, 
Incorporated, seem at once to lose 
Their nature; and, disclaiming all regard 
For mercy and the common rights o? man. 
Build factories with blood, conducting trade 
At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe 
Of innocent commercial Justice red. 
Hence too the field of glory, as the world 
Misdeems it, dazzles by its bright array. 
With all its majesty of thundering pomp, 
Enchanting music and inunortal wreaths, 
Is but a sc-hool where thoughtlessness is taught 
On principle, where foppery atones 
For folly, gallantry for every vice. 

But slighted as it is, and by the great 
Abandon'd. and, which still 1 more regret, 
Intected with the manners and tile modes 
It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
I never Iramed a wish, or form'd a plan, 
That Hatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free. 
My very dreams were rural ; rural too 



The firstborn of my youthful muse, 
Sportive, and jingling her poetic liells 
Ere yet her car was mistress of their powers. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 
Fatigued me, never weary of tile pipe 
Ot" Tityrus, assembling, as he sang. 
The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. 
Then Blilton had indeed a poet's charms : 
New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd 
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
To speak its exeelhjncc. I danced tor joy. 
I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an uge 
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 
Engaged my wonder; and admiring still, 
And still admiring, with regret supposed 
The joy half lost, because not sooner found. 
There too, enamour'd of the life I loved, 
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
Determined, and possessing it at last, 
With transports, such as favor'd lovers feel, 
I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known 
Ingenious Cowley ! and though now rcclauii'd 
By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 
Entangled in the cobwelts of the schools. 
I still revere thee, courtly though retired ; 
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent 

bowers. 
Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends 
For a lost world in solitude and verse. 
'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works 
Is an ingredient in the compound man. 
Infused at the creation of the kind. 
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout 
Discriminated each from each, by strokes 
And touches of his hand, with so much art 
Diversified, that two were never Ibund 
Twins at all points — yef this obtains in all. 
That all discern a beauty in his works, [form'd 
And all can taste them ; minds that have been 
And tutor'd, with a relish more exact. 
But none without some relish, none unmoved. 
It is a ilanie that dies net even there 
Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, 
Nor habits of luxurious city life, 
Whatever else they smother of true worth 
In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 
The villas with which London stanils begirt 
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads 
Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air. 
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer 
The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! 
E'en in the stifling bosom of the town 
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms 
That soothe the ricli ])ossessor ; much consoled. 
That here and there some sprigs of mournful 

mint. 
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wall 
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 
That nature lives ; that sight-refreshing green 
Is still the livery she delights to wear, 
Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. 
What are the casements lined with creeping 
The prouder sashes fronted with a range [herbs. 
Of orange, myrtle, or the. Iragrant wcf-d, [proot's 
The Frenchman's darling?* are they not all 
That man, irnmure<l in cities, slid retains 
His inborn inextinguishable thirst 
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 

* Mignonette. 



588 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



By supplemental shifts, the best he may 1 
The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, 
And they that never pass their briclc-wall bounds, 
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air, 
Yet feel the burning instinct : over head 
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick. 
And water'd duly. There tne pitcher stands, 
A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there ; 
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 
The country, with what ardor he contrives 
A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease. 
And contemplation, heart-consohng joys. 
And harmlesss pleasures, in the throng'd abode 
Of multitudes unknown ! hail, rural life! 
Address himself who will to the pursuit 
Of honors, or emolument, or fame ; 
I shall not add myself to such a chase, 
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 
Some must be great. Great offices will have 
Great talents. And GoJ gives to every man 
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, 
That litis hun into life, and lets bun fall 
Just in the niche he was ordain 'd to fill. 
To the deliverer of an injured land 
He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart 
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; 
To monarchs dignity ; to judges sense ; 
To artists ingenuity and skill ; 
To me an unambitious mind, content 
In the low vale of fife, that early felt 
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long 
Found here that leisure and that ease 1 wish'd. 



BOOK V. 

THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

A frosty morning— The foddcrins of cattle— The wood- 
man .ind his dng — The poultry- Whimsical efTects of 
frost at a waterfall— The empress of Russia's palace of 
ice — Amusements of monarchs — War, one of them — 
Wars, whence— And whence monarchy— The evils of 
it— English and French loyalty contrasted — The Bas- 
tile, and a prisoner there— Liberty the chief recom- 
mendation of this country — Modern patriotism ques- 
tionable, and why — The perishable nature of the best 
human institutions — Spiritual liberty not perishable — 
The slavish state of man by nature — Deliver him, 
Deist, if you can— Grace must do it — The respective 
nuTils ut patriots and martyrs stated— Their different 
trt-alnu-nt — Happy freedom of the man whom grace 
niaki's I'ree — His relish of the works of God — Address 
to the Creator. 

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds. 
That crowd away before the driving wind. 
More ardent as the disk emerges more. 
Resemble most some city in a blaze, [raj' 

Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting 
Slides inefl'ectual down the snowy vale. 
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue. 
From every herb and every spiry blade 
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
Mine, spindling into longitude immense. 
In spite of gravity, and sage remark 
That I myself am but a fleeting shade. 
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance 
I view the muscular proportion'd limb 



Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair 
As they design'd to mock me, at my side 
Take step for step ; and, as I near approach 
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, 
Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. 
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep 
Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents 
And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest. 
Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine 
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad. 
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. 
The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence 
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep 
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait 
Their wonted fodder ; not like hungering man. 
Fretful if unsupplicd ; but silent, meek. 
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. 
He from the stack carves out the accustom 'd load. 
Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oil. 
His broad keen knife nito the solid mass ; 
Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, 
With such undeviating and even force 
He severs it away : no needless care. 
Lest storms should overset the leaning pile 
Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. 
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd 
The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe 
And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, 
From morn to eve his solitary task. 
Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears 
And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur. 
His dog attends him. Close behind his heel 
Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a 

frisk 
Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow 
With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 
Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for 

joy- 
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl 
Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops for 

aught. 
But now and then with pressure of his thumb 
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube. 
That I'umes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud 
Streams i'ar behind him, scenting all the air. 
Now from the roost, or from the nei<^hborin(T 

' DO 

pale, 
Where, diligent to catch the first iiiir gleam 
Of smiling day, they gossip'd side by side, [call 
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known 
The feuther'd tribes domestic. Half on wing. 
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood. 
Conscious, and fearlul of too deep a plunge. 
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves, 
To seize the lair occasion: well they eye 
The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolved 
To escape the impending famine, often scared 
As oft return, a pert voracious kind. 
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care 
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook. 
Or shed impervious to the blast, llcsignd 
To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
His wonted strut; and, wading at their head 
With wcU-consider'd steps, seems to resent 
His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd. 
How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs. 
Due sustenance, or where subsist they now 1 
Earth yields them nought : the imprison'd worm 

is safe 
Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 
Lie cover'd close ; and berry-bearing thorns, 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



689 



That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,) 

Afford the sinalltT minstrels no supply. 

The long protracted rigor of the year 

Thins all their numerous Hocks. In chinks and 

holes 
Ten thousand seek an unmolested end. 
As instinct prompts; selt-buried ere they die. 
The very rooks and daws forsake the tields, 
Where neitlier grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, now 
Repays their labor more ; and, perch'd alofl 
By the wav-side. or stalking in the path, 
Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, 
Pick un their n.auseous dole, though sweet to 
Of voiiicd pulse or half-digested grain. [tliem, 
The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, 
O'erwhehuing all distinction. On the ilood, 
Indurated and fi.\"d. the snowy weight 
Lies undissolved : wiiile silently beneath, 
And unperceived, the current steals away. 
Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps 
The mildam, dashes on the restless wheel, 
And wantons in the pebbly gulf below ; 
No frost can binil it there ; its utmost force 
Can but arrest the light and smoky mist 
That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. 
And sec where it has hung the erabroider'd banks 
With forms so various that no powers of art. 
The pencil or the pen may trace the scene ! 
Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high 
(Fantastic misarrangement !) on the roof [trees 
Large growth ot' what may seem the sparkling 
Anil shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops 
That trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd, 
Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, 
■■Ind prop the pile they but adorn'd before. 
Here grotto within grotto safe defies 
The sunbeam ; there, embossed and fretted wild, 
The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes 
Capricious, in which tancy seeks in vain 
The likeness of some object seen before. 
Thus Nature works as if to mock at .\rt, 
And in defiance of her rival powers ; 
By these fortuitous and random strokes 
Perlbrming such inimitable feats 
As she with all her rules can never reach. 
Less worthy of applause, though more admired, 
Because a novelty, the work of man. 
Imperial mistress of the I'ur-clad Russ ! 
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak. 
The wonder of the North. No tbrest fell [.stores, 
\Mien thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its 
To enrich thy walls ; but thou didst hew the 

floods, 
And make thy marble of the glassy wave. 
In such a palace .4ristffius found 
Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale 
OV his lo.st bees to her maternal ear : 
In such a palace Poetry might place 
The armory of Winter ; where nis troops 
The gloomy clouds, fin<l weapons, arrowy sleet. 
Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, 
And snow, that often blinds the traveller's course, 
And wrajw him in an unexpected tomb. 
Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; 
No sound of hammer or of saw was there. 
Ice upon ice. the well-adjusted parts 
Were soon conjoined ; nor other cement ask'd 
Than water intcrfus'il to make them one. 
Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues. 
Illumined every side ; a water)* light [secm'd 
Gleain'd through the clear transparency, that 
Another moon new risen, or meteor fallen 



From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. 
So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth 
.■\nd slippery the materials, yet frost-bound 
Finn as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, 
That royal residence might well befit, 
For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths 
Of flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 
Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed none 
Where all was vitreous ; but in order due 
Convivial table and commodious seat [there ; 
(What seem'd at least commodious seat) were 
Sofa and couch, and high-built throne august. 
The same lubricity was found in all, 
.4nd all was warm to the warm touch ; a scene 
Of evanescent glory, once a stream. 
And soon to slide into a stream again. 
Alas 'twas but a mortifying stroke 
01' undesign'd severity, that glanced 
(Made by a monarch) on her own estate, 
On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 
"r\vas transient in its nature, as in show 
'Twas durable ; as worthless, as it seem'd 
Intrinsically precious; to the foot 
Treacherous and talse ; it smiled, and it was cold. 

Great princes have great playthings. Some 
have play'd 
At hewing mountains into men, and some 
At building human wonders mountain high. 
Some have amused the dull sad years of life 
(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) 
\V'ith schemes of monumental I'amc ; and sought 
By pyramids and mausolean poaip, 
Short-lived themselves to immortalize their bones. 
Some seek diversion in the tented field. 
And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. 
But war's a game which, were their subjects wise. 
Kings would not play at. Nations would do well 
To extort their truncheons from the puny hands 
Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds 
Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, 
Because men suffer it, their toy, the world. 

When Babel was confounded, and the great 
Confederacy of projectors wild and vain 
Was split into diversity of tongues. 
Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, 
These to the upland, to the valley those, 
God drave asunder, and assign'd their lot 
To all the nations. Ample ivas the boon 
He gave them, in its distribution fair 
And equal ; and he bade them dwell in peace. 
Peace was awhile their care : they plouuh'd, and 

sow'd, 
And rcap'd their plenty without grudge or strife, 
But violence can never longer sleep 
Tiian human passions please. In every heart 
Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war; 
Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. 
Cain had already shed a brother's blood ; 
The deluge wash'd it out ; but left unquench'J 
The seeds of murder in the breast of man. 
Soon by a righteous judgment in the line 
Of his descending progeny was found 
The first artificer of death ; the shrewd 
Contriver, who first sweated at the forge, 
And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel 
To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. 
Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, 
The sword ami falchion their inventor claim ; 
.And the first smith was the first murderer's son. 
His art sun'ived the waters ; and ere long, 
When man was multiplied and spread abroad 
In tribes and clans, and had begun to call 



590 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



These meadows and that range of hills his own, 

The tasted sweets of property begat 
Desire of more ; and industry in some, 
To improve and cultivate their just demesne, 
Made others covet what they saw so fair. 
Thus war began on earth ; these fought for spoil, 
And those in self-defence. Savage at first 
The onset, and irregular. At length 
One eminent above the rest for strength, 
For stratagem, or courage, or for all, 
Was chosen leader; him they served in war, 
And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds, 
Reverenced no less. Who couk! with him com- 
Or who so worthy to control themselves ? [pare? 
As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes? 
Thus war aflbrding field for the display 
Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, 
Which have their exigencies too, and call 
For skill in government, at length made king. 
King was a name too proud for man to wear 
With modesty and meekness ; and the crown, 
So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, 
Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. 
It is the abject property of most. 
That, being parcel of the common mass, 
And destitute of means to raise themselves, 
They sink, and settle lower than they need. 
They know not what it is to feel within 
A comprehensive faculty, that grasps 
Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, 
Almost without an effort, plans too vast 
For their conception, which they cannot move. 
Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunk 
With gazing, when they see an able man 
Step forth to notice ; and besotted thus, 
Build him a pedestal, and say, " Stand there, 
And be our admiration and our praise." 
They roll themselves before him in the dust, 
Then most deserving in their own account 
When most extravagant in his applause, 
As it" exalting him tney raised themselves. 
Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound 
And sober judgment, that he is but man. 
They demi-deity and fume him so. 
That in due season he forgets it too. 
Inflvited and asirut with self-conceit, 
He gulps the windy diet; and, ere long, 
Adopting tlieir mistake, profoundly thinks 
The world was made in vain, if not for him. 
Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, born 
To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, 
And sweating in his service, nis capnce 
Becomes the soul that anijnates them all. 
He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, 
Spent in the purchase of renown for liim, 
An easy reckoning; and they think the same. 
Thus kings were first invented, and thus kijigs 
Were burnish'd into heroes, and became 
The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; [died. 
Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and 
Strange, that such folly, as lit>s bloated man 
To eminence, fit only tor a god. 
Should ever drivel out of human lips, 
E'en in the cradled weakness of the world ! 
Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind 
Had rcach'd the sinewy firmness of their youth, 
And could discriminate and argue well 
On subjects more mysterious, they were yet 
Babes m the cause of freedom, and should lear 
And quake before the gods themselves had made. 
But above measure strange, that neither proof 
Of sad experience, nor examples set 



By some, whose patriot virtue has prevail'd, 

Can even now, when they are grown mature 

In wisdom, and with philosophic deeds 

Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest ! 

Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone 

To reverence what is ancient, and can plead 

A course of long observance for its use, 

That even servitude, the worst of ills, 

Because delivered down from sire to son, 

Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing ! 

But is it fit, or can it bear the shock 

Of rational discussion, that a man, 

Compounded and made up like other men 

Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust 

And tbily in as ample measure meet, 

As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, 

Should be a despot absolute, and boast 

Himself the only freeman of his land ? 

Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, 

Wage war, with any or with no pretence 

Of provocation given, or wron^ sustained, 

And force the beggarly last doit, by means 

That his own humor dictates, from the clutch 

Of poverty, that thus he may procure 

His thousands, weary of penurious Ufe, 

A splendid opportunity to die 1 

Say ye. who (with less prudence than of old 

Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees 

In politic convention) put your trust 

In the shadow of a bramble, and, reclined 

In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, 

Rejoice in him. and celebrate his sway, 

Wiicrefind ye passive fortitude? Whence springs 

Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good 

To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang 

His thorns with streamers of continual praise 1 

Wc too are trionds to loyalty. We love 

The kinff who loves the law. respects his bounds, 

And reigns content within them : him we serve 

Freely, and with delight, who leaves us free: 

But, recollecting still that he is man, 

^Ve trust him not too far. King though he be 

And king in England too, he may be weak, 

And vain enough to be ambitious still; 

Blay exercise amiss his proper powers, 

Or covet more than freemen choose to grant : 

Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, 

To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, 

But not to warp or change it. We are his 

To serve him nobly in tlie common cause, 

True to the death, but not to be his slaves. 

Mark now the difference, yc that boast your love 

Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. 

We love the man, the pahry pageant you : 

We the chief patron of the commonwealth, 

You the regardless author of its woes : 

We for the sake of liberty a king. 

You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. 

Our love is principle, and has its root 

In reason, is judicious, manly, tree ; 

Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod. 

And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. 

Were kingship as true .treasure as it seems, 

Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, 

I would not be a king to be beloved 

Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise. 

Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 

Not to the man who fills it as he ought. 

Whose freedom is by suflerance, and at will 
Of a superior, he is never free. 
Who lives, and is not weary of a life 
Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



591 



The state that strives for lilierty, though foil'd, 

And t'orced to abandon what she bravely sought, 

Dcscn'cs nt least apphiuso tor her attempt, 

And pity ti)r her loss, l!ut that's a cause 

Not otten unsuccesstul : power usurp'd 

Is weakness when opposed; conseious of wrong, 

'Tis pusillaniaious and prone to flight. 

But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought 

Of freedom, in that hope itself possess 

AH that the contest calls Ibr; spirit, strength. 

The scorn of danger, and united hearts; 

The surest presage of the good they seek.* 

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more 
To France than all her losses and defeats, 
Old or of later date, by sea or land, 
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old 
Which God avenged on Pharaoh — the Bastile. 
Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts; 
Ve dungeons, and yc cages of despair, 
That monarehs have supplied trora age to age 
With music, such as suits their sovereign ears, 
The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
Theri;'s not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye were fallen at last ; to know 
That e'en our enemies, so ol^ employ'd 
In forging chains lor us, themselves were free. 
For he who values Liberty confines 
His zeal Ibr her predominance within 
No narrow bounds ; her cause engages him 
Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. 
There dwell the most forlorn of human kind. 
Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried, 
Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape! 
There, like the visionary emblem seen 
By him of Babylon, ht'e stands a stump, 
And. filleted about with hoops of brass, 
Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are 

gone. 
To count the hour-bell, and expect no chance ; 
And ever, as the sullen sound is heard, 
.Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note 
To him whose moments all have one dull pace, 
Ten thousand rovers in the world at large 
Account it music ; that it summons some 
To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; 
The wearied hireling finds it a release 
From labor; and the lover, who has chid 
It.s long delay, feels every welcome stroke 
Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight — 
To fly Ibr refuge from di.stracting thought 
To such amusements as ingenious woe 
Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools — 
To read engraven on the mouldy walls. 
In staggering types, his pre<lecessor's tale, 
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own — 
To turn purveyor to an overgorged 
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest 
Is made lamiliar. watches his approach. 
Comes at his call, and serves hijn (or a triend — 
To wear out time in nuaibering to and Iro 
The studs that thick emboss his iron door; 
Then downward and then upward, then aslant, 
And then alternate; with a sickly hope 
By dint of change to give his tasteless task 
Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found 
In all directions, he begins again. — 
Oh comfortless existence ! hcmm'd around 

* The author hopes that he stiall not bo ccnsnrcd for 
unnecf*«iry wuriiuh upon tw) interesting a sulyeet. Me 
is :iw;ire thjit il is bL-coine almost Ik-'lii.iniiljlf to slii;inatize 
such sentiments as no better llian einply Jeclanialion; 
but it id on ill symptom, and peculiar to modem times. 



With woes, which who that suffers would not 

kneel 
.\nd beg Ibr exile, or the pangs of death "i 
Thai man should thus encroach on t'ellow man, 
.Vbridge him of his just and native rights, 
Eradicate hiai, tear him fiom his hold 
Upon tlie endearments of domestic hfe 
.\nd social, nip his fruitt'ulness and use, 
.\nd doom him for perhaps a heedless word 
To barrenness, and solitude, and tears. 
Moves indignation, makes the name of kinw 
(Of king whom such prerogative can please) 
.■\s dreadtui as the Manichean god, 
.Vdored through tear, strong only to destroy. 

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
Except what wisdom lays on evil men. 
Is evil ; hurts the faculties, impedes 
Their progress in the road of science ; blinds 
The eyesight of Discovery ; and begets, 
In those that sutler it, a sordid mind 
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit 
To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
Thee therelbrc still, blameworthy as thou art, 
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed 
By public exigence, till annual food 
Fails lor the craving hunger of the state. 
Thee I account still happy, and the chief 
Among the nations, seeing thou art free. 

My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude. 
Replete with vapors, and disposes much 
.A.11 hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: 
Thine un.idulterate manners are less soil 
.\nd plausible than social Hfe requires. 
And thou hast need of discipline and art 
To give thee what politer France receives, 
From nature's bounty— that humane address 
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is 
In converse, either starved by cold reserve. 
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl, 
■i'et being t'rce I love thee : for the sake 
Of that one feature can be well content, 
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, 
To seek no sublunary rest beside. 
But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure 
Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home. 
Where I am free by birthright, not at all. 
Then what wore left of roughness in the nxain 
Of British natures, wanting it.s excuse 
Th.it it belongs to freemen, would ilisgust 
.\nd shock me. I should then with double pain 
Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime ; 
.4nd. if I must bewail the blessing lost. 
For which our Hampdcns and our Sidneys bled, 
I woulil at least bewail it under skies 
Milder, among a people less austere ; 
In scenes which, having never known me free, 
\S'oiild not reproach me with the loss I felt. 
Do I forebode impossible events, [may ! 

And tremble at vain dreams] Heaven grant I 
But the age of virtuous politics is past, 
.\nd we arc deep in that of cold pretence. 
Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 
And we too wise to trust them. He that takes 
Deej) in his sort credulity the stamp 
Design'd by loud declaimers on the part 
Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, 
Incurs derision for his easy f'aith 
Ami lack of knowledge, and with cause enough: 
For when was public virtue to be found 
Where private was not ! Can he love the whole 



692 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Who loves no part t He be a nation's friend 
Who is, in trutli, the friend of no man there 1 
Can he be strenuous in his country's cause 
Who slights the charities for whose dear sake 
That country, if at all, must be beloved 1 

'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad 
For England's glory, seeing it wax pale [hearts 
And sickly, wliile her champions wear their 
So loose to private duty, that no brain, 
Healtliful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, 
Can dream them trusty to the general weal. 
Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades 
Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd control, [sons 
And hew'd them link from link ; then Albion's 
Were sons indeed ; they felt a fihal heart 
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs ; 
And, shining each in his domestic sphere. 
Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view. 
'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot 
Forbids their interference, looking on, 
Anticipate perforce some dire event ; 
And, seeing the old castle of the state, 
That promised once more firmness, so assail'd 
That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, 
Stand motionless expectants of its fall. 
All has its date below ; the fatal hour 
Was register'd in heaven ere time began. 
We turn to dust, and all our miirhtiest works 
Die too : the deep foundations that we lay. 
Time ploughs tliem up, and not a trace remains. 
We build with what we deem eternal rock : 
A distant age asks where the fabric stood ; 
And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain, 
The undiscoverable secret sleeps. 

But there is yet a Hbcrty, unsung 
By poets, and Ity senators unpraised, 
Which iuonarchs cannot grant, nor all the powers 
Of earth and hell confederate take away : 
A hberty which persecution, fraud. 
Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind : 
Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 
'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven, 
Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind. 
And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
By the unimpeachable and awful oath 
And promise of a God. His other gitls 
All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his. 
And are august ; but this transcends them all. 
His other works, the visible display 
Of all-creating energy and might. 
Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word 
That, finding an interminable space 
Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well, 
And made so sparkling what was dark before. 
But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, 
Might well suppose the Artificer divine 
Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, 
And, still designing a more glorious far, 
Doom'd it as insufficient tor his praise. 
These, therefore, are occasional, and pass ; 
Form'd tor the confutation of the fool, 
Whoso lying heart disputes against a God ; 
That office served, they must be swept away. 
Not so the labors of his love : they shine 
In other heavens than these that we behold, 
And fade not. There is paradise that fears 
No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends 
Large prelibation ofl to saints below. 
Of these the first in order, and the pledge 



And confident assurance of the rest. 
Is liberty : a flight into his arms. 
Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, 
A clear escape from tjTannizing lust. 
And full immunity from penal woe. 

Chains are the portion of revolted man, 
Stripes, and a dungeon; and his tiody sen'es 
The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul. 
Opprobrious residence he finds them all. 
Propense his heart to idols, he is held 
In silly dotage on created things. 
Careless of their Creator. And that low 
And sordid gravitation of his powers 
To a vile clod so draws him, with such force 
Resistless from the centre he should seek, 
That he at last forgets it. All his hopes 
Tend downward ; Tiis ambition is to sink, 
To reach a depth profounder still, and still 
Profounder, in the fathomless abyss 
Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. 
But, ere he gain the comfortless repose 
He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, 
In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures— 
What docs he not, from lusts opposetl in vain. 
And self reproaching conscience ! He foresees 
The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, 
Fortune and dignity ; the loss of all 
That can ennoble him, and make frail life, 
Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, [sins 
Far worse than all the plagues, with which his 
Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes 
Ages of hopeless misery. Future death. 
And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, 
Like that which sends him to the dusty grave; 
But unrepealable enduring death. 
Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears : 
What none can prove a forgery may be true ; 
What none but fjad men wish exploded must. 
That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud 
Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst 
Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; 
And he abhors the jest by which he shines. 
Remorse begets reform. His master-lust 
Falls first before his resolute rebuke, [ensues. 
And seems dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace 
But spurious and short-lived ; the puny child 
Of sell-congratulafing pride, begot 
On fancied innocence. Again he falls, 
And fights again ; but finds his best essay 
A presage ominous, portending still 
Its own dishonor by a worse relapse. 
Till Nature, unavailing Nature, Ibil'd 
So ofl, and wearied in the vain attempt, 
Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now 
Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause 
Pen-ersely, which of late she so condemn'd ; 
With shallow shit\s and old devices, worn 
And tafter'd in the service of debauch. 
Covering his shame from his offended sight. 

" Hath God indeed given appetites to man. 
And stored the earth so plenteously with means 
To gratify the hunger of his wish ; 
And doth he reprobate, and will he damn 
The use of his own bounty 1 making first 
So frail a kind, and then enacting laws 
So strict, that less than perfect must despair 'i 
Falsehood ! which wlioso but suspects oC truth 
Dishonors God, and makes a slave of man. 
Do they theaiselves, who undertake for hire 
The teacher's office, and dispense at large 
Their weekly dole of edifying strains. 
Attend to their own music 1 have they faith 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 



593 



In what, with such solemnity of tone 

And gesture, they propound to our belief? 

Nny — conduct hath the loudest tongue. The 

voice 
Is but an instrument, on which the priest 
Jlay play wliat tunc he pleases. In the deed, 
'I'hc unr(|uivocaI, authentic de('<l. 
We find sound argument, we read the heart," 

Such reasonings (if that name must needs be- 
To excuses in which reason has no part) [long 
Serve to compose a spirit well inclined 
To live on terms of amity with vice, 
And sin without disturbance. Otlen urged, 
(.4s often as libidinous discourse 
Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes 
Of theological ami grave import) 
They gain at last liLS unrcscr\cd assent ; 
Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge 
Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, [inoves 

He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing 
Or nothing much, his constancy in ill ; 
Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease; 
'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. 
Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. 
Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear 
Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth 
How lovely, and the moral sense how sure. 
Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps 
Directly to the first and only fair. 
.Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers 
Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise: 
Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, 
And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, 
Till it outmantle all the priile of verse. — 
.\h. tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass, 
Smitten in vain ! such music cannot charm 
The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, 
And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul. 
The STILL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must 

speak, 
Whose word leaps forth at once to its cflcct ; 
U'ho calls lor things that are not. and they come. 
Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a 

change 
That turns to ridicule the turgid speech 
And stately tone of moralists, who boast, 
.■\s il'. like him of fabulous renown. 
They had indeed ability to smooth 
The shag of savage nature, and were each 
.An Orjihous, and omnipotent in song. 
Hut transformation of apostate man 
Troin foitl to wise, from earthly to divine, 
Is work for Him that made him. He alone,. 
And He liy means in pliilosophic eyes 
Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves 
The wonder ; humanizing what is brute 
In the lost kind, extracting Irom the lips 
Of asps their venom, overpowering strength 
lly weakness, and hostility by love. 

Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause 
Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, 
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge 
Their names to theswect lyre. The historic muse, 
I'roud of the treasure;, inarches with it down 
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
Gives Iwnd in stone and ever-during bra.ss 
To guard them and to irumortalize her trust : 
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, 
To those who. posted at the shrine of Truth, 
Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood, 
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, 
And for a time ensure to his loved land, 



The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; 

But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, 

And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed 

In confirmation of the noblest claim — 

Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, 

To walk with God, to be divinely free, 

To soar, and to anticipate the skies. 

'\'et few remember them. They lived unknown 

Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame. 

And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew 

— No marble tells us whither. With their names 

No bard embalms and sanctifies his son<T : 

And history, so warm on meaner themes. 

Is cold on this. She execrates indeed 

The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, 

But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.* 

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, 
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
That hellish toes, confederate tor his harm. 
Can wind around him, but he casts it off 
With as much ease as .Samson his green withes. 
He looks abroad into the varied field 
Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared 
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, 
Calls the delightl''ul scenery all his own. 
His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
VVith a propriety that none can feel. 
But who, with filial confidence inspired. 
Can ]\t\ to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, 
And smiling say — " Jly Father made them all !" 
Are they not his by a peculiar right. 
And by an emphasis of interest his. 
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy. 
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind 
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love 
That plann'd. and built, and still upholds a world 
So clothed with beauty for rebellious man *? 
■^'es — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap 
The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good 
In senseless riot ; but ye will not find 
In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, 
A liberty like his who, unimpeach'd 
Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, 
Appropnates nature as his Father's work. 
And has a richer use of yours than you. 
He is indeed a freeman, free by birth 
Of no mean city ; plann'd or e'er the hills 
Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea 
With all his roaring nuiltitude of waves. 
His freedom is the same in every state ; 
And no condition of this changeful life, 
.So manifold in cares, whose every day 
Brings its own evil with it. makes it less : 
For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, 
Nor penury, can cripple or confine. 
No nook so narrow but he spreads them there 
With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds 
His body bound ; but knows not what a ran<'e 
His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain ; 
.And that to bind him is a vain attempt. 
Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. 

Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst 
His works, .\dmitted ontM: to his embrace, [taste 
Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind before ; 
Thine eyes shall be instructed ; and thine heart, 
Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight 
'Till then unfcit, what hanils divine have wrought. 
Brutes graze the mountain-top. with faces prone, 
And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 

• See Hume. 
38 



694 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



It yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, 
Ruminate heedless ot' the scene outspread 
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 
From inland regions to the distant main. 
Man views it, and admires ; but rests content 
With wliat he views. The landscape has his 

praise. 
But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'd 
The paradi.se he sees, he finds it such. 
And, such well pleased to find it, asks no more. 
Not so the mind that has been touch'd from 

Heaven, 
And in the school of sacred wisdom taught 
To read his wonders in whose thought the world, 
Fair as it is, existed ere it was. 
Not for its own sake merely, but for his 
Much more who fashion'd it. he gives it praise ; 
Praise that, from eartlt resulting, as it ought, 
To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once 
Its only just proprietor in Hiui. 
The soul that sees him or receives subhmed 
New faculties, or learns at least to employ 
More worthily the powers she own'd before, 
Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze 
Of ignorance, till then she ovtrlook'd, 
A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms 
Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; 
The unambiguous footsteps of the God, 
Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing. 
And wheels his throne upon tile rolling worlds. 
Much conversant with Heaven, she olten holds 
With those fair ministers of light to man. 
That nightly fill the skies with silent pomp, [they 
Sweet confi:rence. Inquires what strains were 
With which heaven rang, when every star, in 
To gratulate the new-created earth, [haste 

Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God 
Shouted for joy. — •' Tell me, yc shining hosts, 
That navigate a sea that knows no storms, 
Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud. 
If from your elevation, whence ye view 
Distinctly scenes invisible to man, 
And systems of whose birth no tidings yet 
Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race 
Favor'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb, 
And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 
And to possess a brighter heaven than yours 1 
As one who long detained on foreign shores 
Pants to return, and when he sees afar [rocks. 
His country's weather-blcach'd and batter'd 
From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 
Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; 
So I with animated hopes behold. 
And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 
That show like beacons in the blue abyss, 
Ordain "d to guide the embodied spirit home 
From toilsome lif'e to never-ending rest. 
Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires 
That give assurance of their own success, 
And that, infused trom Heaven, must thither 
tend." 
So reads ho nature, whom the lamp of truth 
Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word ! 
Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost. 
With intellects bemazed in endless doubt. 
But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built. 
With means that were not till hy thee employ 'd, 
Worlds that had never been hudst thou in strength 
Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
They arc thy witnesses, who speak thy power 
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears 
That hear not, or receive not their report. 



In vain thy creatures testify of thee. 
Till tliou proclaim thyself Theirs is indeed 
A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine 
That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, 
And with the boon gives talents for its use. 
Till thou art heard, imaginations vain 
Possess the heart, and flibles false as hell. 
Yet, deem'd oracular, lure down to death 
The uninform'd, and heedless souls of men. 
We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as 
The glory of thy work; which yet appears [bhnd. 
Perfect and unimpeachable of blame. 
Challenging human scrutiny, and proved 
Then skilful most when most severely judged. 
But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign 'st ; 
Thy providence forbids that fickle power 
(If power she be that works but to confound) 
To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 
Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can 
Instruction, and inventing to ourselves [sleep, 
Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that 
Or disregard our follies, or that sit 
Amused spectators of tliis bustling stage. 
Thee we reject, unable to abide 
Thy purity ; till pure as thou art pure ; 
Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause. 
For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. 
Then we are free. Then liberty, like day. 
Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven 
Fires all the faculties witli glorious joy. 
A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, [song. 
Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of 
A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works ; 
Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, 
And adds his rapture to the general praise. 
In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide 
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile 
The author of her beauties, who, retired 
Behind his own creation, works unseen 
By tlie impure, and hears his power denied. 
Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! 
From thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random without honor, hope, or peace. 
From thee is all that soothes the hfe of man, 
His high endeavor, and his glad success. 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all thy girts thyself the crown ! 
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; 
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 



BOOK VI. 

THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

CoIIa at a distance— Their effect— A fine noon in winter 
—A sheltered walk— Mcililatiim belter than books— 
Our tamiUarity wiili Mn- course i.r nature makes it ap- 
pear less wonderful than it i-*— The transformation thiit 
sprinG; etTects in a shrubbery described— A mistake con- 
cernhig the course of nature corrected- God niainlains 
it hy nil unremitted act— The amusements l^tishionablu 
at tliis hour of the day rcprovi-d- Animnls happy, a 
delijihtful sight— Origin of cruelty Ut aiiiuKils— I hal it 
is a great crime proved from SciipluiL— That proiif 
illustrated by a tale— A line dra'vvn btriween tlie lawful 
and unlawful destruction of them— Their gfjoil ;uid 
useful properties insisted on — Apology for the enco- 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



595 



miums bestowed by the auth(tr on animals — Instances 
of man's exlravnc^ant praise of man — The groans of 
the creation shall have an onJ — \ view-taken of the 
resloralion of all things — An invocation and an invi- 
tation of Him who shall brint: it to pjuvs— The retiri-d 
man vindicated from the charge of uselussness — Con- 
clusion. 



Tiir.RE is in souls a sympathy witli sounds ; 
.Anil as tlie minil is pitch'il the ear is pleased 
With meltintr airs, or martial, brisk, or grave : 
Some chord in unison with what wc hear 
Is toueh'd within us, anil the heart replies. 
How sort the musie of those village bells, 
Falling at intervals upon the car 
In cadence sweet, now dyinir all away, 
Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on ! 
With easy force it opens all the cells 
Where jfemory slept. Wherever I have heard 
\ kindred melody, the scene recurs. 
And with it all ils pleasures and its pains. 
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, 
That in a lew short moments I retrace 
(.As in a map the voyager his course) 
The windings of my way through many years. 
Short as in retrosjject the journey seems, 
It seem'd not always short ; the ru j;;ed path. 
And prospect oft so dreary and forhirii. 
Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. 
Vet. feeling present evils, while the past 
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all. 
How readily we wish time spent revoked, 
That we might try the ground again, where once 
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive) 
We miss'd that happiness we migiit have found ! 
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, 
A father, whose authority, in sliow 
When mo.st severe, and mustering all its force. 
Was but the graver countenance of love ; [lower. 
Whose favor, like the clouds of spring, might 
And utter now and then an awful voice. 
Rut had a blessing in its d.arkest frown. 
Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. 
We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand 
That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured 
By even' gildeil folly, we renounced 
His sheltering side, and wilfully I'orewent 
That converse, which wc now in vain regret. 
How gladly would the man recall to life 
The boy's neglected sire ! a mother too. 
That softer friend, perhajis more gladly still, 
flight he demand them at the gates of death. 
Sorrow has, since they went, Abdued and tamed 
The playful humor; he could now endure 
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) 
And tcel a parent's presence no restraint. 
But not to understand a treasure's worth 
Till time has stolen away the slighted good. 
Is cause of half the poverty we t'ecl, 
.And makes the world the wilderness it is. 
The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, [hold. 
And, seeking grace to improve the priza they 
Would urge a wiser suit than asking luorc. 

The night was winter in his roughest mood ; 
The morninir sharp and clear. But now at noon 
Ui>on tile southern side of the slant hills. 
And where the woods fence olV the northern blast. 
The season smiles, resigning all its rage. 
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
The dazzling splendor of the scene below, 
.Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 



.And through the trees I view the embattled tower 
Whence all the music. I again perceive 
The soothing influence of the walled strains, 
.\nd settle in soft musings as I tread 
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,' 
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
The roof though moveable tlirough all its length 
.As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
-And. intercepting in their silent fall 
The fri-i|uent (lakes, has kept a path for me. 
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
With slender notes, and more that half sup- 

press'd: 
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
From many a twig t!ie pendent drops of ice, 
That tinkle in the vvither'd leaves below. 
Stilliii'ss. accompanied with sounds so soft, 
Charms more than silence. Meditation here 
May think down hours to moments. Here the 
May give a useful lesson to the head, [heart 
And Learning wiser grow without his books. 
Knowledge and Wisifom, far from being one. 
Have oft tunes no connexion. Knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude unjn'ofitable mass. 
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, 
Till smooth'd, and squared, and fitted to its 

place. 
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so 

much; 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
Books are not seldom talismans and spells. 
By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. 
Some to the fascination of a name [style 

Surrender judgment hoodvvink'd. Some the 
Infatuates, and through labyrinth and wilds 
Of error leads them, iiy a tune entranced. 
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
The insupportable fatigue of thought, 
.And swallowing there fore without pause or choice 
The total grist unsifted, husks and all. 
But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course 
Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, 
And sheepvvulks jiopulous witli bleating lambs, 
And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time 
Peeps through the moss that clothes the haw- 
thorn root. 
Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, 
Not shy, a:i in the world, and to bo won 
By slow siilicitation, seize at once 
The roving thought, atnl fix it on themselves. 

What prodigies can power divine perlbrm 
IMore grand than it produces year by year, 
And all in sight of inattentive man 1 
Familiar with the eflcct. we slight the cause. 
And in the con.slancy of nature's course, 
The regular return of genial months, 
And renovation of a faded world, 
See nought to wonder at. Should God again. 
As once in Giheon, interrupt the race 
Of the unil, viating and punctual sun, [less 

How would the world admire ! but speaks it 
An agency divine, to make him know 
His moment when to sink and w hen to rise, 
Age after age, than to arrest his course 1 
All we liehold is miracle ; but, seen 
So duly, all is miracle in vain. 



596 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Where now the vital energy that moved. 
While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph 
Through the imperceptible meandering veins 
Of leat' and flower? It sleeps; and the icy 
Of unprolilic winter has impress'd [touch 

A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. 
But let the months go round, a few short months, 
And all shall be restored. These naked shoots. 
Barren as lances, among which the wind 
Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, 
Shall put their graceful foliage on again, 
And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread, 
Shall boast new charms, and more than they 

have lost. 
Then each, in its peculiar honors clad, 
Shall publish, even to the distant eye, 
Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich 
In streaming gold ; syringa, ivory pure ; 
The scentless and the scented rose ; this red, 
And of an humbler growth, the other* tall, 
And throwing up into the darkest gloom 
Of neighboring cypress, or more sable yew, 
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf 
That the wind severs from the broken wave ; 
The lilac, various in array, now wliite. 
Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set 
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if 
Studious of ornament, yet unresolved [all: 

Which hue she most approved, she chose them 
Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, 
But well compensating her sickly looks 
With never-cloying odors, early and late ; 
Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm 
Of flowers, hke flies clothing her slender rods, 
That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, 
Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset 
With blushing wreaths, investing every spray; 
AlthEea with the purple eye; the broom. 
Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd, 
Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all 
The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, 
The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd 

leaf 
Makes more conspicuous, and illuuiines more 
The bright profusion of her .^catter'd stars. — 
These have been, and these shall be in their day ; 
And all this uniform, uncolor'd scene 
Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, 
And flush into variety again. 
From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, 
Is nature's progress, when she lectures man 
In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes 
The grand transition, that there lives and works 
A soul in all things, and that soul is God. 
The beauties of the wilderness are his, 
That make so gay the solitary place. 
Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms, 
That cultivation glories in, are his. 
He sets the bright procession on its way, 
And marshals all the order of the year ; 
He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass, 
And blunts his pointed fury ; in its case, 
Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ. 
Uninjured, with inimitable art ; 
And, ere one flowery season fades and dies. 
Designs the blooming wonders of the next. 

Some say, that in the origin of things, 
When all creation started into birth, 
The infant elements received a law, [force 

From which they swerve not since ; that under 

* The Guelder Rose. 



Of that controling ordinance they move, 

And need not his immediate hand, who first 

Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. 

Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God 

The incumbrance of his own concerns, and spare 

The great Artificer of all that moves 

The stress of a continual act, the pain 

Of unremitted vigilance and care, 

As too laborious and severe a task. 

So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems, 

To span omnipotence, and measure might, 

That knows no measure, by the scanty rule 

And standard of his own, that is to-day, 

And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. 

But how should matter occupy a charge, 

Dull as it is, and satisfy a law 

So vast in its demands, unless impell'd 

To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force. 

And under pressure of some conscious cause 1 

The Lord of all, himself through all difl'used, 

Sustains and is the hfe of all that lives. 

Nature is but a name for an effect, 

Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire, 

By which the mighty process is maintain'd, 

\Vho sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 

SlowcircUng ages are his transient days; 

Whose work is without labor; whose designs 

No flaw deforms, no diflliculty thwarts; 

And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. 

Him bhnd antiquity prolaned, not served, 

With self-taught rites, and under various names, 

Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 

And Flora, and Vcrtumnus; peopling earth 

With tutelar^' goddesses and gods 

That were not ; and commending as they would 

To each some province, garden, field, or grove. 

But all are uniler one. One spirit, His 

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, 

Rules universal nature. Not a flower 

But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 

Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 

Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, 

And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes. 

In grains as countless as the seaside sands, 

The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. 

Happy wiio walks with him ! whom w hat he finds 

Of flavor or of scent in fruit or flower, 

Or what he views of beautiful or grand 

In nature, from the broad majestic oak 

To the green blade that twinkles in the sun. 

Prompts with remembrance of a present God. 

His presence, who made all so fair, perceived 

Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene 

Is dreary, so \vith him all seasons please. 

Though winter had been none, had man been 

true. 
And earth be punish'd tor its tenant's sake, 
Vet not in vengeance ; as this smilinw sky, 
So soon succeeding such an angry night. 
And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream 
Recovering fast its hquid music, prove. [tuned 
Who then, that has a mind well strung and 
To contemplation, and within his reach 
A scene so friendly to his favorite task, 
Would waste attention at the chequer'd board, 
His host of wooden warriors to and fro 
Marching and countermarching, with an eye 
As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridged 
And furrow'd into storms, and with a hand 
Trembling, as if eternity were hung 
In balance on his conduct of a pin 7 
Nor envies lie aught more their idle sport. 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



597 



Who pant with application misappHed 

To trivial joys, ana pushing ivory balls 

Across a velvet level, feel a joy 

Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds 

Its destined goal of difficult access. 

Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon 

To miss, the mercer's plague, from shop to shop 

^VanderinII, and iitteruig with unfolded silks 

The polish'd counter, and approving none, 

Or promising with sanies to call again. 

IS'or him who, by his vanity seduced, 

Anil soothed into a dream that he discerns 

The diflcrence of a Guido from a daub, 

Frequents the crowded auction: station'd there 

.\s duly as the Langford of the show. 

With glass 4t eye, and catalogue in hand, 

.^nd tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant 

.\nd pedantrj' that coxcombs learn with ease; 

Oft as the pnce-dcciding hammer falls. 

He notes it in his book, then r.ips his box, 

Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate 

That he has let it pass — but never bids. 

Here unmolested, through whatever sign 
The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, 
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, 
Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. 
E'en in the spring and playtime of the year, 
That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
With all her little ones, a sportive train, 
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 
And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, 
These shades are all my own. The timorous 

hare. 
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, 
Scarce shuns me ; and the stockdove unalarm'd 
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends 
His long love-ditty for my near approach. 
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, 
That age or injury has hoUow'd deep, 
Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. 
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth 
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun. 
The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play : 
He sees me, and at once, swit\ as a bird. 
Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks 

his brush, 
.\nd perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud. 
With all the prettincss of feign'd alarm, 
Ani\ anger insignificantly fierce. 

The heart is hard in nature, and unfit 
For human fellowship, as being void 
Of sympatliy, and therefore dead alike 
To love and friendship both, that is not pleased 
With sight of anuuals enjoying life. 
Nor feels their happiness augment his own. 
The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade 
Where none pursues, through mere delight of 

heart, 
And spirits buoyant with excess of glee ; 
The horse as wanton, and almost as fleet, 
That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, 
Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his 

heels, 
Starts to the voluntary race again; 
The very kinc that gambol at high noon. 
The total lierd receiving first from one 
That leads the dance a summons to be gay, 
Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth 
Their elTorts. yet resolved witn one consent 
To give such act and utterance as they may 
To ecstacy too big to be supprcss'd — 



These, and a thousand images of bliss. 

With which kind Nature graces every scene, 

Where cruel man defeats not her design. 

Impart to the benevolent, who wish 

All that arc capable of pleasure pleased, 

.\ far superior happiness to theirs, 

The comfort of a reasonable joy. 

Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call 
Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave, 
When he was crown'd as never king was since. 
God set the diadem upon his head. 
And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood 
The new-made monarch, while betbre him pass'd, 
All happy, and all perfect in their kind, [haunts 
The creatures, summoned from their various 
To see their sovereign, and confess liis sway. 
'Vast was his empire, absolute his power, 
Or bounded only by a law, whose force 
"Tvvas his sublimest privilege to feel 
.\nd own, the law of universal love. 
He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy ; 
No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart, 
.^nd no distrust of his intent in theirs. 
So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, 
Where kindness on his part, who rules the whole, 
Begat a tranquil confidence in all. 
And fear as yet was not, nor cause to fear. 
But sin marr'd all ; and the revolt of man, 
That source of evils not exhausted yet. 
Was punish 'd with revolt of his from him. 
Garden of God, how terrible the change [heart, 
Tliy groves and lawns then witness'd ! Every 
Each animal, of every name, conceived 
A jealousy and an instinctive fear, 
And, conscious of some danger, either fled 
Precipitate the loathed abode of man, 
Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort. 
As taught him too to tremble in his turn. 
Thus harmony and family accord 
Were driven from Paradise ; and in that hour 
The seeds of cruelty, that since have swcU'd 
To such gigantic and enormous growth. 
Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. 
Hence date the persecution and the pain 
That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, 
Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, 
To gratify the frenzy of his wrath. 
Or liLS base gluttony, are causes good 
.\nd just in his account, why bird and beast 
.Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed 
With blood of their inhabitants impaled. 
Earth groans beneath the burden of a war 
Waged with defenceless innocence, while he. 
Not satisfied to prey on all around, 
Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs 
Needless, and first torments ere he devours. 
Now happiest they that occupy the scenes 
The ;uost remote trom his abhorr'd resort, 
VV'hom once, as delegate of God on eartli. 
They t'ear'd, and as his perfect image loved. 
The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves, 
Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains, 
Unvislted by man. There they are free, 
.\nd howl and roar as likes them, unconlroll'd ; 
Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. 
Woe to the tyrant, if ho dare intrude 
Within the confines of their wild domain: 
The hon tells him — I am monarch here ! 
And, if he spare him, spares him on the terms 
Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn 
To rend a victim trembluig at liis loot. 
In measure, as by force of instinct drawn. 



598 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Or by necessity constraint, they live 
Dependent upon man ; those in his fields, 
These nt his crib, and some beneath his roof; 
They prove too often at how dear a rate 
He sells protection. Witness at his toot 
The spaniel dying lor some venial fault, 
Under dissection of the knotted scourge ; 
Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells 
Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs, 
To madness ; while the savage at his heels 
Ijaughs at the sufferer's fury, spent 
Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. 
He too is witness, noblest of the train 
That wait on man, the flight performing horse ; 
With unsuspecting readiness he takes 
His murderer on his back, and, push'd all day, 
With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for 
To the far distant goal, arrives and dies. [hfe, 
So Uttle mercy shows who needs so much ! 
Does law so jealous in the cause of man, 
Denounce no doom on the delinquent ? None. 
He lives, and o'er his brimmiiig beaker boasts 
(As if barbarity were high desert) 
The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praise 
Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose 
The honors of his matchless horse his own. 
But many a crime deem'd innocent on earth 
Is register'd in heaven ; and these no doubt 
Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. 
Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, 
But God will never. When he charged the Jew 
To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise j 
And when the bush-exploring boy that seized 
The young, to let the parent bird go free ; 
Proved he not plainly that his meaner works 
Are yet his care, and have an interest all, 
All, in the universal Father's love 7 
On Noah, and in hiin on all mankind. 
The charter was cont'err'd, by which we hold 
The flesh of animals in fee, and claim 
O'er all we feed on power of life and death. 
But read the instrument, and mark it well ; 
The oppression of a tyrannous control 
Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield 
Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, 
Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute ! 

The Governor of all, himself to all 
So bountiful, in whose attentive ear 
The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp 
Plead not in vain lor pity on the pangs 
Of hunger unassuagcd, has interposed 
Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smite 
The injurious tramplerupon Nature's law, 
That claims forbearance even for a brute. 
He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart ; 
And, prophet as he was, he might not strike 
The blameless animal, without rebuke. 
On which he rode. Her opportune offence 
Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died. 
He sees that human equity is slack 
To interfere, tliough in so just a cause ; 
And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumb 
And helpless victims with a sense so keen 
Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, 
And such sagacity to take revenge, 
That oil the beast has seem'd to judge the man. 
An ancient, not a legendary tale. 
By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, 
(If such who plead for Providence may seem 
In modern eyes.) shall make the doctrine clear. 

Where England, stretch'd towards the setting 
sun, 



Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, 
Dwelt young Misagathus ; a scorner he 
Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent. 
Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. 
He journey 'd ; and his chance was as he went 
To join a traveller, of far different note, 
Evander, famed for piety, for years 
Deserving honor, but for wisdom more. 
Fame had not left the venerable man 
A stranger to the manners of the youth, 
Whose face too was familiar to his view. 
Their way was on the margin of the land. 
O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base 
Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so 

high. 
The charity that warm'd his heart w.is moved 
At siffhtof the man monster. With' a smile 
Gentle, and affable, and full of grace. 
As fearful of offending whom he wish'd 
Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths 
Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, 
But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, "and sweet. 
"And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man 
Exclaimed, •■ that me the lullabies of aae, 
And fantasies of dotards such as thou, 
Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me'? 
Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave 
Need no such aids as superstition lends. 
To steel their hearts against the dread of death," 
He spoke, and to the precipice at hand 
Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, 
And the blood tlirills and curdles at the thought 
Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave. 
But though the felon on his back could dare 
The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed 
Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round, 
Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, 
Baffled his rider, saved against his will. 
The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd 
By medicine well applied, but without grace 
The heart's insanity admits no cure. 
Enraged tile more by what might have reform'd 
His horrible intent, again he soucht 
Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd. 
With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood. 
But .still in vain. The Providence that meant 
A longer date to the far nobler beast, 
Spared yet again the ignoblcr tor his sake. 
And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere 
Incurable obduracy evinced, [earn'd 

His rage grew cool ; and pleased perhaps to have 
So cheaply the renown of that attempt. 
With looks of some complacence he resumed 
His road, deriding much the blank amaze 
Of good Evander, still where he was left 
Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread. 
So on they fared. Discourse on other themes 
Ensuing seem'd to obliterate the past; 
And tamer far for so much fury sOiown, 
(.■Vs is the course of rash and iiery men,) 
The rude companion smiled, as if.transforra'd. 
But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near. 
An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. 
The impious challenger of power divine [wrath, 
Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to 
Is never with impunity defied. 
His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, 
.Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, 
Unbitlden, and not now to be controll'd, 
Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood. 
At once the shock unseated him : he flew 
Sheer o'er the craggy barrier ; and, uumersed 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



699 



Deep in the flooil, foiiml, when lie sought it not, 
The death he had deserved, and died alone. 
So Goil wronjlit double justice ; made the fool 
The victim ot' his own tremendous choice, 
And tauijht a brute the wi\y to safe revenue. 

I would not enter on my list of friends [sense, 
(Thouijh graced with polish'd manners and fme 
Yet wanting sensibility) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
That crawls at evening in the public path: 
But he thai has humanity, forewarn'il, 
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, 
And chargeil perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
Sacred to neatness, and repose, the alcove, 
The chamber, or refectory, may die: 
A necessary act incurs no blame. 
Not so when, held within their proper hounds. 
And guiltless of otTence, they range the air. 
Or take their pastime in the spacious field : 
There they are privileged; anil he that hunts 
Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 
Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, 
Who. when she form'd, design'd them an abode. 
The sum is this. If man's convenience, health, 
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. 
Else they are all — the meanest things that are, 
As free to live, and to enjoy that life. 
As God was free to form them at the first. 
Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all. 
Ye therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
To love it too. The spring-time of our years 
Is soon dishonor'd anil detiled in most, 
By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
To check them. But, alas ! none sooner shoots. 
If unrestrain'd. into luxuriant growth. 
Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. 
Mercy to him that shows it is the rule 
And righteous limitation of its act. 
By which Heavenmovesin pardoning guilty man ; 
And he that shows none, being ripe in years, 
And conscious of the outrage he commits. 
Shall seek it. and not finil it in his turn. 

Distinguish 'd much by reason, and still more 
By our capacity of grace divine. 
From creatures that exist but for our sake, 
Which, having served us, perish, we are held 
Accountable ; and God, some future day, 
Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse 
Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust. 
Superior as we are, they yet depend 
Not more on human help than we on theirs. 
Their strength, or spee<l, or vigilance, were given 
In aid of our defects. In some arc found 
Such teachable and apprehensive parts, 
That man's attainments in his own concerns. 
Match'd with the expertncss of the brutes in 

theirs. 
Are ofttinies vanquish'd and thrown far behind. 
Some show that nice sagacity of smell. 
And read with such discernment, in the port 
And figure of the man, his secret aim. 
That ort we owe our safety to a skill 
We could not teach, and must despair to learn. 
But learn we might if not too proud to stoop 
To quadruped inslriir-tors, many a good 
And us.jful quality, and virtue too, 
Rarely exemplified among ourselves — 
Attachment never to be wean'd or changed 



By any change of fortune ; proof alike 
Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; 
Fiilelity. that neither bribe nor threat 
Can move or warp ; and gratitude lor small, 
.'Vnd trivial favors, lasting as the life 
And glistening even in the dying eye. 

Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms 
Wins public honor ; and ten thousand sit 
Patiently present at a sacred song, 
Commemoration-matl ; content to hear 
(O wonderful etfect of music's power !) 
Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake. 
But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve — 
(For was it less, what heathen would have dared 
To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath. 
And hang it up in honor of a man !) 
Much less might serve, when all that we desii'n 
It but to gratity an itching ear. 
And give the day to a musician's praise. 
Remember Handel 1 Who, that was not born 
Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets. 
Or can, the more than Homer of his age 1 
Yes — we remember him ; and while wo praise 
A talent so divine, remember too 
That His most holy book, from whom it came, 
Was never meant, was never used before. 
To buckram out the memory of a man. 
But hush ! — the nmse perhaps is too severe j 
And, with a gravity beyond the size 
And measure of the olTence rebukes a deed' 
Less impious than absurd, and owing more 
To want of judgment than to wrong design. 
So in the chapel of old F.ly House, [third. 

When wandering Charles, who meant to be the 
Had fled from VVilliam. and the news was fresh, 
The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce. 
And eke did rear right merrily, two staves. 
Sung to the praise and "lory of King George I 
— Man praises man ; and Garrick's memory next. 
When tune hath somewhat mellow'd it, and made 
The idol of our worship while he lived 
The god of our idolatry once more, 
.Shall have its altar ; and the world shall go 
In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. 
The theatre, too small, shall sulTocate 
Its squeezed contents and juore than it admit;! 
Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return 
UngratiHed : for there some noble lord [bunch. 
Shall stutT his shoulders with king Richard's 
Or wrap himself' in Hamlet's inky cloak, [stare, 
.\nd strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and 
To show the world how Garrick did not act — 
For Garrick was a worshipper himselt"; 
He dri^w the liturgy, and framed the rites 
And solemn ceremonial of the day, 
And caird the world to worship on the hanks 
Of .Avon, famed in song, .ill, pleasant proof 
That [tifly had still in human hearts 
Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. 
The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming 

wreaths ; 
The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance ; 
The mulberrj'-tree was hyum'd with dulcet airs; 
And from his touchwood trunk the imilberry-trec 
Supplied such relii's as devotion holds 
Still sacred, and preserves with i)ious care. 
So 'twas a hallow'd time ; tlecorum reign'd. 
.\nd nurth without oft'ence. No ti-w rcturn'd, 
Dcmbtlcss much edified, and all refresh'd. 
— Man praises man. The rabble all alive, 
From tippling benches," cellars, stalls, and styes, 
.Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the ilay 



600 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A pompous ami slow-moving pageant, comes. 
Some shout him, and some hang upon his car, 
To gaze in his eyes, and bless him. Maidens 

wave 
Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy ; 
While others, not so satisfied, unhorse 
The gilded equipage, and turning loose 
His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. 
Why'? what has charm'd them ^ Hath he saved 

the state 1 
No. Doth he purpose its salvation ? No. 
Enchanting novelty, that moon at full, 
That finds out every crevice of the head 
That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs 
Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near 
And his own cattle must suffice him soon. 
Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, 
And dedicate a tribute hi its use 
And just direction sacred, to a thing 
Doom'd to the dust, or lodged already there. 
Encoaiium in old lime was poet's work ; 
But poets, having lavishly long since 
Exhausted all materials of the art, 
The task now falls into the public hand ; 
And I, contented with an humble theme, 
Have pour'il my stream of panegyric down 
The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds 
Among her lovely works with a secure 
And unambitious course, reflecting clear, 
If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. 
And I am recompensed, and deem the toils 
Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine 
jVIay stand between an animal and woe. 
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. 

The groans of Nature in this nether world. 
Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end. 
Foretold by projjhets, and by poets sung, 
Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, 
The time of rest, the promised sabbath, comes. 
Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh 
FulfiH'd their tardy and disastrous course 
Over a sinful world ; and what remains 
Of this tempestuous state of human tilings 
Is merely as the working of a sea 
Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest; 
For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds 
The dust that waits upon his sultry march, 
When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot, 
Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend 
Propitious in his chariot paved with love; 
Ami vi'hat his storms have blasted and defaced 
For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. 

Sweet is the harp of prophecy ; too sweet 
Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch : 
Nor can the wonders it records be sung 
To meaner music, and not suffer loss. 
But when a poet, or when one like me, 
Happy to rove among poetic flowers, 
Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last 
On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, 
Such is the impulse and the spur he feels, 
To give it praise propoilion'd to its worth, 
That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems 
The labor, were a task more arduous still. 

O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true. 
Scenes of accomplish d bliss ! which who can see, 
Though but in distant pruspuct. and not feel 
His soul refresh'd with fort-taste of the joy 1 
Rivers of gladness water all the earth, 
And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach 
Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field [lean, 
Laughs with abundance; and the land, once 



Or fertile only in its own disgrace, 
Exult.s to see its thistly curse repeai'd. 
The various seasons woven into one. 
And tiiat one season an eternal spring, 
The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, 
For there is none to covf t, all are full. 
The Hon. and the libbard, and the bear 
Graze with the fearless flocks ; all bask at noon 
Together, or all gambol in the shade 
Of the same grove, and drink one common stream, 
Antipathies are none. No toe to man 
Lurks in the serpent now: the mother sees, 
And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand 
Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm. 
To stroke his azure neck, or to receive 
The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. 
All creatures worship man, and all mankind 
One Lord, one Father. Error has no place ; 
That creeping pestilence is driven away ; 
The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart 
No passion touches a discordant string. 
But all is harmony and love. Disease 
Is not : the pure uncontaminate blood 
Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. 
One song employs all nations : and all cry, 
■' Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !" 
The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
Shout to each other, and the inpuntain tops 
From distant mountains catch the flyin^ joy; 
Till, nation at^er nation taught the strain, 
Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. 
Behold the measure of the promise fill'd j 
See Salem built, the labor of a God; 
Bright as a sun, the sacred city shines ; 
All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 
Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 
F^lows into her; unbounded is her joy, 
And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, 
Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;* 
The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, 
And Saba's spicy groves, pay tribute there. 
Praise is in all her gates: upon her walls, 
And in her streets, and in her spacious courts, 
Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
Kneels with the native of the farthest west; 
And .(Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand. 
And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 
Into all lands. From every clime they come 
To see thy beauty, and to share thy joys, 
O Sion ! an assembly such as earth 
Saw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. 
Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were 
Perlect, and all must be at length restored, [once 
So God has greatly purposed ; who would else 
In his dishonord works himself endure 
Dishonor, and be wrong'd without redress. 
Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd world, 
Ye slow-revolving seasons ! we would see 
(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) 
A world that does not dread and hate his law 
And suffer for its crime ; would learn how fair 
The creature is that God pronounces good, 
How pleasant in itself what pleases him. 
Here every drop of honey hides a sting; 
Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers; 
And e'en the joy that haply some poor heart 
Derives from heaven, pure as the tbuntain is, 
Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint 

* Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishraael, and pro- 
genitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here ol 
hided tu, may be reasonably considered as representa- 
tives of the Gentiles at large. 



THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 



601 



Kroni touch of human Ups, at best impure. 
O lor a world in principle as chaste 
As this is gross and selfish ! over which 
Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, 
That fjovcrn all things' here, shouldering aside 
The iiuek and modest Truth, and forcing her 
To seek a refuge from the tongue of 8tril'e 
In nooks obscure, tar from the ways of men : 
Where Violence shall never lift the sword, 
Nor (.'unning justify the proud man's wrong, 
Leaving I lie poor no remedy but tears: 
Where he. that fdls an office, shall esteem 
The occasion it presents of doing good [speak 
More than the perquisite : where Law shall 
Seldom, and never but as Wisdom prompts 
.\nd ICquity ; not jealous more to guard 
A worthless tbrm. than to decide aright : — 
W'hcre Fashion shall not sanctity aiuise, 
Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace) 
With lean perlbrmance ape the work of Love ! 
Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, 
Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, 
Thou who alone art worthy ! It was thine 
By ancient covenant, ere Nature's birth ; 
Antl tiiou hast made it thine by purchase since, 
And overpaid its value with thy blood, [hearts 
Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and in their 
Thy title is engraven with a pen 
Dipjj'd in the fountain of eternal love. 
Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delay 
Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see 
The dawn of thy last advent, long desired, 
Would creep into the bowels of the hills, 
And llee tor safety to the falling rocks. 
The very spirit of the world is tired 
Of its own taunting question, ask'd so long, 
" Where is the promise of your Lord's approadh 1" 
The infidel h.is shot his bolts away. 
Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, 
He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil'd, 
.■Vnd aims them at the sliield of Truth again. 
The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, 
That hides divinity from mortal eyes; 
And all the mysteries to faith proposed, 
Insulted and traduced, are cast aside, 
As useless, to the moles and to the bats, [praised ; 
They now are deem'd the faitht'ul, and are 
W'ho, constant only in rejecting thee, 
Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal. 
And quit their office for their error's sake. 
Blind, and in love with darkness ! yet e'en these 
Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel 
Thy name adoring, and then preach thee man ! 
So farea thy church. But how thy church may 
tare [preach. 

The world takes little thought. Who will may 
And what they will. All pastors are alike 
To wandering sheep, resolved to follow none. 
Two gods divide them all — Pleasure and Gain : 
For these they live, they sacrifice to these, 
And in their service wage perpetual war [hearts. 
With Conscience nml with thee. Lust in their 
.-Vnil mischief in their hands, they roam the earth 
To prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce, 
High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. 
Thy prophets speak of such ; ami, noting down 
The features of the last degenerate limes. 
Exhibit every lineament of these. 
Come then, and, added to thy many crowns, 
Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest. 
Due to t!iy last and most effectual work, 
Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world ! 



He is the happy man whose life e'en now 
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; 
Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, 
Is pleased with it, and. were he tree to choose. 
Would make his f'ate his choice ; whom peace, 

the fruit 
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, 
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one 
Content indeed to sojourn while he must 
Below the skies, but having there his home. 
The world o'erlooks him in her busy search 
Of objects, more illustrious in her view ; 
And, occupied as earnestly as she. 
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. 
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them 

not; 
He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. 
He cannot skim the ground like summer birds 
Pursuing gilded flies ; and such he deems 
Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. 
Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss. 
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from 

earth 
She makes familiar with a heaven unseen. 
And shows him glories yet to be revealed. 
Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, 
And censured ot^ as useless. Stillest streams 
Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird 
That flutters least is longest on the wing. 
Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised. 
Or what achievements of immortal fame 
He purposes, and he shall answer — None, 
His warfare is witliin. There unlatiwued 
His fervent spirit labors. There he fights. 
And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself 
And never-withering wreaths, compared with 

which 
The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. 
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world. 
That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks 
Scarce deigns to notice him. or, if she see. 
Deems him a cypher in the works of God, 
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours. 
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes 
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring 
.\nd plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes. 
When, Isaac-like, the soHtary saint 
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide. 
And think on her, who thinks not for herself 
Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns 
Of little worth, an idler in the best. 
If author of no mischief and some good, 
He seek his proper happiness by means 
Th:it may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. 
Nor, though he tread the secret path of lite, 
Engage no notice, and enjoy much easfe, 
Account him an encumbrance on the state, 
Receiving benefits, and rendering none. 
His sphere, though humble, if that humble 

sphere 
.Siiine with his fair example, and though small 
His influence, if that influence all be spent 
In so(»thing sorrow and in quenching strife, 
In aiding helpless indigence, in works 
From wliicli at least a gratcf'ul few derive 
•Some taste of comfort in a world of woe; 
Then let the supercilious great confess 
He serves his country, recompenses well 
The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine 
He sits secure, and in the scale of life 
Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. 
The man, whose virtues are more tcit than seen, 



602 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ; 
But he may boast, what lew that win it can, 
That, it* his country stand not by his skill, 
At least his follies have not wroutjht her fall. 
Polite Refinement offers him in vain 
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world 
Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, 
The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. 
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode 
Bfcause that world adopts it. If it bear 
The stamp and clear impression of good sense, 
And be not costly more than of true worth, 
He puts it on. and. for decorum sake, 
Can wear it e'en as gracefully «s she. 
She judges of refinement by the eye, 
He by the test of conscience, and a heart 
Not soon deceived ; aware that what is base 
No polish can make sterling; and that vice, 
Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd, 
Like an unburied carcass trick d with flowers 
Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far 
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. 
So hfc glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
More golden than that age of fabled gold 
Renown'd in ancient sonir; not vex'd with care 
Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved 
Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 



So glide my life away ! and so, at last, 

My share of duties decently fulfill'd. 

May some disease, not tardy to perform 

Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, 

Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, 

Beneath the turf that I have oilen trod. 

It shall not grieve me then that once, when cali'd 

To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, 

I playVi awhile, obedient to the fair, 

With that light task; but soon, to please her 

more, 
Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, 
Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and roved for 
fruit : [true, 

Roved far, and gathered much : some harsh, 'tis 
Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof, 
But wholesome, well-digested ; grateful some 
To palates that can taste unmortal truth; 
Insipid else, and sure to be despised. 
But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek. 
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, 
If he regard not. though divine the theme. 
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime 
And idle tinckling of a minstrel's lyre, 
To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; 
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, 
Whose approbation — prosper even mine. 



AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 



Dear Joseph — five-and-twenty years ago — 
Alas, how time escapes! — 'tis even so — 
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet, 
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat 
A tedious hour — and now we never meet ! 
As some grave gentleman in Terence says. 
TTwas therefore much the same in ancient days,) 
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings— 
Strange fluctuation of all human things! 
True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, 
But distance only cannot change the heart : 
And were I cali'd to prove the assertion true, 
One proof should serve — a reference to you. 

Whence comes it then, that, in the wane of fife, 
Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife. 
We find the friends we fancied we had won. 
Though numerous once, reduced to few or none 1 
Can gold grow worthless that has stood the 

touch 1 
No; gold tliey seem'd, but they were never such. 

Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, 
Swinging the parlor door upon its hinge, 
Dreading a negative, and overawed 
Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. 
Go, fellow! — whither? — turning short about — 
Nay — stay at home — you're always going out. 
'Tis but. a step, sir, just at the street's end. — 
For what ? — An please you, sir, to see a friend. — 
A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start — 
Vea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. 
And fetch my cloak ; for tliough the night be raw, 
I'll see him too — the first I ever saw. 



I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, 
' And was his plaything often when a child ; 
! But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, 

Else he was seldom bitter or morose. 
; Perhaps his confidence, just then betray'd, [made, 
! His grief might prompt him with the speech he 
■ Perhaps 'twas mere gooil humor gave it birth, 
' The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth, 
I Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, 
I Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. 
; But not to moralize too much, and strain 
I To prove an evil of which all complain ; 
(I hate long arguments verbosely spun;) 
' One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. 
; Once on a time an emperor, a wise man, 
No matter where, in China or Japan, 
Decreed that whosoever should offend 
Against the well-known duties of a friend, 
Convicted once, should ever aRer wear 
But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. 
The punishment importing this, no doubt, 
: That all was naught within, and all found out. 

Oil, happy Britain ! we have not to fear 
i Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; 

Else, could a law like that which I relate 
I Once have the sanction of our triple state, 
' Some few, that I have known in days of old, 
j Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold ; 
I While you, my friend, whatever wind (Should blow, 
I Might traverse England safely to and fro, 
' An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, 
I Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within. 



TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS. 



Kc<pa\aiov 6rt iraiietai opBn rpoipn- — Plato. 
Ap^^i; TToXtrcias anaarji veuv Tpo<pa, — Dioo. Laert. 



To the Rev. William Cawlhorne t'nwin. Rector of Stock 
in Essex, the tutor or his two sons, the following poem, 
recommending private tuition in preference to on edu- 
cation at school, is inscribed by his affectionate friend, 
William Cowper. 

Olnnh 'V«r. G, 1784. 



It is not from his form, in which we trace 
Strength join'd with beauty, diirnity with grace, 
That man. the master of this nrlobe, derives 
His right of empire over all that lives. 
That tbrui. indeed, the associate of a mind 
Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, 
That form, the labor of Ahiiighty skill. 
Framed for the service of a freeborn will, 
Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, 
But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. 
Hers is the state, the sp!t.ndor, and tbe throne, 
An intellectual kinijdom all her own. 
For her the memory fills her ample page 
With truths pour'd down from every distant age ; 
For her amasses an unbounded store, 
The wisdom of great nations, now no more ; 
Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; 
Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil ; 
When copiously supplied, then most enlarged ; 
Still to be fed. and not to be surcharged. 
For her the F'ancy, roving unconfined, 
The present muse of every pensive mind, 
Works ma^ic wonders, adds a brighter hue 
To Nature s scenes than Nature ever knew. 
At her command winds rise and waters roar, 
Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; 
With flower ami fruit the wilJerness supplies, 
Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. 
For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife [Hfe, 
That Grace and Nature have to wage through 
Cluick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, 
Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, 
Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice 
Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. 

Wiiy did the fiat of a Goii give birth 
To yon fair Sun. and his atl( ndunt Earth 1 
And. when descending he resigns the skies, 
Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, 
WhomOceanfeelsthrough all his countless waves, 
And owns her power on every shore he laves ? 
Why do the seasons still enrich the year, 
Fruitful and young as in their first career"? 
Sprini; hangs her infant Idossoms on the trees, 
Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; 
Suamior in haste tbe thriving charge receives 
Btneath the shade of her exi>anded leaves. 
Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews 
Dye them at last in all their glowing hues. — 



"Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, 
Power misemploy 'd, munificence misplaced 
Had not its Author dignified the plan, 
And crown'd it with the majesty of man. 
Thus form'd,thus placed, intelligent, and taught^ 
Look where he will, the wonders God has 

wrought. 
The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws, 
Finds in a sober moment time to pause. 
To press the important question on his heart, 
" Wny form'd at all. and wherefore as thou art 7" 
If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, 
The next mere dust and ashes in the grave ; 
Endued with reason only to descry 
His crimes and follies with an aching eye ; 
With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, 

j The force he spends against their fury vain ; 

i And if, soon after having burnt, by turns. 

I With every lust with whicli frail Nature burns, 
His being end where death dissolves the bond, 
The tomb take all. and all be blank beyond ; 
Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, 
Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, 
And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, 
Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. 
Truths that the Icarn'd pursue with eager 
thought 
Are not ijni)ortant always as dear-bought. 
Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, 
A childish waste of philosophic pains ; 
But truths on which depend our main concern, 
That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, 
Shine by the side of every path we tread 
With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 
'Tis true that, if to trifle Hie away 
Down to the sunset of their latest day, 
Then perish on futurity's wide shore 
Like fleeting exhalations, found no more. 
Were all that Heaven required of human kind, 
And all the plan their destiny design'd. [blame, 
What none could reverence all might justly 
And man would breathe but for his Maker's 

shame. 
But reason hearil. and nature well perused, 
At once the dreaming mind is disaliused. 
If all we find possessing earth, sea. air, 
Reflect His attributes wlio placed them there, 
Fulfil the purpose, and appear desio;n'd 
Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seenig mind, 
'Tis plain the creatun', whom he chose to invest 
With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, 
Received his nobler nature, and was made 
Fit for the powir in whicli he stands arrayed; 
That first, or Ia.st. hereafter, if not here. 
He too might make his author's wisdom clear. 



604 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, 
Suffer his justice in a world to come. 
This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied 
To prove a consequence by none denied, 
That we are bound to cast the minds of youth 
Betimes into the mould ol" heavenly truth, 
That taught of God they may indeed be wise, 
Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies. 

In early days the conscience has in most 
A quickness, which in later life is lost : 
Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, 
Or guilty soon relenting into tears. 
Too careless often, as our years proceed, [read, 
What friends we sort with, or what books we 
Our parents yet exert a prudent care 
To feed our infant minds with proper fare; 
And wisely store the nursery by degrees [ease. 
With wholesome learning, yet acquired with 
Neatly secured from being soiiVl or torn 
Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, 
A book (to please us at a tender age 
Tis call u a book, though but a single page) 
Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach, 
Which children use, and parsons — when they 
LispiniT our syllables, we scramble next [preach. 
Througii moral narrative, or sacred text; 
And learn with wonder how this world began, 
Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd 

man: [plain. 

Points which, unless the Scripture made them 
The wisest heads might agitate in vain. 
Oh thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing 
Back to the season of life's happy spring, 
I pleased remember, and, while memory yet 
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; 
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale 
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail ; 
Wliose humorous vein, strong sense, and sunple 

style. 
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; 
Witty, and well employed, and, like thy Lord, 
SpeakinCT in parables his slighted word ; 
I name tliee not, lest so despised a name 
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame; 
Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, 
That mingles all my brown with sober grey. 
Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road, 
And guides the Progrhss of the soul to God. 
'Twere well with most, if books that could engage 
Their childhood pleased them at a riper age; 
The man, ap])roving what had charm'd the boy, 
Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, 
And not with curses on his heart, who stole 
The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. 
The stamp of artless piety imprcss'd 
By kind tuition on his yielding breast. 
The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw, 
Regards with scorn, though once received with 
And, warp'd into the labyrinth of hes, [awe; 
That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, 
Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan 
Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. 
Touch but his nature in its aihng part, 
Assert the native evil of his heart, 
His pride resents the charge, although the proof* 
Rise in his tbrehead, and seem rank enough 
Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross 
As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, 
The young apostate sickens at the view, 
And hates it with the maUce of a Jew. 

*Se^2Chron. xxvi. 19. 



How weak the barrier of mere nature proves, 
Opposed against the pleasures nature loves! 
While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone, 
She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. 
Try now the merits of this blest exchange 
Of modest truth tor wit's eccentric range. 
Time was, he closed as he began the day, 
With decent duty, not ashamed to pray; 
The practice was a bond upon his heart, 
A pledge he gave for a consistent part; 
Nor could he dare presumptuously displease 
A power cont'ess'd so lately on his knees. 
But now fart;well all legendary tales, 
The shadows fly, philosophy prevails ; 
Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves; 
Religion makes the free by nature slaves. 
Priests have invented, and the world admired 
What knavish priests promulgate as inspired ; 
Till Reason, now no longer overawed, [fraud ; 
Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy 
And, common sense diffusing real day. 
The meteor of the Gospel dies away. 
Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth 
Learn from expert inquirers atler truth; 
Whose only care, might truth presume to speak, 
Is not to find what they profess to seek. 
And thus, well tutor'd only while we share 
A mother's lectures and a nurse's care; 
And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,* 
But sound religion sparingly enough ; 
Our early notices of truth disgraced. 
Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced. 
Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, 
Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once; 
That in good time the striphng's finish'd taste 
For loose expense and fashionable waste 
Should provL' your ruin, and his own at last ; 
Train him in public with a mob of boys, 
Childish in mischief only and in noise, 
Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten, 
In infidelity and lewdness men. 
There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, 
That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold ; 
That pedantry is all that schools impart, 
But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; 
There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays, 
Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise, 
His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove. 
And some street-pacing harlot his first love. 
Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong. 
Detain their adolescent charge too long ; 
The management of tiros of eighteen 
Is ditlicult, their punishment obscene. 
The stout tall captain, whose superior size 
The minor heroes view with envious eyes, 
Becomes their pattern upon whom they fix 
Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. 
His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit, 
With them is courage ; his effrontery wit. 
His wild excursions, window-breaking feats. 
Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets, 
His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring 
schemes, [themes. 

Transport them, and are made their favorite 
In little bosoms such achievements strike 
A kindred spark : they burn to do the like. 

''' The authdi- be^ leave to explain.— Sensible Ihnt, 
withoul such knowledi^o, neitht-r the iincicnt poets nor 
hifsturians can be tasted, or indeed under^iuod, he does 
nut mean to ci-nsuiv the pains that are taltcn to instrnct 
a schoulhoy in i1k' iilii;iun of the hcalheii, but merely 
that neglect of I'iirislian culture which leaves him shame- 
fully ignorant of his own. 



TIROCINIUM. 



605 



lis, half ncconiplisli'il ere he yet bcmn 
sliovv the peepini; down upon his chin ; 



Thus, 
To 

And, as miilurity of years comes on, 
Mmlc jusl the ailept that you design'd your son ; 
To ensure the perseverance of his course, 
And give your monstrous project all its force, 
Send him to college. If he there be tamed, 
Or in one article of vice reclaimd, 
Where no regard of ordinance is shown 
Or look'd for now, the fault must he his own. 
Some sneaking virtue lurks in him no doubt. 
Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking 
Nor gambUng practices can lind it out. [bout. 
Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, 
Ve nurseries of our boys, we owe to you : 
Though from ourselves the mischief more pro- 
ceeds, 
For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. 
The slaves of custom and eslablish'd mode, 
\V'ith packliorse constancy we keep the road. 
Crooked or straight, through ^uags or thorny dells, 
True to the jingUng of our leader's bells. 
To follow Ibolish precedents, and wijik 
With both our eyes, is easier than to think : 
And such an age as ours balks no expense. 
Except of caution and of common sense ; 
Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain, 
Would turn our steps into a wiser train. 
I blame not those who, with what care they can, 
O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan ; 
Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare 
Promise a work of which they must despair. 
Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, 
A ubiquarian presence and control, 
Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd, 
Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd ! 
"V'es — ye are conscious; and on all the shelves 
Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. 
Or if by nature sober, ye had then. 
Hoys as ye were, the gravity of men, 
■^'e knew at least, by constant proofs address'd 
To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. 
But ye connive at what ye cannot cure. 
And evils not to be enilured endure. 
Lest power exerted, but without success, 
Should make the little ye retain still less. 
Vc once were justly famed for bringing forth 
Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth ; 
And in the firmament of fame still shines 
A glory, bright as that of all the signs, 
Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines. 
Peace to them all ! those brilliant times are fled. 
And no such lights are kindling in their stead. 
Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays 
As set the midnight riot in a blaze ; 
And seem, if judged by their expressive looks. 
Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. 

Say, muse, (for education niaile the song. 
No muse can hesitate, or linger long,) 
What causes move us, knowing, as we must, 
That these menageries all fail their trust. 
To send our sons to scout and scamper there. 
While colts and j)Uppies cost us so much care "i 

Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise. 
We love the play-place of our early days ; 
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone 
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 
The wall on which we tried our graving skill. 
The very name we carved subsisting still ; 
The bench on which we sat while deep employ 'd. 
Though man'rlcd, hack'd, an. I liew'd, not yet 
destroy d ; 



The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot. 
Playing our games, and on the very spot ; 
.■Is happy as we once, to kneel and draw 
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw ; 
To pilch the ball into the grounded hat, 
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat ; 
The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
Such recollection of our own delights. 
That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain 
Our innocent sweet simple years again. 
This fond attachment to the well-known place, 
Whence (irst we started into life's long race. 
Maintains its hold with such unfaihng sway. 
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. 
Hark ! how the sire of chits, whose future share 
Of classic fooil begins to be his care. 
With his own likeness placed on cither knee, 
Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee ; 
And tells them as he strokes their silver locks, 
That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; 
Then turning, he regales his hstcning wife 
With all the adventures of his early lit'e ; 
His skill in coachaianship, or driving chaise, 
In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays; 
What shills he used, detected in a scrape. 
How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape; 
What sums he lost at play, and how he sold 
Watch, seals, and all — till all his pranks arc told. 
Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name 
That palliates deeds of folly and of shame.) 
He gives the local bias all its sway ; 
Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall pluy, 
And destines their bright genius to be shown 
Just in the scene where he display 'd his own. 
The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught 
To be as bold and forward as he ought ; 
The rude will scuffle through with case enough. 
Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. 
Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, 
The event is sure ; expect it, and rejoice ! 
Soon see your wish fulfiU'd in either chilil. 
The pert made perter, and the tame made wild. 

The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, 
Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth. 
Are best disposed of where with most success 
They may acquire that confident address. 
Those habits of proiuse and lewd expense. 
That scorn of all delights but those of sense, 
^\'hich, though in plain plebeians we condemn, 
With so much reason, all expect from them. 
But families of less illustrious fame, 
Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, 
Whose heirs, their honors none, their income 
Must shine by true desert, or not at all, [small. 
What dream they of, that, with so little care 
They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure, 

there 1 
They dream of little Charles or William graced 
With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist ; 
They see the attentive crowds his talents draw, 
They hear him speak — the oracle of law. 
The father, who designs his babe a priest. 
Dreams him episcopally such at least ; 
And, while the playt'ul jockey scours the room 
Briskly, astride upon the parlor broom. 
In fancy sees him more superbly ride 
In coach with purple lined, and mitres on its side. 
Events imiirobable and strange as these. 
Which only a parental eye I'orsees, 
A public school shall bring to pass with case. 
But how ■? resides such virtue in that air, 
I .\s must create on appetite for prayer's 



606 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



And will it breathe into him all the zeal 
That candidates tor such a prize should feel, 
To take the lead and be the foremost still 
In all true worth and literary skill 1 
" Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught 
The knowledge ofthe World, and dulTof thought ! 
Church ladders are not always mounted best 
By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. 
The exalted prize demands an upward look, 
Not to be found by poring on a book. 
Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek, 
Is more than adequate to all I seek. 
Let erudition grace him, or not grace, 
I give the bauble but the second place; 
His wealth, fame, honors, all that I intend. 
Subsist and centre in one point — a friend. 
A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, 
Shall give him consequence, heal all defects 
His intercourse with peers and sons of peers — 
There dawns the splendor of his future years : 
In that bright quarter his propitious skies 
Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. 
Your Lordship, and Your Grace ! what school 

can teach 
A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech 1 
What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, 
Sweet interjections ! if he learn but those 1 
Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke. 
Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch, 
The parson knows enough who knows a duke." 
Egregious purpose ! worthily begun 
In barbarous prostitution of your son ; 
Press'd on his part by means that would dis- 
grace 
A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place, 
And ending, if at last its end be gain'd. 
In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. 
It may succeed : and if his sins should call 
For more than common punishment, it shall ; 
The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth 
Least qualified in honor, learning, worth, 
To occupy a sacred, awful post, 
In which the best and worthiest tremble most. 
The royal letters are a thing of course, 
A king, that would, might recommend his horse ; 
And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one 

voice. 
As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. 
Behold your bishop ! well he plays his part, 
Christian in name, and infidel in heart. 
Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, 
A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. 
Dumb as a senator, and as a priest 
A piece of mere church furniture at best ; 
To live estranged Irom God his total scope. 
And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. 
But, fair although and feasible it seem, 
Depend not much upon your golden dream ; 
For Providence, that seems concorn'd to exempt 
The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt. 
In spite of all the wrigglers into place. 
Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace ; 
And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be rare. 
We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. 
Besides, school friendships are not always found, 
Though fair in promise, permanent and sound; 
The most disinterested and virtuous minds, 
In early years connected time unbinds; 
New situations give a different cast 
Of habit, inclination, temper, taste ; 
And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, 
Soon shows the strong similitude reversed. 



Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are 

warm. 
And make mistakes for manhood to reform. 
Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, 
Whose scent and hues are rather guess'd than 

known; 
Each dreams that each is just what he appears, 
But learns his error in maturer years. 
When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd. 
Shows all its rents and patches to the world. 
If therefore, e'en when honest in design, 
A boyish friendship may so soon dechne, 
'Twcre wiser sure to inspire a little heart 
With just abhorrence of so mean a part. 
Than set your son to work at a vile trade 
For wages so unlikely to be paid. 

Our public hives of puerile resort. 
That are of chief and most approved report, 
To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, 
Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. 
A principle, whose proud pretensions pass 
Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass — 
That with a world, not oflen over-nice, 
Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice ; 
Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, 
Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride — 
Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their 

fame ; 
And emulation is its specious name. 
Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal. 
Feel all the rage that female rivals feel ; 
The prize of l)eauty in a woman's eyes 
Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. 
The spirit of that competition burns 
With all varieties of ill by turns ; 
Each vainly magniiies his own success, 
Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less. 
Exults in his miscarriage if he fail. 
Deems his reward too great if he prevail. 
And labors to surpass him day and night. 
Less for improvement than to tickle spite. 
The spur is powerful, and I grant its force ; 
It pricks the genius forward in its course. 
Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; 
And, telt alike by each, advances both : 
But judge, where so much evil intervenes. 
The end, though plausible, not worth the means. 
Weigh, for a moment, classical desert 
.'Vgainst a heart depraved and temper hurt: 
Hurt too perhaps for life; for early wrong 
Done to the nobler part, affects it long ; 
And you are stauncli indeed in learning's cause, 
If you can crown a discipline, that draws 
Such mischiefs after it, with much applause. 

Connexion form'd for interest, and endear'd 
By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd ; 
.And emulation, as engendering hate, 
Dooni'd to a no less ignominious fate ; 
The props of such proud seminaries fall, 
The Jaehin and the Boaz of them all. 
Great schools rejected then as those that swell 
Beyond a size that can be managed well, 
Shall royal institutions miss the bays, 
And small academies win all the praise 1 
Force not my drill beyond its just intent, 
I praise a school as Pope a government ; 
So take my judgment in his language dress'd, 
" Whate'er is best administer'd is best." 
Few boys are born with talents that excel. 
But all are capable of living well. 
Then ask not, whether hmited or large'? 
But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge 1 



TIROCINIUM. 



607 



If anxious only that their boys may Icarn, 
\Vl\iIe morals languish, a despised concern, 
The great and small deserve one common blame, 
Diflerent in size, but in eiTect the same. 
]Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, 
Though motives of mere lucre sway the most ; 
Thfretore in towns and cities they abound, 
Kiir there the ga?ne they seek is easiest found; 
Though there, in spite of all that care can do, 
Traps to catch youth are most abunilant too. 
If slircwil, and if a vvell-eonstrueted brain. 
Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, 
^'our son come Jbrth a prodigy of skill; 
,^s, wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will ; 
The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, 
Claims more than iialf the praise as his due share. 
But if, with all his genius, he betray. 
Not more intelligent than loose and gay, 
.'^uch vicious hal)its as disgrace his name. 
Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame; 
Though want of due restraint alone have bred 
The symptoms that you see with so much dread ; 
Unenvied there, he may sustain alone 
'The wholi,- reproach, the lault was all his own. 

Oh ! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused, 
By all whoai sentiment has not abused ; 
New-fangled sentiment the boasted grace 
Of those who never feel in the right place ; 
A sight surpass'd by none that we can show, 
Thougli Vestris on one leg still shine below ; 
A fatiier blest with an ingenuous son. 
Father, and Iriend, and tutor, all in one. 
How! — turn again to tales long since forgot, 
.ICsop, and Phajdrus, and the rest ? — Why notl 
He will not blush, that has a father's heart, 
To take in childish plays a childish part ; 
But bends his sturdy back to any toy 
That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy ; 
Then why ri'sign into a stranger's hand 
A task as much within your own command, 
That God and nature, and your interest too, 
Seem with one voice to delegate to you 1 
NVhy hire a loilging in a house unknown 
Tor one whose tenderest thoughts all hover 

round your own i 
This second weaning, needless as it is, 
How does it lacerate both your heart and his I 
The indented stick, that loses day by day, 
.\'uteh aller notch, till all are smooth'd away 
IJears witness long ere his dismission come, 
With what intense desire he wants his home. 
But though the joys he hopes beneath your 

roof 
Bid fair enough to answer in the proof. 
Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, 
A ili.sappointmcnt waits him even there : 
.Arrived, he feels an unexpected change; 
He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, 
No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease, 
His favorite stand between his father's knees. 
But seeks the corner of some distant seat. 
And eyes the door, and watches a retreat. 
And, least t'amiliar where he should be rao.st. 
Feels all his happiest privileges lost. 
Alas poor boy '.—the natural ed'ect 
Of love by absence chill'd into respect. 
Say, what accomplishments, at school ac(juired, 
Brings he. to sweeten fruits so undesired ! 
Thou Well descrv'st an alienated son. 
Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge — none; 
None that, in thy domestic snug recess. 
He had not made his own with more address, 



Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling 
.And better never learn'd, or letl behind, [mind, 
.Add too that, thus estranged, thou canst obtain 
By no kind arts his confidence again ; 
That here begins with most that long complaint 
Of filial frankness lost, and love grown t'aint. 
Which, oil neglected, in life's waning years 
.A parent pours into regardless ears. 

Like caterpillars danirhng under trees 
By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, 
^Vhich lilthily bewray and sore disgrace 
The boughs in which are bred the unseemly race ; 
While every worm industriously weaves 
.And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves; 
So nu.nerous are the follies that annoy 
The mind and heart of every sprightly boy; 
Imaginations noxious and perverse. 
Which admonition can alone disperse. 
The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand, 
Patient, aflectionate, of high command. 
To check the procreation of a breed 
Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 
'Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page, 
.At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage ; 
E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend 
To warn, and teach him safely to unbdiid ; 
O'er all his pleasures gently to preside, 
W^ateh his emotions, and control their tide ; 
And levying thus, and with an easy sway, 
A tax of profit from his very play. 
To impress a value, not to be erased, [waste. 
On moments sqander'd else, and running all to 
And seems it nothing in a father's eye 
That unimproved those many monients fly f 
.And is he well content his son should find 
No nourishment to lecd his growing mind. 
But conjugated verbs and nouns declined'? 
For such is all the mental food purvcy'd 
By public hackneys in the schooUng trade ; 
Who feed a pupil's intellect with store 
Of syntax, truly, but with little more ; 
Dismi.ss their cares when they dismiss their flock, 
Aiachines themselves, and govern 'd by a clock. 
Perhaps a father, blest with any brains. 
Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains. 
To improve this diet, at no great expense, 
With savory truth and wholesome common 

sense; 
To lead his .son, for prospects of delight. 
To some not steep, though philosophic, height, 
Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes 
"^'on circling worlds, their distance, and their size. 
The moons of .Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, 
.And the harmonious order of them all ; 
To show him in an insect or a flower 
Such mieroseopie proof of skill and power, 
As, hid t'rom ages past, God now displays 
To combat atheists with in modern days; 
To spread the earth before him and commend. 
With designation of the finger's end. 
Its various part-s to his attentive note. 
Thus bringing home to him the most remote ; 
To teach his heart to glow with generous flam'-. 
Caught t'ro.m the deeds of men o^ ancient fame; 
-And. more than all, with commendation due. 
To set some living worthy in his view. 
Whose t'air example may at once inspire 
.A wish to copy what he must admire. [pears. 
Such knowledge, gain'd betimes, and which ap- 
Though solid, not too weighty for his years. 
Sweet in itself and not forbidding sport. 
When health demands it, of athletic sort. 



608 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Would make him — what some lovely boys 

have been, 
And more tlian one perhaps that I have seen — 
An evidence and reprehension both 
Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. 

Art thou a man professionally tied, 
With all thy foculties elsewhere applied, 
Too busy to intend a meaner care 
Than how to enrich thyself, and next thine heir ; 
Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art) 
But poor in knowledge, having none to impart: — 
Behold that tigure, neat, though plainly clad ; 
His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad ; 
Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then 
Heard to articulate like other men ; 
No jester, and yet lively in discourse. 
His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force ; 
And his address, if not quite French in ease, 
Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please ; 
Low in the world, because he scorns its arts; 
A man of letters, manners, morals, parts ; 
Unpatronized, and therefore little known; 
Wise for liimself and his fiiw friends alone — 
In him thy well-appointed proxy see, 
Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee ; 
Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth. 
To form thy son. to strike his genius forth ; 
Beneath thy roof beneath thine eye. to prove 
The force of discipline when backVl by love ; 
To double all thy pleasure in thy child. 
His mind inform'd, his morals undefiled. 
Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show 
No spots contracted among grooms below, 
Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd 
By footman Tom for witty and refined. 
There, in his commerce, witii the liveried herd, 
Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd ; 
For since (so fashion dictates) all, who claim 
A higher than a mere plebeian fame. 
Find it expedient, come what mischief may, 
To entertain a thief or two ir) pay, 
(And they that can afford the expense of more. 
Some half a dozen, and some half a score,) 
Great cause occurs to save him from a band 
So sure to spoil him, and so near at hand; 
A point secured, if once he be supplied 
With some such Mentor always at his side. 
Are such men rare 1 perhaps they would abound 
Were occupation easier to be found. 
Were education, else so sure to fail. 
Conducted on a manageable scale, 
And schools, that have outlived all just esteem, 
Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme. — 
But, having found him, be thou duke or earl. 
Show tliou hast sense enough to prize the pearl, 
And. as thou wouldst the advancement of thine 
In all good faculties beneath his care, [heu: 

Respect, as is but rational and just, 
A man deemVI worthy of so dear a trust. 
Despised by thee, what more can he expect 
From youthful folly than the same neglect 1 
A fiat and fatal negative obtains 
That instant upon all his future pains ; 
His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend, 
And all the instructions of thy son's best friend 
Are a stream choked, or trickling to no end. 
Doom him not then to solitary meals; 
But recollect that he has sense, and feels; 
And that, possessor of a soul refined. 
An upright heart, and cultivated mind. 
His post not mean, his talents not unknown. 
He deems it hard to vegetate alone. 



And, if admitted at thy board he sit, 
Account him no just mark for idle wit ; 
Offend not him whom modesty restrains 
From reparte, with jokes that he disdains ; 
Much less transfix his feelings with an oath ; 
Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth. — 
And, trust me, his utility may reach 
To more than he is hired, or bound to teach ; 
Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone. 
Through reverence of the censor of thy son. 

But. if thy table be indeed unclean, 
Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene. 
And thou a wretch, whom, following her old plan. 
The world accounts an honorable man. 
Because tbrsooth thy courage has been tried. 
And stood tlie test, perhaps on,the wrong side ; 
Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove 
That anything but vice could win thy love ; — 
Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife, 
Cham'd to the routs that she frequents for life ; 
Who, just when industry begins to snore, [door ; 
Fhes. wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowded 
And thrice in every wmter throngs thine own 
With half the chariots and sedans in town, 
Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst ; 
Not very sober though, nor very chaste ; 
Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank, 
If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank. 
And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood, 
A trifler vain, and empty of all good ; — 
Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none, 
Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. 
Saved from his home, where every day brings 

forth 
.Some mischief fatal to his future worth. 
Find him a better in a distant spot. 
Within some pious pastor's humble cot. 
Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean. 
The most seducing, and the oftenest seen) 
May never more be slamp'd upon his breast, 
Not yet perhaps incurably impress'd : 
Where early rest makes early rising sure, 
Disease or comes not. or finds easy cure. 
Prevented much by diet neat and plain ; 
Or, if it enter, soon starved out again : 
Where all the attention of his faithful host. 
Discreetly limited to two at most, 
May raise such fruits as shall reward his care, 
And not at last evaporate in air: 
Where, stillness aiding study, and his mind 
Serene, and to his duties much inclined. 
Not occupied in day dreams, as at home. 
Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come, 
His virtuous toil may terminate at last 
In settled habit and decided taste. -»- 
But whom do I advise 1 the fashion-led. 
The incorrigibly wrong, the deaf the dead ! 
Whom care and cool deliberation suit 
Not better much than spectacles a brute ; 
Who, if their sons some slight tuition share, 
Deem it of no great moment whose, or where ; 
Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one un- 
known, 
And much too gay to have any of their own. 
But courage man ! methought the Muse replied, 
Mankind are various, and the world is wide : 
The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind. 
And form'd of God without a parent's mind. 
Commits her eggs, incautious to the dust. 
Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust; 
And. while on public nurseries they rely. 
Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why, 



TIROCINIUM. 



609 



Irrational in what they thus prefer, 

No tew, that would seem wise, resemble her. 
But all are not alike. Thy warning voice 
Jlay here and there prevent erroneous choice ; 
Antl some, perhaps, who, busy as they are, 
Vet make their projjeny their dearest care, 
(Whose hearts will ache, once told what ills 

may reach 
Their ofTspring. left upon so wild a beach,) 
Will need no stress ol" argument to entbrcc 
The expedience of a less adventurous course; 
The rest will slight thy counsel, or condemn ; 
But they have human feelings — turn to them. 
To you, then, tenants of life's middle state, 
Securely placed between the small and great, 
Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains 
Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains. 
Who, wise yourselves, desire your sons should 

leajn 
Your wisdom and your ways — to you I turn. 
Look round you on a world perversely blind ; 
See what contempt is fallen on human kind ; 
See wealth aliused, and dignities misplaced. 
Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced. 
Long lines of ancestrj-. renown'd of old, 
Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold ; 
See Bedlam's closeted and handeulT'd charge 
Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large ; 
See great commanders making war a trade, 
Great lawyers, lawyers without study made ; 
Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ 
Is odious, and their wages all their joy. 
Who, far enough from I'urnishing their shelves 
With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves; 
See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed 
With infamy too nauseous to be named. 
Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien, 
Civited fellows, smelt ere they are seen. 
Else coarse and rude in manners, and their 

tongue 
On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung, 
Now fiush'd with drunkenness, now with whore- 
dom pale, 
Their breath a sample of last night's regale ; 
See volunteers in all the vilest arts. 
Men well endow'd, of honorable parts, 
Design'd by Nature wise, but self made fools; 
All these, and more like these, were bred at 

schools. 
And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, 
That though school-bred the boy be virtuous 

still; 
Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark, 
Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark ; 
As here and there a twinkling star descried 
Serves but to show how black is all beside. 
Now look on him, whose very voice in tone 
Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own. 
And stroke his polish'd check of purest red, 
And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head. 
And say. My boy. the unwelcome hour is come. 
When thou, transplanted from thy genial home, 
Must find a colder soil and bleaker air, 
Anil trust for safety to a stranger's care; 
What character, what turn thou wilt assume 
From constant converse with I know not whom; 
Who there will court thy friendship, with what 

views, 
And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose ; 



Though much depends on what thy choice 

shall be, 
Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me. 
Canst tliou. the tear just trembling on thy lids. 

I And while the dreadful risk Ibreseen forbids; 
Free too, and under no constraining force, 
Unless the sway of custom warp thy course ; 
Lay such a stake upon the losing side, 

I Merely to gratify so blind a guide 1 

' Thou canst not ! Nature, pulling at thine heart, 

' Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part. 
Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest 
Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea, [p'ea. 

Nor say. Go thither, conscious that there lay 
A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way ; 
Then, only govcrn'd by the self-same rule 
Of natural pity, send him not to school. 
No — guard him better. Is he not thine own. 
Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bonel 
And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,) 
That, since thy strength must with thy years 

elope. 
And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage 
Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age, 
That then, in recompense of all thy cares. 
Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs, 
Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft. 
And give thy life its only cordial lefll 
Aware then how much danger intervenes, 
To compass that good end, forecast the means. 
His heart, now passive, yields to thy command ; 
Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand ; 
If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide, 
Nor heed what guests there enter and abide. 
Complain not if attachments lewd and base 
Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place. 
But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure. 
From vicious inmates, and delights impure. 
Either his gratitude shall hold him fast. 
And keep him warm and fihal to the last ; 
Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say 
But, being man, and therefore fr.ail, he mayl) 
One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, 
Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. 
Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic 
hand [i' th' land ; 

Pull down the schools — what ! — all the schools 
Or thrown them up to livery-nags and grooms. 
Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms t 
A captious question, sir, (and yours is one.) 
Deserves an answer similar, or none. 
Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ 
)rised that ne is such) a careless boy. 



And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, 
Merely to sleep, and let them run astray ? 
Survey our schools and colleges, and see 
A sight not much unlike my simile. 
From education, as the leading cause. 
The public character its color draws ; 
Thence the prevailing manners take their cast. 
Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. 
And though I would not adverliso them yet, 
Nor write on each — 77ii.s- Buildin;^ to be Let, 
Unless the world were all prepared to embrace 
A plan well worthy to su]iplv their place ; 
Vet, backward as they are, and long have been, 
To cultivate and keep the MoR.\[>s clean, 
(Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, 
Or better managed, or encouraged less. 

39 



610 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING 
TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX. 

Verses addressed lo a Country Clergyman, complaining 
of the diso,greeat)leness of the day annually appointed 
for receiving the Dues at the Parsonage. 

Come, ponJer well, for 'tis no jest, 

To laui;li it woulJ be wrong, 
The troubles of a worthy priest, 

The burden of my song. 

The prie-st he merry is and blithe 

Three quarters of a year : 
But oh ! it cuts him like a scythe. 

When tithing time draws near. 

He then is full of frifrbt and fears, 

As one at point to die, 
And long before the day appears, 

He heaves up many a sigh. 

For then tlie farmers come jog, jog, 

Along the riiiry road, 
Each heart as heavy as a log. 

To make their payments good. 

In sooth the sorrow of such days 

Is not to be express'd. 
When he that takes and he that pays 

Are both ahke distress'd. 

Now all unwelcome at his gates 

The clumsy swains alight, 
With rueful faces and bald pates — 

He trembles at the sight. 

And well he may, for well he knows 

Each bumpkin of the clan. 
Instead of paying what he owes. 

Will cheat nun if he can. 

So in they come — each makes his leg. 

And flings his head before. 
And looks as if he came to beg, 

And not to quit a score. 

" And how does miss and madam do. 

The little boy and all 1" 
" All tight and "well. And how do you. 

Good Mr. What-d'ye-call !" 

The dinner comes, and down they sit, 

Were e'er such hungry folk 1 
There's little talking, and no wit ; 

It is no time to joke. 

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve. 

One spits upon the floor. 
Yet not to give ofl'ence or grieve. 

Holds up the cloth before. 

The punch goes round, and they are dull 

And lumpish still as ever ; 
Like barrels with their bellies full. 

They only weigh the heavier. 

At length the busy time begins. 

'' Come, neighbors, we must wag "— 
The money chinks, down drop then: chins. 

Each lugging out his bag. 

One talks of mildew and of frost. 

And one of storms of hail, 
And one of pigs that he has lost 

By maggots at the tail. 



Quoth one, " A rarer man than you 

In pulpit none shall hear: 
But yet, methinks, to tell you true. 

You sell it plaguy dear." 

O why are farmers made so coarse. 

Or clergy made so fine 1 
A kick, that scarce would move a horse. 

May kill a sound divine. 

Then let the boobies stay at home ; 

'Twould cost him, I dare say. 
Less trouble taking twice the sum 

Without the clowns that pay. 



SONNET, 

ADDRESSED TO HENny COWPER, ESa. 

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the De- 
fence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords. 

CowPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes 
hard. 
Legends prolix delivers in the ears [peers, 
(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's 

Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, 
Expending late on all that length of plea 
Thy generous powers, but silence honor'd thee. 

Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard. 

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside [sweet 
Both heart and head ; and couldst with music 
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone. 
Like thy renown'd forefatliers, far and wide 
Thy fame diU'use, praised not for utterance meet 
Of others' speech, but magic of thij own. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, 

AUTHOR OF " THE BOTANIC GARDEN." 

Two Poets,* (poets, by report. 

Not oft so well agree.) 
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! 

Conspire to honor thee. 

They best can judge a poet's worth. 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetic birth 
By labors of their own. 

We therefore pleased extol thy song, 

Though various, yet complete, 
Rich in embellishment as strong. 

And learned as 'tis sweet. 

No envy mingles witli our praise 

Though could our hearts repine 
At any poet's happier lays, 

They would — they must at thine. 

But we, in mutual bondage knit 

Of friendship's closest tie. 
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit 

With an unjaundiced eye ; 

* Alluding to the poem, by Mr. Hayley, which accom- 
panied these lines. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



611 



And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, 

And howsoever known, 
Who would not twine a wreath for thee, 

Unwortliv of his own. 



MRS. MONTAGU'S FE.ITHER-HANGINGS. 

Thk birds put off their every hue 
To dress a room for Montagu. 

The peacocic sends his heavenly dyes. 
His rainliows and his starry eyes, 
The pheasant plumes, which round enfold 
His mantling neck with downy gold. 
The cock his arch'd tail's azure show; 
And, river-ldaneh'il, the swan his snow. 
All tribes beside of Indian name. 
That glossy shine, or vivid flame. 
Where rises, and where sets the day, 
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay, 
Contriliute to the gorgeous plan. 
Proud to advance it all they can. 
This plumage neither dashing shower, 
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower. 
Shall drench again or discompose. 
But, screcn'd from every storai that blows, 
It boasts a splendor ever new 
Safe with protecting Montagu. 

To the same patroness resort, 
Secure of favor at her court. 
Strong Genius, trom whose forge of thought 
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought. 
Which, though new-born, with vigor move, 
Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove — 
Imagination scattering round 
Wild roses over furrow'tl ground. 
Which Labor of his t'rown beguile, 
And teach Philosophy a smile — 
VVit flashing on Religion's side. 
Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, ^ 

The gem, though luminous bclbre. 
Obtrude on human notice more. 
Like sunbeams on llie golden height 
Of some tall temple playing bright — 
Well tutor'd Learning, irom his books 
Dismiss'd witii grave, not haughty, looks, 
Their order on his shelves exact. 
Not more harmonious or compact 
Than that to which he keeps confined 
The various treasures of his mind — 
All these to Montagu's repair, 
Ambitious of a shelter there. 
There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, 
Their rulHcd plumage calm refit, 
(For stormy troubles loudest roar 
Around their flight who highest soar.) 
And in her eye, and by her aid. 
Shine safe without a I'ear to tadc. 

She thus maintains divided sway 
With yon bright regent of the day ; 
The Pluaie and Poet both we know 
Their lustre to his influence owe ; 
And she the works of Phoebus aiding. 
Both Poet saves and Plume from fading. 



VERSES, 

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during 
his solitary abode in tlie island or Juan Fernandez. 

I AM monarch of all I survey. 
My right there is none to dispute ; 



From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where arc the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face 1 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in tliis horrible place. 

1 am out of humanity's reach, 

1 must finish my journey alone. 
Never hear the sweet music of speech, 

I start at the sounil of my own. 
The beasts, that roam over tlie plain. 

My form with indilference see; 
They are so unacijuainteil with man. 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 

Society, friendship, and love. 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O, had I the wings of a dove. 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In tlie ways of religion and truth. 
Might learn trom the wisdom of age, 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver and gold. 

Or all that this earth can afl'ord. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard. 
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell. 

Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd. 

Ye winds that have made nie your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some corilial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought atler me ! 
O tell me 1 yet have a friend. 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How fleet is the glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight. 
The tempest itself lags behind. 

And the switl-winged arrows of liwht. 
When I think of my own native land, 

In a moaicnt I seem to be there ; 
But alas ! recollection at hand 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 

The beast is laid down in his lair; 
Even here is a season of rest, 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place. 

And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
Gives even aflliction a grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 



OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE 
NOTE 

RKCORDED IN THE BIOGR.IPHU BniTAXXlC,*, 

On, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 

To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! 

In vain recorded in historic page. 

They court the notice of a future age : 

Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land 

Drop one by one Ijom Karnes neglecting hand ; 



612 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Lethsean gulfs receive them as they fall, 
And dark oblivion soon absorhs them all. 

So when a child, as playful children use. 
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news. 
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark ! 
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! 



REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, 

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OP THB BOOKS. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the 
cause (learning; 

With a great deal of skill and a wig full of 
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 

So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly 
find, [wear, 

That the Nose has had spectacles always in 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 

Then holding the spectacles up to the court — 
Your lordship observes they are made with a 
straddle. 

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be 
again) 
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles 
then? 



On 



the whole it appears, and my argument 
shows, [deran. 

With a reasoning the court will never con- 
That the spectacles plainly were made for the 
Nose, [them. 

And the Nose was as plainly intended for 

Then shifting his side, (as a lavvyer knows how,) 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; 

But what were his arguments few people know. 
For the court did not think they were equally 



So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but— 

That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on. 
By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be 
shut! 



ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD 
THURLOW, ESQ., 

TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND. 

RotJND Thurlow's head in early youth. 

And in his sportive days, 
Fair Science pour'd the light of truth. 

And Genius shed his rays. 



See ! with united wonder cried 
The experienced and the sage, 

Ambition in a boy supphed 
With all the skill of age ! 

Discernment, eloquence, and grace, 

Proclaim him born to sway 
The balance in the highest place, 

And bear the palm away. 

The praise bestow'd was just and wise ; 

He sprang impetuous forth. 
Secure of conquest, where the prize 

Attends superior worth. 

So the best courser on the plain 

Ere yet he starts is known, 
And does but at the goal obtain 

What all had decm'd his own. 



ODE TO PEACE. 

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest ! 
Return, and make thy downy nest 

Once more in this sad heart : 
Nor riches I nor power pursue. 
Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 

We therefore need not part. 

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, 
From avarice and ambition free, 

And pleasure's fatal wiles ? 
For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
The sweets that I was wont to share. 

The banquet of thy smiles 1 

The great, the gay, shall they partake 
The heaven that thou alone canst makel 

And wilt thou quit the stream 
That murmurs through the dewy mead, 
The grove and the scquester'd shed. 

To be a guest with them 1 

For thee I panted, thee I prized. 
For thee I gladly sacrificed 

Whate'er I loved before ; 
And shall I see thee start away, 
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say — 

Farewell ! we meet no more 1 



HUMAN FRAILTY. 

Weak and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day. 
Woven with pains into his plan. 

To-morrow rends away. 

The bow well bent, and smart the spring. 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But Passion rudely snaps the string. 

And it revives again. 

Some foe to his upright intent 

Finds out his weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent, 

But Pleasure wins his heart. 

'Tis here the folly of the wise 
Through all his art we view ; 

And, while his tongue the charge denies. 
His conscience owns it true. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



613 



Bound on a voyage of awful length 

And dangers little known, 
A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

But oars alone can ne'er prevail 

To reach the distant coast; 
The lireatli of Heaven must swell the sail, 

Or all the toil is lost. 



THE MODERN PATRIOT. 

Rebellion is my theme all day; 

I only wish 'twould come 
(As who knows but perhaps it may ?) 

A little nearer home. 

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight 

On t'other side the Atlantic, 
I always held them in the right, 

But most so when most frantic. 

When lawless mobs insult the court. 
That man shall be my toast. 

If breaking windows be the sport, 
Who bravely breaks the most. 

But O ! for him my fancy culls 
The choicest flowers she bears, 

Who con.stitutionaliy pulls 
Your house about your ears. 

Such civil broils are my delight. 
Though some folks can't endure them, 

Who say the mob are mad outright. 
And that a rope must cure them. 

A rope ! I wish we patriots had 

Such strings for all who need 'cm — 

What ! hang a man for going mad ! 
Then farewell British freedom. 



BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S 
LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS., BY THE MOB, IN THE 
MONTH OF JONE, 1780. 

So then — the Vandals of our isle. 

Sworn foes to sense and law, 
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 

Than ever Roman saw ! 

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swifl, 

And many a treasure more, 
The well-judged purchase, and the gift 

That graced his letter'd store. 

Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, 

The loss was his alone ; 
But ages yet to come shall mourn 

The burning of his own. 



ON THE SAME. 

When wit and eenius meet their doom 

In all ilevouring flame. 
They tell us of the fate of Rome, 

And bid us fear the same. 



O'er Murray's loss the muses wept, 

They felt the rude alarm, 
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept 

His sacred head from harm. 

There Memory, like the bee that's fed 

From Flora's balmy store, 
The quintessence of all he read 

Had treasured up before. 

The lawless herd, with fury blind, 
Have done him cruel wrong ; 

The flowers are gone — but still we find 
The honey on his tongue. 



THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; 

OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.* 

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, 
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; 
There is a part in every swine 
No friend or follower of mine 
May taste, whatc'er his inchnation, 
On pain of excommunication, 
.Sucii Mahomet's mysterious charge, 
And thus he left the point at large. 
Had he the sinful part express'd. 
They might with safety eat the rest; 
Rut for one piece they thought it hard 
From the whole hog to be debarr'd ; 
And set their wit at work to find 
What joint the prophet had in mind. 
Much controversy straight arose. 
These choose the back, the belly those ; 
By some 'tis confidently said 
He meant not to forbid the head ; 
While others at that doctrine rail. 
And piously prefer the tail. 
Thus, conscience freed from every clog, 
Mahometans eat up the hog. 

You laugh — 'tis well — the tale appUed 
I\Iay make you laugh on t'other side. 
Renounce the world — the preacher cries. 
Wc do — a multitude rephcs. 
While one as innocent regards 
A snug and friendly game at cards; 
And one, whatever you may say. 
Can see no evil in a play ; 
Some love a concert, or a race ; 
And others shooting, and the chase. 
Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd. 
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd; 
Each thinks his neighbor make^ too free. 
Yet likes a slice as well as he : 
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) 
THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. 

Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red 
With tears o'er hapless favorites shed, 
O share Maria's grief! 

• It may bo proper to inform the reader, that this piece 
has already appeared in prim, having found its way, 
though with some unnecessary additions by an unltnown 
hand, inlo Ibo Leeds Journal, wiUiout the author's 
privily. 



614 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Her favorite, even in his cage, 
(What will not hunger's cruel rage 1) 
Assassin'd by a thief. 

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, 
The egg was laid from which he sprung ; 

And, though by nature mute, 
Or only with a wliistle blest, 
Well taught he all the sounds express'd 

Of flageolet or flute. 

The honors of his ebon poll 

Were brighter than the sleekest mole, 

His bosom of the hue 
With which Aurora decks the skies, 
When piping winds shall soon arise. 

To sweep away the dew. 

Above, below, in all the house, 
Dire foe aUkc of bird and mouse 

No cat had leave to dwell ; 
And Bully's cage supported stood 
On props of smoothest shaven wood, 

Large built, and latticed well. 

Well latticed — but the grate, alas ! 
Not rough with wire of steel or brass, 

For Bully's plumage sake, 
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, 
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, 

The swains their baskets make. 

Night veil'd the pole : all seem'd secure : 
When, led by instinct sharp and sure, 

Subsistence to provide, 
A beast forth sallied on the scout, 
Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, 

And badger-color'd hide. 

He, entering at the study door, 
Its ample area 'gan explore ; 

And something in the wind 
Conjectured, sniffing round and round, 
Better than all the books he found, 

Food chiefly for the mind. 

Just then, by adverse fate irapress'd, 
A dream disturb'd poor Bully rest. 

In sleep he seem'd to view 
A rat fast clinging to the cage, 
And, screaming at the sad presage. 

Awoke and found it true. 

For, aided both by ear and scent. 
Right to his mark the monster went— 

Ah, muse ! forbear to speak 
Minute the horrors that ensued ; 
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood — 

He left poor Bully's beak. 

had he made that too his prey ; 
That beak, whence issued many a lay 

Of such mellifluous tone. 
Might have repaid him well I, wote. 
For silencing so sweet a throat, 

Fast stuck within his own. 

Maria weeps — the Muses mourn — 
So when, by Bacchanalians torn. 

On Thracian Hebrus' side 
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell. 
His head alone remain'd to tell 

The cruel death he died. 



THE ROSE. 

The rose had been wash'd, just washed in a 
shower. 

Which Mary to Anna convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 

And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all 
wet. 

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, 
To weep for the buds it had left, with regret. 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was, 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp d it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mmd, 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resign'd. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. 

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; 

And the tear, that is wip'd with a little address. 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 



THE DOVES. 

Reasoning at every step he treads, 

Man yet mistakes his way 
While meaner things, whom instinct leads, 

Are rarely known to stray. 

One silent eve I wander'd late. 

And heard the voice of love; 
The turtle thus address'd her mate. 

And soothed the listening dove : 

Our mutual bond of faith and truth 

No time shall disengage. 
Those blessings of our early youth 

Shall cheer our latest age : 

While innocence without disguise, 

And constancy sincere. 
Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 

And mine can read them there; 

Those ills, that wait on all below, 

.Shall ne'er be felt by me. 
Or gently felt, and only so, 

As being shared with thee. 

When lightnings flash among the trees, 

Or kites are hovering near, 
I fear lest thee alone they seize, 

And know no other fear. 

'Tis then I feel myself a wife. 

And press thy wedded side. 
Resolved a union form'd for hfe 

Death never shall divide. 

But oh ! if, fickle and unchaste, 
(Forgive a transient thought,) 

Thou couldst become unkind at last, 
And scorn thy present lot. 

No need of lightnings from on high. 
Or kites with cruel beak ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



615 



Denied the endearments of thine eye, 
This widow'd heart would break. 

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd hird 

Soft as the passing wind, 
And I recorded what 1 heard, 

A lesson for mankind. 



A FABLE. 

A RAVEN, while with glossy breast 

Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, 

And, on her wicker-work high mounted, 

Her chickens prematurely counted, 

(A fault philosophers might blame. 

If quite exempted from the same,) 

Enjoy d at ease the genial day ; 

'Twas April, as the bumpkins say. 

The legislature call'd it May. 

But suddenly a wind, as high 

As ever swept a winter sky, 

Shook the young leaves about her ears. 

And find herwith a thousand fears. 

Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, 

And spread her golden hopes below. 

But just at eve the blowing weather 

.4.nd all her fears were hush'd together: 

And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 

'Tis over, and the brood is safe ; 

(For ravens, though, as birds of omen. 

They teach both conjurors and old women 

To tell us what is to befall. 

Can't prophesy themselves at all.) 

The morning came, when neighbor Hodge, 

Who long had niark'd her airy lodge, 

And destined all the treasure there 

A gift to his expecting fair. 

Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray. 

And bore the worthless prize away. 



'Tis Providence alone secures 
In every change both mine and yours : 
Safety consists not in escape 
From dangers of a frightful shape ; 
An earthquake may l)e bid to spare 
The man that's strangled by a fiair. 
Fate steals along with silent tread. 
Found ort'nest in wh.at least we dread. 
Frowns in the storm with angry brow. 
But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 



ODE TO APOLLO. 

ON AN INKOI.ASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. 

Patron of all those luckless brains, 
That, to the wrong side leaning, 

Indite much metre with much pains. 
And little or no meaning; 

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 

That water all the nations, 
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams. 

By constant exhalations; 

Why, stooping from the noon of day. 

Too covetous of drink, 
Apollo, hast tliou stolen away 

A poet's drop of ink 1 



Upborne into the viewless air, 

It floats a vapor now, 
Impell'd through regions dense and rare, 

By all the winds that blow. 

Ordairi'd perhai)s, ere summer flies. 
Combined with millions more. 

To forai an iris in the skies. 
Though black and foul before. 

Illustrious drop ! and happy then 

Beyond the happiest lot. 
Of all that ever pass'd my pen. 

So soon to be t'orgot ! 

Phoebus, if such be thy design, 

To place it in thy bow, 
Give wit, that what is left may shine 

With equal grace below. 



A COMPARISON. 

The lapse of time and rivers is the same. 
Both speed their journey with a restless stream, 
The silent pace, with which they steal away. 
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay ; 
Ahke irrevocable both when past, 
And a wide ocean swallows both at last. 
Though each resemble each in every part, 
A dilTerence strikes at length the musing heart ; 
Streams never flow in vain ; where streams 
abound, [crown'd ! 

How laughs the land with various plenty 
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind. 
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. 



ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED TO A TOnNG LADY. 

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, 

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — 

.Silent and chaste she steals along, 

Far from the world's gay busy throng j 

VVith gentle yet prevailing force. 

Intent upon her destined course ; 

Graceful and useful all she does. 

Blessing and blest where'er she goes. 

Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass. 

And heaven reflected in her face. 



THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 

TO MRS. (now lady) THROCKMORTON. 

Maria ! I have every good 

For thee wish'd many a time. 
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood. 

But never yet in rhyme. 

To wish thee fairer is no need, 
More prudent, or more sprightly. 

Or more ingenious, or more freed 
From temper-flaws unsightly. 

What favor then not yet possess'd 

Can I for thee require. 
In wedded love already blest. 

To thy whole heart's desire t 



616 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



None here is happy but in part : 

Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
There dwells some wish in every heart, 

And doubtless one in thine. 

That wish on some fair future day, 
Which fate shall brightly gild, 

('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) 
I wish it all fullill'd. 



PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 



I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau* 

If birds confabulate or no ; 

'Tis clear, that they were always able 

To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 

And e'en the child who knows no better 

Than to interpret, by the letter, 

A story of a cock and bull, 

Must have a most uncommon skull. 

It chanced then on a winter's day, 
But warm, and briij;ht, and calm as May, 
The birds, conceiving a design 
To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
Assembled on affairs of love. 
And with much twitter and much chatter 
Began to agitate the matter. 
At length a bulllinch, who could boast 
More years and wisdom than the most, 
Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
A moment's liberty to speak ; 
And, silence publicly enjoin'd, 
Dehver'd briefly thus his mind : 

My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
The subject upon which we meet ; 
I fear we shall have winter yet. 

A finch, whose tongue knew no control, 
With golden wing and satin poll, 
A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
What marriage means, thus pert replied : 

Methinks the gentleman, quoth she. 
Opposite in the apple tree. 
By his good will would keep us single 
Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 
Or (which is likelier to befall) 
Till death exterminate us all. 
I marry without more ado, 
My dear Dick Redcap, what say you 1 

Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling. 
Turning short round, strutting and sideling, 
Attested, glad, his approbation 
Of an immediate conjugation. 
Their sentiments so well e.xpress'd 
Influenced mightily the rest. 
All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. 

But, though the birds were thus in haste, 
The leaves can^e on not quite so fast, 
And destiny, that sometimes bears 
An aspect stern on man's affairs, 
Not altogether smiled on theirs. 
The wind, of late breathed gently forth, 
Now shifted east, and east by north ; 

* It was one of the whimf-icalspecvilations of this phi- 
losopher, that all I'ahli's wliiili a.scribc reason and speech 
to animals EhouUl b.- willihild IVom children, as being 
only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever 
deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of 
his senses ? 



Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know. 
Could shelter them from rain or snow. 
Stepping into their nests, they paddled, 
Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled; 
Soon every father bird and mother 
Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, 
Parted without the least regret, 
Exee]}t that they had ever met. 
And learn'd in future to be wiser. 
Than to neglect a good adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses ! the tale that I relate 
This lesson seems to carry — 

Choose not alone a proper mate. 
But proper time to marry. 



THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY. 



The noon was shady, and soft airs 

Swept Ouse's silent tide. 
When, 'scaped from literary cares, 

I wander'd on his side. 

My spaniel, prettiest of his race. 

And high in pedigree, 
(Two nymphs'* adorn'd with every grace 

That spaniel found for me,) 

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight, 
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads 

With scarce a slower flight. 

It was the time when Ouse display'd 

His hiies newly blown ; 
Their beauties I intent survey'd, 

And one I wish'd my own. 

With cane extended far I sought 

To steer it close to land ; 
But still the prize, though nearly caught, 

Escaped my eager hand. 

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 

With tix'd considerate face, 
And puzzling set his puppy brains 

To comprehend the case. 

But with a cherup clear and strong 

Dispersing all his dream. 
I thence withdrew, and Ibllow'd long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I return'd ; 

Beau, trotting far before. 
The floating wreath again discern'd. 

And plunging, left the shore. 

I saw him with that lily cropp'd 

Impatient swim to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 

The treausure at my feet. 

Charm'd with the sight, the world. I cried, 

Shall hear of this thy deed : 
My dog shall mortify the pride 

Of man's superior breed : 

* Sir Robert Gunning's daughters. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



617 



But chief myself I will enjoin, 

Awake at duty's cull, 
To show a love as prompt as thine, 

To Him who gives me all. 



THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 

What Nature, alas ! has denied 

To the delicate growth of our isle, 
Art has in a measure supplied, 

And winter is deck'd with a smile. 
See, Mary, what beauties I bring 

From the shelter of that sunny shed. 
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, 

Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets. 

Where Flora is still in her prime, 
A fortress to which she retreats, 

From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
While earth wears a mantle of snow. 

These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest that blow 

On the beautiful bosom of May. 

See how they have safely survived 

The frowns of a sky so severe ; 
Such Mary's true love, that has lived 

Through many a turbulent year. 
The charms of the late-blowing rose 

Seem graced with a livelier hue. 
And the winter of sorrow best shows 

The truth of a friend such as you. 



THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSI- 
SITIVE PLANT. 

An Oyster, cast upon the shore. 
Was heard, thougn never heard before, 
Complaining in a speech well worded, 
And wortliy thus to be recorded : — 

Ah. hapless wretch ! condemn'd to dwell 
Forever in my native shell ; 
Ordain'd to move when others please. 
Not for my own content or ease j 
But toss'd and burt'eted about. 
Now in the water, and now out. 
'Twere better to be born a stone, 
Of ruder shape, and fiieling none, 
Than with a tenderness like mine, 
And sensibilities so fine ! 
I envy that unfeeling slirub. 
Fast rooted against every rub. 
The plant he meant grew not far off. 
And felt the sneer with scorn enouwh: 
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified. 
And with asperity replied : 

(When, cry the botanists, and stare, 
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there 1 
No matter when — a poet's muse is 
To make them grow just where she chooses) 

You shapeless nothing in a dish, 
You that are but almost a fish, 
I scorn your coarse insinuation. 
And have most plentiful occasion 
To wish myself the rock I view. 
Or such another dolt as you : 
For many a grave, and learned clerk 
And many a gay unlctter'd spark, 



With curious touch examines me. 

If I can feel as well as he ; 

And when 1 bend, retire, and shrink, 

Says — Well, tis more than one would think ! 

Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't) 

In being touch 'd, and crying — Don't! 

A poet, in his evening walk. 
O'erhcard and check'd this idle talk. 
And your fine sense, he said, and yours, 
Whatever evil it endures, 
Deserves not, if so soon offended, 
Much to be pitied or commended. 
Disputes, though short, are far too long. 
Where both alike are in the wrong; 
Your feehngs in their full amount 
Are all upon your own account. 

You, in your grotto-work enclosed, 
Complain of being thus exposed ; 
Yet nothing teel in that rouuh coat 
Save when the knife is at your throat. 
Wherever driven by wind or tide, 
Exempt from every ill beside. 

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
Who reckon every touch a" blemish. 
If all the plants, that can be found 
Embellishing the scene around. 
Should droop and wither where they grow, 
You would not feel at all— not you. 
The noblest minds their virtue prove 
By pity, sympathy, and love : 
These, these are feelings truly fine, 
And prove their owner half divine. 

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it 
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it. 



THE SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFrLICTION. 

Oh, happy shades— to me unblest I 
Friendly to peace, but not to me I 

How ill the scene that offers rest. 
And heart that cannot rest, agree ! 

This glassy stream, that spreading pine, 
Those alders, quivering to the breeze, 

Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, 
And please, if anything could please. 

But fix'd unalterable Care 

Foregoes not what she feels within, 
Shows the same sadness everywhere, 

And slights the season and the scene. 

For all that pleased in wood or lawn. 
While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, 

Her animating smile withdrawn. 
Has lost its beauties and its powers. 

The saint or moralist should tread 
This moss-grown alley musing, slow ; 

They seek like me the secret shade. 
But nut Uke me to nourish woe I 

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 

Alike admonish not to roam; 
These tell me of enjoyments past, 

And those of sorrows yet to come. 



618 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED 
STATE. 

The lady thus address'd her spouse — 
What a mere dungeon is this house ; 
By no means large enough ; and was it, 
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, 
Those hangings witli their worn-out graces, 
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, 
Are such an antiquated scene, 
They overwhelm me with the spleen. 
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark. 
Makes answer quite beside the mark : 
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
Engaged myself to be at home. 
And shall expect him at the door 
Precisely when the clock strikes four. 

You are so deaf, the lady cried, 
(And raised her voice, and frown'd beside,) 
You are so sadly deaf my dear, 
What shall I do to make you hear) 

Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
Some people are more nice than wise: 
For one sliglit trespass all this stir 1 
What if he did ride whip and spur, 
Twas but a mile — your favorite horse 
Will never look one hair the worse. 

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing — 
Child ! I am rather hard of hearing — 
Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl ; 
I tell you, you can't hear at all ! 
Then, with a voice exceeding low, 
No matter if you hear or no. 

Alas ! and is domestic strife, 
That sorest ill of human life, 
A plague so little to be fear'd. 
As to be wantonly incurr'd. 
To gratify a fretful passion, . 
On every trivial provocation t 
The kindest and the happiest pair 
Will find occasion to forbear; 
And something every day they live 
To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
But if infirmities, that fall 
In common to the lot of all, 
A blemish or a sense impair'd, 
Are crimes so little to be spared. 
Then farewell all that must create 
The comfort of the wedded state ; 
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, 
And tumult, and intestine war. 

The love that cheers life's latest stage, 
Proof against sickness and old age, 
Preserved by virtue from declension, 
Becomes not weary of attention ; 
But lives, when that exterior grace. 
Which first inspired the flame, decays. 
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind," 
To faults compassionate or bUnd, 
And will with sympathy endure 
Those evils it would gladly cure : 
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, 
Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
Proves that the heart is none of his, 
Or soon expels him if it is. 



THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 

Forced from home and all its pleasures, 
Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 



To increase a stranger's treasures. 
O'er the raging bdlows borne. 

Men from England bought and sold me, 
Paid my price in paltry gold ; 

But. though slave they have enroll'd me, 
Minds are never to be sold. 

Still in thought as free as ever. 

What are England's rights, I ask, 
Me from my delights to sever. 

Me to torture, me to task % 
Fleecy locks and black complexion 

Cannot forfeit nature's claim; 
Skins may differ, but afi'ection 

Dwells in white and black the same. 

Why did all-creating Nature 

Make the plant for which we toil ? 
Sighs must fan it, tears must water. 

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
Think, ye masters iron-hearted, 

LoUing at your jovial boards. 
Think how many backs have sm.'irted 

For the sweets your cane affords. 

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us. 

Is there One who reigns on high 1 
Has he bid you buy and sell us. 

Speaking from his throne, the sky*? 
Ask him, if your knotted scourges. 

Matches, blood-extorting screws. 
Are the means that duty urges 

Agents of his will to use 1 

Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, 

Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 

Are the voice with which he speaks. 
He, foreseeing what vexations 

Afric's sons should undergo, 
Pix'd their tyrants' habitations 

Where his whirlwinds answer — no. 

By our blood in Afric wasted. 

Ere our necks received the chain ; 
By the miseries that we tasted. 

Crossing in your barks the main , 
By our sufferings, since ye brought U3 

To the man-degrading mart, 
All sustain'd by patience, taught us 

Only by a broken heart ; 

Deem our nation brutes no longer. 

Till some reason ye shall find 
Worthier of regard, and stronger 

Than the color of our kind. 
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 

Tarnish all your boasted powers. 
Prove that you have human feelings, 

Ere you proudly question ours! 



PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 

Video meliora proboque, 
Deteriora seqtior. 

I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves. 
And fear those who buy them and sell them are 
knaves ; [and groans, 

What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, 
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. 

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum. 

For how could we do without sugar and rum 1 



JOHN GILPIN. 



619 



Especially sugar, so needful we see ? 

What, give up our desserts, our eolTee, and tea ! 

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes 

Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains ; 
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will. 
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. 

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, 
Much more in behalf of your wish might be 

said; 
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, 
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks 1 

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind 
A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd, 
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint ; 
But I can assure you I saw it in print. 

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest. 
Had once his integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
.And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. 



He was shock'd, 
•Oh no! 



sir, like you, 



and answer'd. 



What ! rob our good neighbor ! I pray you don't 
Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread. 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed." 

" You speak very fine, and you look very grave. 
But apples we want, and apples we'll have; 
If vou will go with us, you shall have a share. 
If, not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 

They spoke, and Tom pondered — " I see they 

will go ; 
Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! 
Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could. 
But staying behind will do him no good. 

" If the matter depended alone upon me. 

His apples might hang till they dropp'd from 

the tree ; 
But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too. 
He will lose none by me, though I get a few." 

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease. 
And went with his comrades the apples to seize ; 
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan; 
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 



THE MORNING DREAM. 

'TwAS in the glad season of spring, 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
I dream d what I cannot but sing. 

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
I drcam'd that on ocean atloat. 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
While the billows high lifted the boat, 

.'\nd the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that sne wore, 
Whose beauty impressed me with awe, 

Ne'er taugiit me by woman before : 
She sat, and a shield at her side 

Shed light like a sun on the waves, 
And smiling divinely, she cried — 

" I go to make freemen of slavcB." 



Then, raising her voice to a strain 

The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
She sung of the slave's broken chain 

Wherever her glory appcar'd. 
Some clouds which had over us hung 

Fled, chas'il by her melody clear. 
And mcthought, while she liberty sung, 

'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood, 

To a slave-cultured island we came, 
Where a demon, her enemy, stood — 

Oppression his terrible name. 
In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 

A scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
And stood looking out for his prey 

From Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But soon as, approaching the land. 

That goddess-like woman he view'd, 
The scourge he let fall from his hand. 

With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
I saw him both sicken and die. 

And, the moment the monster expir'd, 
Heard shouts that ascended the sky. 

From thousands with rapture inspir'd. 

Awaking, how could I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide. 
But soon my ear caught the glad news. 

Which scrv'd my weak thought for a guide- 
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves. 

For the hatred she ever has shown 
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 
Resolves to have none of her own. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN 
GILPIN; 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE 
INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A trainband captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear : 

Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at F.dmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

My sister, and my sister's child, 

Myself and children three. 
Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 

On horseback after we. 

He soon replied, I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she. niy dearest dear, 

Theretore it shall be done. 

I am a Unendraper bold. 

As all the world doth know. 
Anil my good l'rien<l the calendrer 

Will lend his horse to go. 



620 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, that's well said ; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear. 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoyed was he to find, 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal inind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought. 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd. 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. 

Were never folk so glad. 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again j 

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 

His journey to begin. 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came ; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore. 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

" The wine is left behind !" 

Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise. 

Now mistress Gilpin fcareful soul !) 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curUng ear. 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side. 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe. 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall'd him in his seat. 



So, fair and softly, John he cried. 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands. 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He httle dreamt, when he set out. 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly. 

Like streamer long and gay, 
Till, loop and button failing both. 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 

Up flew the windows all ; 
And every soul cried out. Well done ! 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he 1 
His fame soon spread around. 

He carries weight ! he rides a race I 
'Tis for a thousand pound ! 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shatter'd at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to cany weight. 

With leathern girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he tjid play. 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way. 
Just like unto a trundling mop. 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton, his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 



JOHN GILPIN. 



621 



Stop, stop. John Gilpin ! — Here's the house ! 

They all at once diil cry ; 
The ilinner waits, anJ we are tired : 

Said Gilpin — So am I ! 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why'? — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend the calendrer's 

The horse at lust stood still. 

The calendrer, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

What news ? what news 7 your tidings tell ; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all 1 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke I 
And thus unto the calendrer 

In merry guise he spoke : 

I came because your horse would come. 

And, if I well forebode, 
My hat and wig will soon be here. 

They are upon the road. 

The calendrer, right glad to find, 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return d him not a single word. 

But to the house went in ; 

Whence straight came he with hat and wig ; 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus show'd his ready wit : 
Jly head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore nAds must fit. 

But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face ; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case. 

Said John, It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world woulil stare, 
If wife should dine at F.dmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware. 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

I am in haste to dine ; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine. 

,'\h luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear; 
For. while he spake, a braying ass 

Dill sing mo-it loud and clear ; 



Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallop'd off with all his might. 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For why 1 — they were too big. 

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away. 

She pull'd out halfa-crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said, 

That drove them to the Bell, 
This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well. 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 

By catching at his rein ; 

But, not performing what he meant, 
And gladly would have done. 

The frighted steed he frighted more. 
And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went postboy at his heels. 
The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
With postboy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry : — 

Stop thief! stop thief I — a highwayman ! 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that pass'd that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The toll-men thinking as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too. 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long live the king, 

And Gilpin long live he ; 
.\nd when he next doth ride abroad, 

May I be there to see ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM 

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long 
Had cheer'd the village with his song, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended. 
Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he might. 
The keen demands of appetite ; 
When, looking eagerly around 
He spied far off, upon the ground, 
A so:nethin<T shining in the dark, 
.\nd knew the glowwonu by his spark; 



622 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



So stooping down from hawthorn top, 
He thought to put hini in his crop. 
The worm, aware of his intent, 
Harangued him thus, right eloquent — 

Did you admire my lamp, quoth he, 
As much as I your minstrelsy. 
You would abhor to do me wrong 
As much as I to spoil your song; 
For 'twas the selfsame Power divine 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 
That you with music, I with light, 
Might beautify and cheer the night. 
The songster heard his short oration, 
And, warbling out his approbation, 
Released him, as my story tells. 
And found a supper somewhere else. 

Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
Their real interest to discern ; 
That brother should not war with brother, 
And wori'y and devour each other; 
But sing and shine by sweet consent. 
Till life s poor transient night is spent. 
Respecting in each other's case 
The git^s of nature and of grace. 

Those Christians best deserve the name 
Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
Peace both the duty and the prize 
Of him that creeps and him that flies. 



AN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PRO- 
TESTANT LADY IN FRANCE. 

Madam, 

A stranger's purpose in these lays 
Is to congratulate, and not to praise. 
To give the creature the Creator's due 
Were sin in me, and an offence to you. 
From man to man. or e'en to woman paid, 
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, 
A coin by craft for folly's use design'd. 
Spurious, and only current with the blind. 

The path of sorrow, and that path alone. 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode. 
Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by man}' a sprightly strain. 
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread. 
With unshod feet they yet securely tread. 
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. [prove, 
But he, who knew what human hearts would 
How slow to learn the dictates of his love. 
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will. 
A life of ease would make them harder still. 
In pity to the souls his grace design'd 
To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years. 
And said, " Go spend tiiem in the vale of tears." 
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! 
O salutary streams, that murmur there ! 
These flowing from the tbunt of grace above, 
Those breathed from lijjs of everlasting love. 
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ; 
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springuig joys ; 
An envious world will interpose its frown, 
To mar delights superior to its own ; 
And many a pang, evperienced still within, 
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin ; 



But ills of every shape and every name, 
Transtbrm'd to blessmgs, miss their cruel aim : 
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast, 
Is given in earnest of eternal rest. 

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast 
Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste ! 
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear. 
But the chief Shepherd even there is near; 
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain 
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain; 
Thy tears all issue from a source divine, 
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine^ 
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found. 
And drought on all the drooping herbs around. 



TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 

Unwin, I should but ill repay 

The kindness of a friend, 
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay 

As ever friendship penn'd, 
Thy name omitted in a page 
That would reclaim a vicious age. 

A union form'd, as mine with thee, 

Not rashly, or in sport. 
May be as tervent in degree 

And faithful in its sort. 
And may as rich in comfort prove, 
As that of true fraternal love. 

The bud inserted in the rind. 

The bud of peach or rose. 
Adorns, though ditfering in its kind, 

The stock whereon it grows. 
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, 
As if produced by nature there. 

Not rich, I render what I may, 

I seize thy name in haste. 
And place it in this first essay. 

Lest this should prove the last. 
'Tis where it should be — in a plan 
That holds in view the good of man. 

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, 

.Should be the poet's heart; 
Affection lights a brighter flame 

Than ever blazed by art. 
No muses on these lines attend, 
I sink the poet in the fliend. 



TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON. 

AN INVIT.ITION INTO THE COUNTRY. 

The swallows in their torpid state 

Compose their useless wing, 
And bees in hives as idly wait 
The call of early Spring. 

The keenest frost that binds the stream, 
The wildest wind that blows, 

Are neither felt nor fear'd by them. 
Secure of their repose. 

But man, all feeling and awake, 

The gloomy scene surveys ; 
With present ills his heart must ache. 

And pant (or brighter days. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



623 



Old Winter halting o'er the mead, 
Bids ine and JMary mourn ; 

But lovely Sprintr pen])s o'er his head, 
And whispers your return. 

Then .ipiil, with her sister May, 
Shall chase him Troui the bowers, 

And weave I'resh garlands every day, 
To erown the smiling hours. 

And if a tear that speaks regret 

Of happier times appear, 
A glimpse of joy, that we have met, 

Shall slune and dry the tear. 



CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, 
(now MRS. COURTNEY.) 

SllE came — she is gone — we have met — 

And meet perhaps never again ; 
The sun of that moment is set, 

And seems to have risen in vain. 
Catharina has fled like a dream — 

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
But has left a regret and esteem 

That will not so suddenly pass. 

The last evening ramble we made, 

Catharina, Maria, and I, 
Our progress was often delay'd 

By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
We paused under many a tree. 

And much she was charm'd with a tone. 
Less sweet to Maria and me, 

Who so lately had witness'd her own. 

My numbers that day she had sung, 

And gave them a grace so divine. 
As only her musical tongue 

Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
The longer I heard, I esteem'd 

The work of my fancy the more, 
And e'en to myself never seem'd 

So tuneful a poet before. 

Though the pleasures of London exceed 

In number the days of the year, 
Catharina, did nothing impede. 

Would feel herself happier here ; 
' For the close- woven arches of hmes 

On the banks of our river, I know, 
Are sweeter to her many times 

Than aught that the city can show. 

So it is when the mind is endued 

With a well-judging taste from above. 
Then, whether embellish'd or rude, 

'Tis nature alone that we love. 
The achievements of art may amuse, 

May even our wonder excite ; 
But groves, hills, and valleys diffuse 

A lasting, a sacred delight. 

Since then in the rural recess 

Catharina alone can rejoice. 
May it still be her lot to possess 

The scene of her sensible choice ! 
To inhabit a mansion remote 

From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, 
And by Philomel's annual note 

To measure the life that she leads. 



With her book, and her voice, and her lyre. 

To wing all her moments at home ; 
.\nd with scenes that new rapture inspire, 

.is oil as it suits her to roam ; 
.She will liave just the life .she prefers, 

With little to hope or to fear. 
And ours would be pleasant as hers. 

Might we view her enjoying it here. 



THE MORALIZER CORRECTED. 



A IIKRMIT, (or if 'chance you hold 

That title now too trite and old.) 

A man, once young, who lived retired 

As hermit could have well desired. 

His hours of study closed at last. 

And iinish'd his concise repast, 

Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book, 

Wilhin its customary nook. 

And, staff in hand, set forth to share 

The sober cordial of sweet air. 

Like Isaac, with a mind applied 

To serious thought at evening-tide. 

Autumnal rains had made it chill, 

.■\nd from the trees, that fringed his hill, 

.Shades slanting at the close of day, 

Chill'd more his else delightful way. 

Distant a little mile he spied 

A western bank's still sunny side, 

And right toward the favor'd place 

Proceeding with his nimblest pace. 

In hope to bask a little yet, 

Just reach'd it when the sun was set. 

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! 
Learns something from whate'er occurs— 
And hence, he said, my mind computes 
The real worth of man's pursuits. 
His object chosen, wealth or fame. 
Or other sublunary game. 
Imagination to his view 
Presents it deck'd with every hue 
That can seduce him not to spare 
His powers of best exertion there. 
But youth, health, vigor to expend 
On so desirable an end. 
Ere long approach Ufe's evening shades 
The glow that fancy gave it fades ; 
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace 
That first engaged him in the chase. 

True, ansiver'd an angelic guide, 
Attendant at the senior's side — 
But whether all the time it cost. 
To urge the fruitless chase be lost, 
Must be decided hy the worth 
Of that wliich call'd his ardor t'orth. 
Trifles pursued, whate'er the event. 
Must cause him shame or discontent; 
A vicious object still is worse, 
.Successful there, he wins a curse; 
But he, whom e'en in life's last stage 
Endeavors laudable engage. 
Is paid at least in peace of mind. 
And sense of having well design'd ; 
And if ere he attain his end. 
His sun precipitate descend, 
A brighter prize than that he meant 
Shall recompense his mere intent. 
No virtuous wish can bear a date 
Either too early or too late. 



624 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



THE FAITHFUL BIRD. 

The greenhouse is my summer seat; 
My shrubs displaced from that retreat 

Enjoy 'tl the open air; 
Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song 
Had been their mutual solace long, 

Lived happy prisoners there. 

They sang as blithe as finches sing, 
That flutter loose on golden wing, 

And frolic where they list; 
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, 
But that delight they never knew. 

And therefore never miss'd. 

But nature works in every breast, 
With force not easily suppress'd ; 

And Dick felt some desires, 
That, after many an effort vain. 
Instructed him at length to gain 

A pass between his wires. 

The open windows seem'd to invite 
The freeman to a farewell flight ; 

But Tom was still confined ; 
And Dick, although his way was clear. 
Was much too generous and sincere 

To leave his friend behind. 

So settling on his cage, by play, 
And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say 

Vou must not live alone — 
Nor would he quit that chosen stand 
Till I. with slow and cautious hand, 

Keturn'd him to his own. 

O ye, who never taste the joys 
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, 

Fandango, ball, and rout ! 
Blush, when I tell you how a bird, 
A prison with a friend preferr'd 

To liberty without. 



THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 



Thkre is a field, through which I often pass. 
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass. 
Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood. 
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood. 
Reserved to solace many a neighboring squire. 
That he may follow them through brake and brier, 
Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine. 
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. 
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, 
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field ; 
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, 
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; 
And where the land slopes to its watery bourn 
Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn ; 
Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, 
And horrid brambles intertwine below ; 
A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time. 
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. 

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red. 
With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed, 
Nor Autumn yet had lirush'd from every spray, 
Witli her chill hand, the mellow leaves away, 
But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, 
Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack, 



With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and 

throats 
VVith a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes, 
For which, alas ! my destiny severe. 
Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. 

The sun, accomplishing his early march. 
His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch, 
When, exercise and air my only aim. 
And heedless whither, to that field I came, 
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hovind 
Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found. 
Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang 
All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry'* rang, [press'd 

Sheep grazed the field ; some with soft bosom 
The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest ; 
Nor noise was heard, but of the hasty brook, 
Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. 
All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey 'd. 
To me their peace by kind contagion spread. 

But when the huntsman, with distended cheek, 
'Gan make his instrument of music speak. 
And from within the wood that crash was heard, 
Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd, 
The snecp recumbent and the sheep that grazed. 
All huddUng into phalanx, stood and gazed, 
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain. 
Then coursed the field around, and coursed it 

round again ; 
But recollecting, with a sudden thought, [nought. 
That flight in circles urged advanced them 
They gatner'd close around the old pit's brink. 
And thought again — but knew not what to think. 

The man to solitude accustom'd long. 
Perceives in everything that lives a tongue ; 
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees 
Have speech for him, and understood with ease ; 
After long drought, when rains abundant fall. 
He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all ; 
Knows what the freshness of their hue unplies. 
How glad they catch the largess of the skies ; 
But, with precision nicer still, the mind 
He scans of every locomotive kind ; 
Birds of all feather, beasts of every name ; 
That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame ; 
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears 
Have all articulation in his ears ; 
He spells them true by intuition's light. 
And needs no glossary to set him right. 

This truth premised was needful as a text, 
To win due credence to what follows next. 

Awhile they mused ; surveying every face. 
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race ; 
Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, 
Stamp d on each countenance such marks of 

mind. 
That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt. 
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzled out ; 
Or academic tutors, teaching youths. 
Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths ; 
When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, 
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd. 

Friends ! we have lived too long. 1 never 
heard 
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. 
Could I believe, that winds for ages pent 
In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, 
And from their prison-house below arise. 
With all these hideous bowlings to the skies, 
I could be much composed, nor should appear, 
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. 

* Two woods belont'ing to John Throckmorlon, Esq. 



BOADICE A.— HEROISM. 



625 



Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders 
All niwht, me restinij quiet in the foKl. [roH'd 
Or licnril we that tremendous bray alone, 
I could expound the melancholy tone ; 
Should deem it by our old companion made, 
The ass ; lor he. we know, has lately stray d. 
And, beinj lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, 
Might lie supposed to clamor tor a guide. 
13ut ah ! those dreadful yells, what soul can hear. 
That pwns a carcass, and not quake for fear ■? 
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd 
Anil fang'd with brass the demons are abroad ; 
I hold it therefore wisest and most tit 
That, life to save, we leap into the pit. 

Him answer 'd then his loving mate and true, 
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe. 

How ! leap into the nit our life to save 1 
To save our life leap all into the grave 1 
For can we fnid it less ? Contemplate first 
The depth how awful ! tailing there, we burst: 
Or should the brambles, inteqrosed, our fall 
In part abate, that happiness were small ; 
For with a race like theirs, no chance I see 
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. 
Meantime noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, 
Or be it not, or be it whose it may, [tongues 
And rush those other sounds, that seem by 
Of demons utterd, from whatever lungs, 
Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear, 
Wc have at least commodious standing here. 
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast 
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. 

While thus she spake, I fainter heard the 
For Reynard, close attended at his heels [peals. 
By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse. 
Through mere good fortune, took a different 

course. 
The flock grew calm again, and I, the road 
Following, that led me to my own abode. 
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found 
Such cause of terror in an empty sound. 
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. 



Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day. 
Live till to-morrow, will have passd away. 



BOADICEA. 



When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought with an indignant mein, 
Counsel of her country's gods. 

Sage beneath the spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Pull of rage, and full of grief. 

Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
'Tis because resentment ties 

All the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 



Rome, for empire far renown'd. 
Tramples on a thousand states ; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground 
Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates I 

Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name ; 

Sounds, not arms, sliall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land, 

-Irm'd with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 
Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they. 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire. 

Rending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride, 
Felt them in her bosom glow : 

Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ; 
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. 

Ruflians, pitiless as proud. 

Heaven awards the vengeance due ; 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 



HEROISM. 

Thf.re was a time when .Etna's silent fire 
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; 
When, conscious of no danger from below. 
She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. 
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound 
The blooming groves that girdled hcf around. 
Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines 
(Unfelt the fur>' of those bursting mines) 
The peasants hopes, and not in vain, assured, 
In peace upon her sloping sides matured. 
When on a day. like thatof the last doom, 
A conflagration laboring in her womb. 
She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth, 
That shook the circling seas and sohd earth. 
Dark and voluminous the vapors rise, 
.\nd hnng their horroi-s in the neighborinir skies, 
While through the Stygian veil, that blots t^edayj 
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. 
But oh ! what muse, and in what powers of song. 
Can trace the torrent as it burns alomr ■? 
Havoc and devastation in the van. 
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man; 
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear. 
And all the charms of a Sicilian year. 

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass 
See it an uninform'd and idle mass ; 
Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, 
Or blade that might redeem it from despair. 
Yet time at length ("what will not time achieve'?) 
Clothes it with earth, and bids the proiluce live. 
Once more the spirj- myrtle crowns the glade, 
.^nd ruminating flocks'cnjoy the shade. 
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, 
O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets ! 
40 



626 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance 

round 
Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : 
Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, 
Again pours ruin on the vale below. 
Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, 
That only future ages can restore. 

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws, 
Who write in blood the merits of your cause, 
Who strike the blow, then plead your own 

defence. 
Glory your aim, but justice your pretence ; 
Behold in jEtna's emblematic fires 
The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! 

Fast by the stream that bounds your just 
domain. 
And tells you where you have a right to reign, 
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne. 
•Studious of peace, their neighbor's and their own. 
Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue 
Their only crime, vicinity to you ! 
The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad. 
Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road ; 
At every step beneath their feet they tread 
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread ! 
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress 
Before them, and behind a wilderness. 
Famine, and pestilence, her firstborn son. 
Attend to finish what the sword begun ; 
And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, 
And folly pays resound at your return. 
A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train 
Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again : 
And years of pining indigence must show 
What scourges are the gods that rule below. 

Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees, 
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) 
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, 
Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, 
Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, 
And the sun gilds the shining spires again. 

Increasing commerce an<l reviving art 
Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; 
And the sad lesson must be learn 'd once more. 
That wealth within is ruin at the door. 
What are ye. monarchs, luurcH'd heroes, say, 
But .lEtnas of the suffering world ye sway '! 
Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, 
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; 
And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, 
To prove you there destroyers as ye are. 

O place me in some heaven-protected isle. 
Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; 
Where no volcano pours his fiery flooil. 
No crested warrior dips his plume in blood ; 
Where Power secures what Industry has won; 
Where to succeed is not to be undone ; 
A land that distant tyrants hate in vain. 
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign. 



ON THK 

RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 

OUT OP NORFOLK, 
THE GIFT OF MT COUSIN, ANN BODH.A.M. 

THAT those lips had language ! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see. 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 



Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here: 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, * 
But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast 
dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun '> 
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such?— It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
What ardently I wish'd, I'long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
Till, all my stock of intant sorrows spent, 
I learn'd at last submission to my lot. 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once wo dwelt our name is heard no 
more. 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 
'Tis now become a histoiy little known. 
That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [laid ; 
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit or confectionary plum; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
By thy own hand, till t'resh they shone and 

glow'd : 
All this, and more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall. 
Ne'er roughen'd by those catariicts and breaks 
Th.it humor interposed too often makes; 
All this still legible in memory's pao-e, 
.Vnd still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
Not scorn'd in heaven, though Utile noticed here. 



FRIENDSHIP. 



621 



Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the 
hours. 

When, pIayin<T with thy vesture's tissued flowers. 

The vioI*'t the pink, and jessamine, 

I priek'd tlictn^to paper with a pin, 

(And thou wiist happier than myself the while, 

Wouldst sotlly speak, and stroke my head, and 

smile.) 
Could those few pleasant days a^ain appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 

here 1 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no^what here we eall our life is such, 
So hltie to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bomls again. 

Thou, as a n;ullant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 
Shoots into port at some well-liaven'd isle 
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on tlie floods, that show 
Her i)euuteous form reflectetl clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her. fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how switl ! hast reacli'd the 

shore, 
'■Where teaipests never beat nor billows roar;"* 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anehor'd by thy side. 
But me, si'arce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withhf Id, always distress'd — 
Ale howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, 
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass 

lost. 
And day \iy day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a jjrospcrous course. 
But oh, the thought, tliat ibou art safe, and he! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that 1 deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents pa.ss'd into the skies. 
And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my chililhood o'er again; 
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his thetl — 
Tiiyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

What virtue, or what mental grace 
But men unqualified and base 

Will boast it their possession ? 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart, 

And dullness of discretion. 

If every polish'd gem we find, 
Illuminating heart or mind, 

Provoke to imitation ; 
No wonder friendship docs the same, 
That jewel of the purest flame. 

Or rather constellation. 



No knave but boldly will pretend 
The requisites that form a friend, 

A real and a sound one; 
Nor any fool, he would deceive. 
But prove as ready to believe, 

And dream that he had found one. 

Candid, and generous, and just, 
Boys care but little whom they trust, 

An error soon corrected — 
For who but learns in riper years 
That man, when smoothest he appears. 

Is most to be suspected 1 

But here again a danirer lies, 
Lest, having misapplied our eyes, 

And taken trash tor treasure, 
We should unwarily conclude 
Friendship a false ideal good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 

An acquisition rather rare 
Is yet no subject of despair; 

Nor is it wise complaining, 
If, either on forbidden ground, 
Or where it was not to be found, 

We sought without attaining. 

No friendship will abide the test. 
That stands on sordid mterest. 

Or mean self-love erected ; 
Nor such as may awhile subsist 
Between the sot and sensualist. 

For vicious ends connected. 

W'ho seek a friend should come disposed 
To exhibit in full bloom disclosed, 

The graces and the beauties 
That form the character he seeks. 
For 'tis a union that bespeaks 

Reciprocated duties. 

Mutual attention is implied, 
And equal truth on either side. 

And constantly supported; 
'Tis senseless arrogance to accuse 
Another of sinister views. 

Our own as much distorted. 

But will sincerity suflicel 
It is indeed above all price, 

And n^ust be made the basis; 
But every virtue of tlie soul 
Must constitute the charming whole, 

Ail shining in their places. 

A fretful temper will divide 

The closest knot that may be tied, 

By ceaseless sharp corrosion ; 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion. 

In vain the talkative unite 

In hopes of permanent delight — 

The secret ju.'^t committed, 
Forgetting its important weight, 
They drop through mere desire to prate, 

And by themselves outwitted. 

How bright soe'er the prospect seems. 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams. 

If envy chance to creep in ; 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove an envious foe indeed, 

But not u friend worth keeping. 



628 COWPER'S WORKS. 


As envy pines at good possess'd, 


Sometimes the fault is all our own. 


So jealousy looks forth distress'd 


Some blemish in due time made known 


On good that seems approaching; 


By trespass or omission ; 


And if success his steps attend, 


Sometimes occasion brings to light 


Discerns a rival in a friend, 


Our friend's defect, long hid f^pm sight, 


And hates him for encroaching. 


And even from suspicion. 


Hence authors of illustrious name 


Then judge yourself, and prove your man 


Unless belied by common fame, 


As circumspectly as you can, 


Are sadly prone to quarrel, 


And, having made election, 


To deem the wit a friend displays 


Beware no negligence of yours, 


A tax upon their own just praise, 


Such as a friend but ill endures, 


And pluck each other's laurel. 


Enfeeble his affection. 


A man renown'd for repartee 


That secrets are a sacred trust, 


Will seldom scruple to make free 


That friends should be sincere and just, 


With friendship's finest feeUng, 


That constancy befits them. 


Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 


Are observations on the case, 


And say he wounded you in jest, 


That savor much of common place. 


By way of balm for healing. 


And all the world admits them. 


Whoever keeps an open ear 


But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone, 


For tattlers will be sure to hear 


An architect requires alone 


The trumpet of contention ; 


To finish a fine building — 


Aspersion is the babbler's trade, 


The palace were but half complete. 


To listen is to lend him aid, 


If he could possibly forget 


And rush into dissension. 


The carving and the gilding. 


A friendship that in frequent fits 


The man that hails you Tom or Jack, 


Of controversial rage emits 


And proves by thumps upon your back 


The sparks of disputation, 


How he esteems your merit, 


Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, 


Is such a friend that one had need 


Most unavoidably creates 


Be very much his friend indeed 


The thought of conflagration. 


To pardon or to bear it. 


Some fickle creatures boast a soul 


As similarity of mind, 


True as a needle to the pole, 


Or something not to be defined, 


Their humor yet so various — 


First fixes our attention ; 


They manifest their whole life through 


So manners decent and polite. 


The needle's deviation too, 


The same we practised at first sight, 


Their love is so precarious. 


Must save it from declension. 


The great and small but rarely meet 


Some act upon this prudent plan, 


On terms of amity complete ; 


" Say little, and hear all you can." 


Plebeians must surrender. 


Safe policy, but hateful — 


And yield so much to noble folk, 


So barren sands imbibe the shower 


It is combining fire with smoke, 


But render neither fruit nor flower, 


Obscurity with splendor. 


Unpleasant and ungrateful. 


Some are so placid and serene 


The man I trust, if shy to me, 


(As Irish bogs are always green) 


Shall find me as reserve<l as he. 


They sleep secure from waking ; 


No subterfuge or pleading 


And are indeed a bog that bears 


Shall win my confidence again ; 


■i'our unparticipated cares 


I will by no means entertain 


Unmoved and without quaking. 


A spy on my proceeding. 


Courtier and patriot cannot mix 


These samples — for alas ! at last 


Their heterogeneous politics 


These are but samples, and a taste 


Without an eflervescence, 


Of evils yet unraention'd— 


Like that of salts with lemon juice, 


May prove the task a task indeed. 


Which does not yet like that produce 


In which 'tis much if we succeed, 


A friendly coalescence. 


However well intention'd. 


Religion should extinguish strife. 
And make a calm of human life ; 


Pursue the search, and you will find 


Good sense and knowledge of mankind 


But friends that chance to differ 


To be at least expedient. 


On points which God has left at large, 


And, ailer summing all the rest. 


How freely will they meet and charge — 


Religion ruling in the breast 


No combatants are stij^er. 


A principal nigredient. 


To prove at last my main intent 


The noblest Friendship ever shown 


Needs no expense of argument, 


The Saviour's history makes known, 


No cutting and contriving — 


Though some have turn'd and turn'd it ; 


Seeking a real friend we seem 


And, whether being crazed or blind, 


To a<lopt the chemist's golden dream, 


Or seeking with a biass'd mind. 


With still less hope of thriving. 


Have not, it seems, discern'd it. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



629 



O Fricndshi]) ! if my soul forego 
Thy dear delights wliilc here below, 

To mortify and griivc. nie, 
May I myself at lust appear, 
Unworthy, base nrn\ insmcere, 

Or may my Iricnd deceive mc ! 



ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL, 

WHICH THE OWNER OP HIM SOLD AT THE 
author's INSTANCE. 

Go — thou art all unfit to share 

The pleasures of this place 
With such as its old tenants arc, 

Creatures of gentler race. 

The squirrel here his hoard provides, 

Aware of wintry storms. 
And woodpeckers explore the sides 

Of rugged oaks for worms. 

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn 

With frictions of her fleece ; 
And here I wander eve and morn. 

Like her, a friend to peace. 

Ah ! — I could pity thee exiled 

From this secure retreat — 
I would not lose it to be styled 

The happiest of the great. 

But thou canst taste no cahn delight; 

Thy pleasure Ls to show 
Thy magnanimity in fight. 

Thy prowess — therefore, go — 

I care not whether east or north, 

So I no more may find thee ; 
The angry muse thus sings thee forth, 

And claps the gate behind thee. 



ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789. 

WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S 
UA1>PY RECOVERY. 

I raxsack'd for a theme of song, 

Much ancient chronicle, and long; 

I read of bright embattled fields. 

Of trophied helmets, spears, and shields. 

Of chiefs, whose single arm could boast 

Prowess to dissipate a host ; 

Through tomes of fable and of dream 

I sought an eligible theme. 

But none I found, or founil them shared 

Already by some happier bard. 

To modern times, with truth to guide 
My busy search, I mxl applied ; 
Here cities won, and fleets dispersed. 
Urged louil a claim to be rehearsed, 
Deeds of unpcrishing renown. 
Our fathers' triumphs and our own. 

Thus as the bee t'rom bank to bower. 
Assiduous sips at every flower. 
But rests on none till thct be found 
Where most nectareous sweets abound, 
So I, from theme to theme display'd 
In many a page historic, stray'd, 
Siege alter siege, fight arter fight. 
Contemplating with small delight, 



(For feats of sanguinary hue 
Not always glitter in my view,) 
Till, settling on the current year, 
1 ibund the far-sought treasure near, 
A theme for poetry divine, 
A theme to ennoble even mine, 
In memorable eighty-nine. 

The spring of eighty-nine shall bo 
\n .Tra cherish'd long by me. 
Which joyt'ul 1 will oil record, 
And thankful at my frugal board; 
For then the clouds of eighty-eight. 
That threaten'd England's trembling state 
\\'ith loss of what she least could spare. 
Her sovereign's tutelary care, 
One breath of heaven, that cried — Restore ! 
Chased, never to assemble more : 
.\nd for the richest crown on earth, 
If valued by its wearer's worth, 
The symbol of a righteous reign 
•Sat fast on George s brows again. 

Then peace and joy again possess'd 
Our Queen's long-agitated breast ; 
Such joy and peace as can be known 
By sufferers hke herself alone, 
VVho losing, or supposing lost, 
The good on earth they valued most. 
For that dear sorrow's sake forego 
All hope of happiness below, 
Then suddenly regain the prize, 
.'\nd flash thanksgivings to the skies ! 

O Queen of Albion, queen of isles ! 
Since all thy tears were changed to smiles. 
The eyes, that never saw thee, sliine 
With joy not unullied to thine ; 
Transports not chargeable with art. 
Illume the land's remotest part, 
And strangers to the air of courts. 
Both in their toils and at their sports. 
The happiness of answer'd prayers, 
That t'ilds thy features, show in theirs. 

If ifiey who on thy state attend. 
Awe-struck, bel'orc thy presence bend, 
' Tis but the natural efl'ect 
Of grandeur that ensures respect ; 
But she is something more than queen 
W'ho is beloved where never seen. 



HYMN, 

FOR THE USE OF THE SU.VDAY SCHOOt. AT OLNEY. 

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, 

In heaven thy dwelling place. 
From infants made the public care, 

And taught to seek thy face. 

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day. 

And grant us, we iniplore. 
Never to waste in sinful play 

Thy holy sabbaths n-ore. 

Thanks that we hear, — but O impart 

To each desires sincere. 
That wi! may listen with our heart, 

And learn as well as hear. 

For if vain thoughts the minds engage 

Of older f.ir than we. 
What hope, that, at our heedless age. 

Our minds should e'er be free ? 



630 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Much hope, if thou our spirits take 

Under thy gracious sway, 
Who canst the wisest wiser make, 

And babes as wise as they. 

Wisdom and bUss thy word bestows, 

A sun that ne'er declines. 
And be thy mercies shower'd on those 

Who placed us where it shines. 



STANZAS. 

SUBJOINED TO THE YE.iRLY BILL OF MORTALITV OF 

TUE P.4R1SH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,* 

ANNO DOMINI 1787. 

Palida mors a?quo pulsat petle pauperum tabemas, 
Regumque tm-res. — Horace. 

PaJe death with equal foot strikes wide the door 
Of royaJ halls and hovels of the poor. 

While thirteen moons saw smoothly run 

The Nen's barge-laden wave, 
AH these, life's rambling journey done. 

Have found their home, the grave. 

Was man (frail always) made more frail 

Than in foregoing years 1 
Did famine or did plague prevail, 

That so much death appears '? 

No ; these were vigorous as their sires. 

Nor plague nor lamine came ; 
This annual tribute Death requires, 

And never waives his claim. 

Like crowded forest trees we stand, 

And some are mark'd to fall ; 
The axe will smite at God's command. 

And soon shall smite us all. 

Green as the bay tree, ever green, 

With its new foliage on. 
The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, 

I pass'd — and they were gone. 

Read, ye that run, the awful truth 

With which I charge my page ; 
A worm is in the bud of youth. 

And at the root of age. 

No present health can health ensure 

For yet an hour to come ; 
No medicine, though it oft can cure, 

Can always balk the tomb. 

And ! that humble as my lot. 

And scorn 'd as is my strain, 
These truths, though known, too much forgot, 

I may not teach in vain. 

So prays your clerk with all his heart, 

And, ere he quits the pen, 
Begs you for once to take his part. 

And answer all — Amen ! 



* Composed for John Cox, parish clerk of North- 
ampton. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR THE YEAR 1788. 

Quod adest, memento 
Componere iequus. C^etera Uuminis 
Kilu feruntur. — Horace. 

Improve the present hour, for all beside 
Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide. 

Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage 
To whom the rising year shall prove his last, 
As I can number in my punctual page. 
And item down the victims of the past ; 

How each would trembling wait the mournful 

sheet. 
On which the press might stamp him next to die ; 
And, reading here his sentence, how replete 
With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye ! 

Time then would seem more precious than the 

joys 
In which he sports away the treasure now ; 
And prayer more seasonable than the noise 
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow. 

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink 
Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore. 
Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think. 
Told that his setting sun must rise no more. 

Ah self-deceived ! Could I prophetic say 
Who next is fated, and who next to fall. 
The rest might then seem privileged to play ; 
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to all. 

Observe the dappled foresters, how light 
They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade — 
One falls — the rest, wide scatter'd with affright. 
Vanish at once into the darkest shade. 

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, 
Still need repeated warnings, and at last, 
A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd. 
Die self-accused of life run all to waste ! 

Sad waste ! for which no after-thrift atones. 
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ; 
Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones, 
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. 

Learn then, ye living ! by the mouths be taught 
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true. 
That, soon or late, death also is your lot. 
And the next opening grave may yawn for you. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR THE YEAR 1789. 

— Placid^quc ibi demum morte quieviU — Virq. 
There calm at length he breathed his soul away. 

"0 MOST delightful hour by msin 

Experienced here below. 
The hour that terminates his span, 

His folly and his woe ! 

" Worlds should not bribe me back to tread 

Again life's dreary waste. 
To see again my day o'erspread 

With all the gloomy past. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 631 


" My home hencetortli is in the skies, 


Pleasure's call attention wins. 


Earth, seas, and sun, a<licu ! 


Hear it ollen as we may ; 


All heaven unfolded to my eyes, 


New as ever seem our sins. 


I have no sight I'or you." 


Thougli committed every day. 


So spake Aspa.sio, iinu possessed 


Death and judgment, heaven and hell — 


Of faith's supporting rod, 


These alone, so ollen heard. 


Then breatlicd his soul into its rest. 


No more move us than the bell 


The bosom of his God. 


When some stranger is interr'd. 


He was a man among the few 


then, ere the turf or tomb 


Sincere on virtue's side ; 


Cover us from every eye. 


And all his strength from Scripture drew, 


Spirit of instruction, come. 


To hourly use applied. 


Make us learn that we must die. 


That rule he prized, by that he fear'd, 




He hated, hoped, and loved; 




Nor ever frown'd. or sad appcar'J, 


ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 


But when his heart had roved. 






FOR THE YEAR 1792. 


For he was frail as thou or I, 




And evil felt within ; 


Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 


But when he felt it, heaved a sigh, 


99 Atque metus omnes et inexorabile latum 


And loathed the thought of sin. 


99 Subjccit pedibus, strepitumquc Achcrontis avari I 

VlRU. 


Such lived Aspasio ; and at last 


Happy the mortal who has traced effects 
Gg To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet. 


Call'd up from earth to heaven, 


And death and roaring helPa voracious fires ! 


The gulf of death triumphant pass'd. 




By gales of blessing driven. 


Thankless for favors from on high, 




Man thinks he fades too soon : 


His joys be mine, each reader cries. 


Thoui^h 'tis his privilege to die. 
Would he improve the boon. 


When my last hour arrives: 


They sliall be yours, my verse replies. 




Such only be your hves. 


But he, not wise enough to scan 




His blest concerns aright. 




Would gladly stretch life's little span 
To ages, if he might. 




ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 






To ages in a world of pain. 


FOR THE YEAR 1790. 


To ages where he goes 
Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain. 




Ne commonentem recta sperne.— Bucdanak. 


And hopeless of repose. 


Despise not my good counsel. 






Strange fondness of the human heart, 


He who sits from day to day 


Enumor'd of its harm ! 


Where the prison'd lark is hung, 


Strange world, that costs it so much smart. 
And still has power to charm. 


Heedless of his loudest lay. 


Hardly knows that he has sung. 






Whence has the world her magic power 1 
\\hy deem we death a foe t 


Where the watchman in his round 


Nightly litis his voice on high. 


Recoil from weary life's best hour, 


None, accustom'd to the sound. 


And covet longer woe 1 


Wakes the sooner for his cry. 




So your verse-man I, and clerk, 

Yearly in my song proclaim 
Death at hand — yourselves his raurk- 


The cause is Conscience — Conscience oft 


Her tale of guilt renews : 


Ilcr voice is terrible though soil. 
And dread of death ensues. 


.Vnd the foe's unerring aim. 




Duly at my time I come, 
Publishing to all aloud — 


Then anxious to be longer spared 


Man mourns his fleeting breath : 


Soon the grave must be your home, 
And your only suit, a shroud. 


All evils then seem light, compared 


With the approach of death. 


But the monitory strain, 


'Tis judgment shakes him: there's the fear 
That jirompts the wish to stay : 


OlV repeated in your ears, 


Seems to sound too much in vain, 


He has incurr'd a long arrear. 


Wins no notice, wakes no fears. 


Anil must despair to pay. 


Can a truth, by all confess'd 


Patj! follow Christ, and all is paid ; 


Of such magnitude and weight, 


His death your peace ensures ; 


Grow, by being oil uupress'd. 


Think on the grave where he was laid. 


Trivial as a parrot's prate. 


And calm descend to yours. 



632 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

FOR tRe year 1793. 

De sacris autcra hwc sit lina sententia, ut conservenliir. 

Cic. DE Leg. 
But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things 
sacred be inviolate. 

He lives wlio lives to God alone, 

And all are dead beside; 
For other source than God is none 

Whence life can be supplied. 

To live to God is to requite 

His love as best we may : 
To make his precepts our delight, 

His promises our stay. 

But life, within a narrow ring 

Of giddy joys comprised, 
Is falsely named, and no such thing, 

But rather death disguised. 

Can life in them deserve the name, 

Wlio only live to prove 
For what poor toys they can disclaim 

An endless life above ^ 

Who, much diseased, yet nothing fcelj 

Much menaced, nothing dread ; 
Have wounds, which only God can heal, 

Yet never ask his aid ^ 

Who deem his house a useless place. 

Faith, want of common sense; 
And ardor in the Christian race, 

A hypocrite's pretence 1 

Who trample order ; and the day 

Which God asserts his own 
Dishonor with unhallow'd play, 

And worship chance alone'! 

If scorn of God's commands, impress'd 

On word and deed, imply 
The better part of man unbless'il 

With life that cannot die ; 

Such want it, and that want uncured 

Till man resigns his breath, 
Speaks him a criminal, assured 

Of everlasting death. 

Sad period to a pleasant course ! 

Yet so will God repay 
Sabbaths profaned without remorse. 

And mercy cast away. 



ON A GOLDFINCH, 

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE. 

Time was when I was free as air, 
The thistle's downy seed my fare, 

My drink the morning dew ; 
I perch'd at will on every spray. 
My form genteel, my plumage gay. 

My strains forever new. 

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain. 
And form genteel were all in vain. 

And of a transient date ; 
For, caught and caged, and starved to death, 
In dying sighs my little breath 

Soon pass'd the wiry grate. 



Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, 
.\nd thanks lor this eflectual close 

And cure of every ill ! 
3Iore cruelty could none express ; 
And I, if you had shown me less. 

Had been your prisoner still. 



THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE. 

The pine-apples, in triple row, 
Were basking hot, and all in blow ; 
A bee of most discerning taste 
Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd, 
On eager wing the spoiler came, 
And search'd for crannies in the frame. 
Urged his attempt on every side. 
To every pane his trunk applied ; 
But still in vain, the frame was tight. 
And only pervious to the light : 
Thus having wasted half the day, 
He trimm'd his flight another way, 

Methinks, I said, in thee I find 
The sin and madness of mankind. 
To joys forbidden man aspires. 
Consumes his soul with vain desires ; 
Folly the spring of his pursuit. 
And disappointment all the fruit. 
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, 
The nymph between two chariot glasses, 
She is the pine-apple, and he 
The silly unsuccessful bee. 
The maid who views with pensive air 
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware, 
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets. 
But sighs at thought of empty pockets; 
Like thine, her appetite is keen. 
But ah, the cruel glass between ! 

Our dear delights arc often such, 
Exposed to view, but not to touch ; 
The sight our foolish heart inflames, 
We long for pine-apples in frames; 
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers ; 
One breaks the glass, and cuts his lingers ; 
But they whom truth and wisdom lead 
Can gather honey from a weed. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FIND- 
ING THE HEEL OF A SHOE. 

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess .'thanks! 
Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny 
She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou 

cast 
A treasure in her way ; for neither meed 
Of earlv bi'eakfast, to dispel the fumes, 
And bowel-racking pains of emptiness. 
Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast, 
Hopes she from this — presumptuous, though, 

perh.aps 
The cobbler, leather-carving artist ! might. 
Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon. 
Whatever ; not as erst the fabled cock, 
Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, 
Spurn il the rich gem thou gavest him. ^Vhe^e- 

fore, ah ! 
Why not on me that favor, (worthier sure !) 
Conferr'dstthou, goddess ! Thou art bhnd thou 

say'st : 
Enough ! — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



633 



Nor docs my muse no benefit exhale 
From this tliy scant intlulgence ! — even here 
Hints worthy sage philosopliy are found; 
Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! 
This ponderous heel of perlbrated hide 
Compact, with peijs indented, many a row, 
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) 
The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown 
Upbore : on this, supported oft, he stretch'd. 
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time 
(What will not cruel time !) or a wry step 
Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace. 
Pursue his destined way with symmetry. 
And soaie proportion forai'd, now on one side 
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys, 
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. 
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
Of humble villager — the statesman thus, 
Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, 
Aspiring, llrst uninterrupted winds 
His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul. 
While policy prevails, and fricntls prove true ; 
iJut, that support soon failing, by him left 
On whom he mo-st depended, basely left, 
Betray 'd, deserted ; from his airy height 
Headlong he tails ; and through the rest of life 
Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 
1743. 



AN ODE, 

ON READING RICHARDSOn's HISTORY OP SIR 
CHARLES GRANDISON. 

Say, ye apostati; and profane. 
Wretches, who blush not to disdain 

Allegiance to your God, — 
Did e'er your idly wasted love 
Of virtue for her sake remove 

And lift you from the crowd 1 

W'ould you the race of glory run. 
Know, the devout, and they alone, 

Are equal to the task : 
The labors of the illustrious course 
Far other than the unaided force 

Of human vigor ask. 

To arm against reputed ill 

The patient heart too brave to feel 

The tortures of des[)air : 
Nor safer yet high-crested pride. 
When wealth flows in with every tide 

To gain admittance there. 

To rescue from the tyrant's sword 

The oppress'd ; unseen and unimplored. 

To cheer the face of woe ; 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend. 

And a forgiven foe ; 

These, these distinguish from the crowd. 
And these alone, the fjreat and good, 

The guardians of mankind ; 
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
O with what matchless speed they leave 

The multitude behind ! 



Then ask ye from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth '. 

Derived from Heaven alone. 
Full on that favor 'd breast they shine, 
Where faith and resin;nation join 

To call the blessing down. 

Such is that heart : — but while the muse 
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues. 

Her feeble spirits faint : 
She cannot reach, and would not wrong. 
The subject t'or an angel's song. 

The hero, and the saint ! 



AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOVD, ESQ. 

'Tio not that I design to rob 

Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, 

For thou art born sole heir and single 

Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; 

Not that 1 mean, while thus I knit 

My threadbare sentiments together. 

To show my genius or my wit. 

When Ood and you know I have neither; 

Or such as might be better shown 

By letting poetry alone. 

'Tis not with either of these views 

That I presunied to address the muse : 

But to divert a fierce banditti, 

(Sworn foes to everything that's witty !) 

That, with a black, infernal train, 

Make cruel inroads in my brain. 

And daily threaten to drive thence 

My little garrison of sense; 

The fierce banditti which I mean 

Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen. 

Then there's another reason yet, 

Which is, that I may fairly quit 

The debt, which justly became due 

The moment when 1 heard from you ; 

And you might grumble, crony mine. 

If paid in any other coin ; 

Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, 

(I would say twenty sheets of prose,) 

Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 

As one of gold, and yours was such. 

Thus, the preliminaries settled, 

I fairly find my.self pitchkettled,* 

And cannot see. though few see better, 

How I shall hammer out a letter. 

First, for a tliought — since all agree — 
A thought — I have it — let me sec — 
'Tis TOne again — plague on't ! I thought 
I had it — but 1 have it not. 
Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son. 
That useful thing, her needle, gone ! 
Hake well the cinders — sweep the floor, 
And sift the dust behind the door ; 
While eager Hodge beholds the prize 
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes: 
And Gammer finds it, on her knees, 
In every shining straw she sees. 
This simile were apt enough ; 
But I've another, critic-proof! 
The virtuoso thus, at noon, 
Broihng beneath a July sun, 

* PitcliknUled, a favorite plirnse nl the lime when tbis 
Kpiette wiis writlen,expre.-wivo of beinir'iiti7./.Ie(I,or what 
in the Spectator's lime would have t^cen called bam* 
Ijoozled. 



634 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The gilded butterfly pursues, 

O'er nedtrc and ditch, through gaps and mcwsj 

And, after many a vain essay, 

To captivate the tempting prey, 

Gives him at length the lucivy pat, 

And has him safe beneath his liat : 

Then lifts it gently from the ground ; 

But, ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; 

Culprit his liberty regains. 

Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. 

The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit 

With simile to illustrate it ; 

But as too much obscures the sight, 

As often as too little light, 

We have our similes cut short, 

For matters of more grave import. 

Tiiat Matthew's numbers run with ease, 

Each man of common sense agrees ! 

All men of common sense allow 

That Robert's lines are easy too : 

Where then the preference shall we place, 

Or how do justice in this case 1 

Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains 

Smooth'd and refined the meanest strains; 

Nor suffer'd one ill-chosen rhyme 

To escape him at the idlest time; 

And thus o'er all a lustre cast. 

That while the language lives shall last. 

A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,) 

For 'tis my business to reply ; 

Sure so much labor, so much toil, 

Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 

Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, > 

Who both write well, and write full speed ! 

Who throw their Helicon about 

As freely as a conduit spout ! 

Friend Robert, thus like chien savant 

Lets fall a poem en passant, 

Nor needs his genuine ore refine — 

'Tis ready polisli'd from the mine. 



A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT, 

• WHICH HAPPENED IN J.ANUABY, 1779. 

Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream 
There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blas- 
pheme ; 
In subterraneous caves his life he led. 
Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. 
When on a day, emerging from the deep, 
A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep!) 
The wages of his weekly toil he bore 
To buy a cock— whose blood might win him more ; 
As if the noblest of the feathcr'd kind 
Were but for battle and for death dcsign'd ; 
As if the consecrated hours were meant 
For sport to minds on cruelty intent ; 
It chanced (such chances Providence obey) 
He met a fellow laborer on the way. 
Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed ; 
But now the savage temper was reclaim'd, 
Persuasion on his ftps had taken place ; 
For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. 
His iron heart with scripture he assail'd, 
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. 
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew. 
Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew. 
He wept ; he trembled ; cast his eyes around. 
To find a worse than he ; but none he found. 



He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. 
Grace made the wound, and grace alone should 

heal. 
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies! 
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. 
That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, 
Gilded with hope, yd shaded too by fear. 
The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine 
Learn 'd, by his altcr'd speech, the change divine ! 
Laugh 'd when they should have wept, and swore 

the day 
Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they. 
" No," said the penitent, -'such words shall share 
This breath no more ; devoted now to prayer. 
O! if thou seest (thine eye the future sees) 
That I shall yet again blaspheme like these ; 
Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel, 
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; 
Now take me to that heaven I once defied. 
Thy presence, thy embrace !" — He spoke, and 

died. 



TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS 
RETURN PROM RAMSGATE. 

That ocean you have late survey'd, 

Those rocks I too have seen ; 
But I, afflicted and dismay'd, 

You, tranquil and serene. 

You from the flood-controlling steep 

Saw stretch'd before your view. 
With conscious joy, the threatening deep, 

No longer such to you. 

To me the waves, that ceaseless broke 

Upon the dangerous coast. 
Hoarsely and ominously spoke 

Of all my treasure lost. 

Your sea of troubles you have past, 

And found the peaceful shore; 
I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last, 

Come home to port no more. 
Oct., 1780. 



LOVE ABUSED. 

WH.4.T is there in the vale of life 
Half so delightful as a wife. 
When friendship, love, and peace combine 
To stamp the marriage-bond divine 1 
The stream of pure and genuine love 
Derives its current from above ; 
And earth a second Eden shows 
W'here'er the healing water flows : 
But ah, if from the dykes and drains 
Of sensual nature's feverish veins. 
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood. 
Impregnated with ooze and mud. 
Descending fast on every side. 
Once mingles with the sacred tide. 
Farewell the soul-enlivening scene ! 
The banks that wore a smiling green. 
With rank defilement overspread. 
Bewail their flowery beauties dead. 
The stream polluted, dark, and dull, 
Difi"used into a Stygian pool, 
Through life's last melancholy years 
Is fed with overflowing tears : 
Complaints supply the zephyr's part. 
And siahs that heave a breaking heart. 



A POETICAL KPISTI.E TO LADY 
AUSTEN. 

Dear Anna — between friend and friend 
Prose answers every common end ; 
Serves in a plain and homely way, 
To express the occurrence of the day ; 
Our health, the weather, and the news; 
What walks we take, what hooks we choose; 
And all the floatinj; thoughts we find 
Upon thi" surface of the mind. 

But when a poet takes the pen, 
Far more alive than other men. 
He feels a gentle tinglini; come 
Down to his finjjcr and his thumb, 
Derived from nature's noblt-st part. 
The centre of a glowing heart : 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No flights above the pitch of prose, 
His more subli[ne vagaries slighting, 
Denominates an itch for writing. 
No wonder I. who scribble rhyme 
To catch the Irillers of the time. 
And tell them truths divine and clear, 
Which, couch'd in prose they will not hear ; 
Who labor hard to allure and draw 
The loiterers I never saw. 
Should fuel that itching and that tingling, 
With all aiy purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsic merit true. 
When call'd to address myself to you. 

Mysterious are His ways whose power 
Brings forth that unexpected hour, 
When minds, that never met before, 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is the allotment of the skies. 
The hand of the Supremely Wise. 
That guides and governs our afleetions, 
And plans and orders our connexions; 
Directs us in our distant road. 
And marks the bounds of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us. 
Peasants and children all around us, 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend. 
Deep in the abyss of Silver End,* 
Thus Martha, e'en against her will, 
Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,*!* 
Are come from disttint Loire, to choose 
A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
This page of Providence quite new. 
And now just opening to our view, 
Employs our present thoughts and pains 
To guess and spell what it contains : 
But day by day, an<l year by year, 
^ViIl make the dark enigma clear; 
And furnish u^. perhaps, at last. 
Like other scenes already past. 
With proof that we, and our affairs. 
Are part of a Jehovah's cares; 
For God unfolds by slow degrees 
The purport of his deep decrees; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light 
In aid of our defective sight ; 
And spreads, at length, before the soul, 
A beautiful and perfect whole. 
Which busy man's inventive brain 
Toils to anticipate in vain. 

• An obscure part of Olaey, adjoining to the residence 
of Cowper, which faced the niarkel-pluce. 
t l.>aay Austen's residence in France. 



Say, Anna, had you never known 
The beauties of a rose full blown, 
I'ould you, though luminous your eye, 
I!y looking on the bud descry. 
Or guess with a prophetic power, 
The future splendor of the flower'! 
Just so the Omnipotent, who turns 
The system of a world's concerns, 
From mere minutix can eiluce 
Events of most important use ; 
And bid a dawning sky display 
The blaze of a meridian day. 
The works of man tend, one and all. 
As needs they must, tmm great to small ; 
And vanity absorbs at length 
The monuments of human strength. 
But who can tell how vast the plan 
VVhich this day's incident began 1 
Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion 
For our dim-sighted observation ; 
It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird 
That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
And yet may prove, when understood, 
A harl)inger of endless good. 

Not that I deem, or mean to call 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small : 
But merely to remark, that ours, 
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers. 
Kose Irom a seed of tiny size 
That seem'd to promise no such prize; 
A transient visit intervening, 
And made almost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the effect of inclination, 
Much less of pleasing expectation.) 
Produced a fnendship, then begun, 
That has cemented us in one ; 
And placed it in our power to prove. 
By long fidelity and love. 
That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
" A threefold cord is not soon broken." 
Dec., i781. 



THE COLUBRIAD. 

Cf.osE by the threshold of a door nail'd fast 

Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. 

I, passing swift and inattentive by. 

At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; 

Not much concern'd to know what they did there ; 

Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 

But presently a loud and furious hiss [this!" 

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, " What's 

When lo ! upon the threshold met my view. 

With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 

A viper, long as Count de Grasses queue. 

Fortli from his head his forked tongue he throws, 

Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; 

Who, having never seen, in field or house, 

The like, sal still and silent as a mouse ; 

Only projecting, with attention due. [you"?" 

Her whisker'd t'acc, she ask'd him, '-Who arc 

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow. 

But swill as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 

With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot. 

To find the viper, but I f'ound him not. 

And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 

Found only that he was not to be found. 

But still the kittens, sitting as bef'oro, 

Sat wat*:hing close the bottom of the door. 

" I hope," said I, " the villain I would kill 

Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill ; 



636 



COWPER'S WORKS, 



Ami if I make dispatch, and follow hard, 
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard :" 
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 
'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
E'en there I found him, there the fulbgrowncat, 
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat ; 
As curious as the kittens erst had been 
To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
Fill'd with heroic ardor at the sight. 
And fearing every moment he would bite, 
And rob our household of our only cat 
That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
With outstretch'd hoe I slew hini at the door, 
And taught him never to come there no more. 
1782. 



SONG. ON PEACE. 

Written in the summer of 1783, at the request of Lady 
Austen, who gave the sentiment. 

Air — '■'■Mjjfond Shepherds of late^^ 

No longer I follow a sound ; 
No longer a dream I pursue ; 

happiness ! not to be found, 
Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 

1 have sought thee in splendor and dress. 
In the regions of pleasure and taste ; 

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, 
But have proved thee a vision at last. 

An humble ambition and hope 

The voice of true wisdom.inspires; 

'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope, 
And the summit of all our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind 
That seeks it in meekness and love ; 

But rapture and bliss are confined 
To the glorified spirits above. 



SONG. 



Also written at the request of Lady Atisten. 
Air—" The Lass of Pattie's MUl.^^ 

When all within is peace, 

How nature seems to smile ! 
Delights that never cease 

The livelong day beguile. 
From morn to dewy eve 

With open hand she showers 
Fresh blessings, to deceive 

And soothe the silent hours. 

It is content of heart 

Gives Nature power to please; 
The mind that feels no smart 

Enlivens all it sees ; 
Can make a wintry sky 

Seem bright as smiling May, 
And evening's closing eye 

As peep of early day. 

The vast majestic globe. 

So beauteously arrav'd 
In Nature's various robe, 

With wondrous skill display'd, 
Is to a mourner's heart 

A dreary wild at best ; 
It flutters to depart, 

And longs to be at rest. 



VERSES 

selected from an occasional poem entitled 

"VALEDICTION." 

Oh Friendship ! cordial of the human breast ! 
So little felt, so fervently profess'd ! 
Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years ; 
The promise of delicious fruit appears : 
We hug the hopes of constancy and truth, 
Such is the folly of our dreaming youth; 
But soon, alas ! detect the rash mistake 
That sanguine inexperience loves to make ; 
And view with tears the expected harvest lost, 
Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. 
Whoever undertakes a friend's great part 
Should be rencw'd in nature, pure in heart, 
Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove 
A thousand ways the tbrce of genuine love. 
He may be call'd to give up health and gain, 
To exchange content for trouble, ease for paluj 
To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan, 
And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. 
The heart of man. for such a task too frail, 
When most relied on is most sure to fail ; 
And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe. 
Starts from its office like a broken bow. 

Votaries of business and of pleasure prove 
Faithless alike in friendship and in love. 
Retired from all the circles of the gay, 
And all the crowds that bustle hfe away. 
To scenes where competition, envy, strife, 
Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life, 
Let me, the charge of some good angel, find 
One who has known, and has escaped mankind ; 
Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away 
The manners, not the morals, of the day : 
With him, perhaps with her (for men have known 
No firmer triendships thantlie fair have shown.) 
Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, 
All former friends forgiven and ibrgot, 
Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, 
Union of hearts without a flaw between. 
'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, 
If God give heahh, that sunshine of our days ! 
And if he add a blessing shared by few, 
Content of heart, more praises still are due — 
But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd 
Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest; 
And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, 
Born from above and made divinely wise, 
He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, 
Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, 
Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew, 
A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. 
Nov., 1783. 



EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON. 

Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allow'd, 
Whom to have bred may well make England 

proud, 
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught. 
The graceful vehicle of virtucius thought; 
Whose verse may claim — grave, mascuUne, and 

strong — 
Superior praise to the mere poet's song; 
Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd. 
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. 
O man, immortal by a double prize, 
By fume on earth — by glory in the skies ! 
Jan., 17d5. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



637 



TO MISS C- 



ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



How many lietween oust mill west 

Disgrace Iheir parent t'artli, 
Whose deeds constriiin us to detest 

The day that rave them birth ! 
Not so when Stella's natal morn 

Revolving months restore, 
We can rejoice that she was born, 

And wish her born once more ! 
1786. 



GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED TO LAUY HKSKKTH. 

Tnis cap, that so stately appears, 

With ribbon-bound tassel on high, 
Which seems by tile crest that it rears 

Ambitious of brushing tiic sky: 
This cap to my cousin I owe, 

She gave it, and gave me beside, 
Wreath d into an elegant bow. 

The ribbon with which it is tied. 

This wheel-footed studying chair, 

Contrived both for toil and repose, 
Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair, 

In which 1 both scribble and dose. 
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes. 

And rival in lustre of that 
In which, or astronomy lies, 

Fair Cassiopeia sat : 

These carpets so soft to the foot, 

Caledonia's traffic and pride I 
Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot, 

Escaped from a cross-country ride ! 
This table, and mirror within. 

Secure from collision and dust. 
At which I oft shave check and chin 

And periwig nicely adjust : 

This moveable structure of shelves. 

For its beauty admired and its use, 
And charged with octavos and twelves, 

The gayest I had to produce ; 
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold. 

My poems enchanted I view, 
And hope in due time to behold 

My Iliad and 0<lyssey too ; 

This china, that decks the alcove. 

Which here people call a bulTct, 
But what the gods call it above 

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : 
These curtains that keep the room warm 

Or cool, as the season demands, 
Those stoves that for pattern and fonn 

Seem the labor of Mulcibcr's hands : 

All these are not half that I owe 

To one, from our earliest youth, 
To me ever ready to show 

Benignity, friendship, ami truth ; 
For time, the destroyer declared 

And foe of our perishing kind. 
If even her face he has spared. 

Much less could he alter her mind. 

Thus compass'd about with the goods 
And chattels of leisure and ease, 

I indulge my poetical moods 
In many such fancies as these ; 



.\nil fancies I fear they will seem — 
Poets' goods are not often so fine ; 

The poets will swear that I dream 
When I sing of the splendor of mine. 
1780. 



LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL 
OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ., 

IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS 
NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON. 

Pahewki.1, ! endued with all that could engage 
All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age I 
In prime of life, for sprightlincss enroll'd 
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ; 

In life's last stage, (O blessings rarely found !) 
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown'd ; 
Through every period of this changeful state 
Unchanged thyself— wise, good, afl'ectionatc ! 

Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem 
O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, 
.Although thy worth be more than half supprest, 
Love shall be satisfie<l, and veil the rest. 
June, 1788. 



ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON. 

the NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH OP MARCH, 1789. 

When, long sequester'd from his throne, 

George took his seat again. 
By right of worth, not blood alone. 

Entitled here to reign, 

Then loyalty, with all his lamps 

New trimm'd, a gallant show ! 
Chasing the darkness and the damps. 

Set London in a glow. 

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares 

Which form'd the chief display. 
These most resembling clustcr'd stars. 

Those the long milky way. 

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, 

And rockets flew, self-driven, 
To hang their momefltary fires 

Amid the vault of heaven. 

So, fire with water to compare. 

The ocean serves, on high 
Up-spouted by a whale in air, 

To express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

In one procession join'd, 
And all the banners been unfurl'd 

That heralds e'er dcsign'd. 

For no such sight had England's queen 

Forsaken her retreat. 
Where George, recovcr'd, made a scene 

Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Vet glad she came that night to prove, 

A witness undescrieil. 
How much the object of her love 

NVas loved bv all beside. 



638 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Darkness the skies had mantled o'er 

In aid of her design — 
Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of thine ! 

On borrow'd wheels away she flies, 

Resolved to be unknown, 
And gratify no curious eyes 

That night except her own. 

Arrived, a night like noon she sees, 
And hears the million hum; 

As all by instinct, like the bees, 
Had known their sovereign come. 

Pleased she beheld, alofl portray'd 

On many a splendid wall. 
Emblems of health and heavenly aid, 

And George the theme of all. 

Unlike the enigmatic line, 

So difficult to spell, 
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine 

The night his city fell. 

Soon watery grew her eyes and dim, 

But with a joyful tear, 
None else, except in prayer for him, 

George ever drew from her. 

It was a scene in every part 

Like those in fable feign 'd, 
And seem'd by some magician's art 

Created and sustain'd. 

But other magic there, she knew, 

Had been exerted none, 
To raise such wonders in her view, 

Save love of George alone. 

That cordial thought her spirit cheer d, 
And, through the cumbrous throng, 

Not else unworthy to be fear'd, 
Convey'd her calm along. 

So, ancient poets say, serene 
The sea-maid rides the waves, 

And fearless of the billowy scene 
Her peaceful bosom laves. 

With more than astronomic eyes 
She view'd the sparkling show ; 

One Georgian star adorns the skies. 
She myriads found (jplow. 

Yet let the glories of a night 
Like that, once seen, suffice. 

Heaven grant us no such future sight, 
Such previous woe the price ! 



THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.* 

Muse — hide his name of whom I sing, 
Lest his surviving house thou bring 
For his sake into scorn, 

* Written on readiiij? the following in the obituary of 
the (Jpiitlcman's Mir^iiziut: fur April, J780. — "At Tutten- 
ham, Jolin Ardcsoif, Esq., a youny man of larj/e fortune, 
and in the splendor of his carrjjttres and horses rivalled 
by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospi- 
tality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too mnch to 
conviviality; but, if he had his foibles he had his merits 
also, that fiu- outweighed ihuni. Rlr. A. was very fund of 
cock-flghtin;;, and had a favorite cock, upon wliich he 
had won many protitablc matches. The last bet he laid 



Nor speak the school from which he drew 
The much or little that he knew. 
Nor place where he was born. 

That such a man once was, may seem 
Worthy of record (if the theme 

Perchance may credit win) 
For proof to man, what man may prove, 
If grace depart, and demons move 

The source of guilt within. 

This man (for since the howling wild 
Disclaims him, man he must be styled) 

Wanted no good below. 
Gentle he was, if gentle birth 
Could make him such, and he had worth, 

If wealth can worth bestow. 

In social talk and ready jest, 
He shone superior at the feast, 

And qualities of mind, 
Illustrious in the eyes of those 
Whose gay society he chose, 

Possess'd of every kind. 

Methinks I see him powder'd red, 
With bushy locks his wcll-drcss'd head 

Wing'd broad on either side, 
The mossy rosebud not so sweet ; 
His steeds superb, his carriage neat, 

As luxury could provide. 

Can such be cruel *? Such can be 
Cruel as hell, and so was he; 

A tyrant entertain'd 
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight 
Was to encourage mortal ficrht 

'Twixt birds to battle train'd. 

One feather'd champion he possess'd, 
His darling tar beyond the rest, 

Which never knew disgrace, 
Nor e'er had ibucriit but he made flow 
The life-blood of his fiercest foe, 

The CtEsar of his race. 

It chanced at last, when on a day, 
He push'd him to the desperate fray. 

His courage droopM, he fled. 
The master storm'd, the prize was lost, 
And, instant, frantic at the cost, 

He doom'd his favorite dead. 

He seized him fast, and from the pit 
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, 

And, Bring me cord, he cried ; 
The cord was brouf^ht, and. at his word, 
To that dire implement the bird, 

Alive and strugghng, tied. 

The horrid sequel asks a veil ; 
And all the terrors of tlie tale 

That can be shall be sunk — 
Led by the sufierer's screams aright 
His shock'd companions view the sight, 

And him with fury drunk. 

upon this cock he lost; which su enraged him, that he 
had the bird tir<l to a spit and masled alive bi'foro a larye 
tire. The screams of the nhsci alile animal were so afTccl- 
ing:, that some i,viilleinen who were present aUempted to 
interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a 
pokei-, and with the most furious vehemence declareti, 
that he would kill the tirst man who interposed ; but, in 
the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down 
dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the cir- 
cumstances which attended the death of this great pillai- 
of humanity," 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



639 



All, suppliant, beg a milder fate 
For the old warrior at the grate : 

Hp, deaf to j)ity's call, 
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel 
His culinary club of steel 

Death menacing on all. 

But vengeance hung not far remote, 

For while he strelch'd Ids clamorous throat, 

And heaven and earth dclied, 
Big with a curse too closely pent. 
That struggled vainly lor a vent. 

He totter'd, reel'd, and died. 

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise, 
To point the judgment of the skies ; 

But judgments plain as this, 
That, sent for man's instruction, bring 
A written label on their wing, 

'Tis hard to read amiss. 
May, 17S9. 



TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESft. 

BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WEST- 
MINSTER. 

HvsTiNiis ! I knew thee young, and of a mind, 
While young, humane, conversable, and kind. 
Nor can i well believe thee, gentle then. 
Now grown a villain, anil the worst of men. 
Hut rather some suspect, who have oppress'd 
And worried thee, as not themselves the best. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, 

ON HER BKAUTIFUI, TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, 
" AU LIBRUM SUUM." 

Maria, could Horace have guess'd 

What honor awaited his ode 
To his own little volume aildress'd. 

The honor which you have bestow'd; 
Who have traced it in characters here, 

So elegant, even, and neat, 
He had iaugh'd at the critical sneer 

Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 

And sneer, if you please, he had said, 

A nymph shall hereafter arise. 
Who shall give me, when you arc all dead, 

The glory your malice denies ; 
Shall dignity give to my lay. 

Although but a mere bagatelle; 
.\nd even a poet shall say. 

Nothing ever was written so well, 
Feb., 1790. 



TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OP THE 
HALIBUT, 

OS WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 2G 
1784. 

Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued 
Thy pastime ? when wast thou an egg new 

spawn'd, 
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste's 
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds 
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast 

safe — 



And in thy minikin and embryo state, 
Attach'd to the firai leaf of some salt weed. 
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd 
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark. 
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. 
Indebted to no magnet and no chart. 
Nor under guidance of the polar fire. 
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts. 
Grazing at large in meadows submarine, 
Where tiat Batavia, just emerging, peeps 
Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks 
Beat back the surge — and where Hibernia shoots 
Her wondrous causeway far into the main, 
— Wherever thou hast fed, thou httle thought's!, 
.\nd I not more, that I should feed on thee. 
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much 

good fish. 
To him who sent thee ! and success, as ofl 
As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well ! 

To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare tliec 
Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'rl 
Would envy, could they know that thou wast 
To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE, 

ERECTED AT THE SOWING OP A GROVE OF OAKS 
AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD, 

Esa, 1790. 

Other stones the era tell 
When some feeble mortal tell ; 
I stand here to date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of earth. 

Which siiali longest brave the sky. 
Storm and frost — these oaks or I ? 
Pass an age or two away, 
I must moulder and decay, 
But the years that crumble me 
Shall invigorate the tree, 
Spread its branch, dilate its size. 
Lilt its summit to tiie skies. 

Cherish honor, virtue, truth. 
So shall thou prolong thy youth. 
Wanting these, however fast 
Man be fix'd and Ibrm'd to last. 
He is liteless even now, 
Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 
June, 171)0. 



ANOTHER, 

FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION 
AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR. 

Reader ! beholil a monument 

That asks no sigh or tear, 
Though it perpetuate the event 

Of a great burial here. 
June, 1790. Anno 1791. 



TO MRS. KING, 

ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR, A PATCH- 
WORK COUNTERPANE OP HEB OWN MAKING. 

TilE bard, if e'er he feel at all. 
Must sure be ijuicken'd by a call 
Both on his heart and head, 



640 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To pay with tuneful thanks the care 
And kindness of a lady fair, 
Who deigns to deck his bed. 

A bed like this, in anciejit time, 
On Ida's barren top sublime, 

(As Homer's epic shows) 
Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, 
Without the aid of sun or showers, 

For Jove and Juno rose. 

Less beautiful, however gay, 

Is that which in the scorching day. 

Receives the weary swain, 
Who, laying his long scythe aside, 
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, 

Till roused to toil again. 

What labors of the loom I see.! 

Looms numberless have groan'd for me ! 

Should every maiden come 
To scramble lor the patch that bears 
The unpress of the robe she wears, 

The bell would toll for some. 

And oh. what havoc would ensue I 
This bright display of every hue 

AH in a moment fled ! 
As if a storm should strip the bowers 
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers- 
Each pocketing a shred. 

Thanks then to every gentle fair 
Who will not come to peck me bare 

As bird of borrow'd feather, 
And thanks to one above them all, 
The gentle lair of Pertenhall, 

Who put the whole together. 
August, 1790. 



IN MEMORV OF 

THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
Praising the author of all good in man, 
And, next, commemorating worthies lost, 
The dead in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more 
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore, 
Thee, Thornton ! worthy in some page to shine. 
As honest and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. 
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; 
It were to weep that goodness has its meed. 
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky. 
And glory for the virtuous when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard 
Or spendthriiVs prodigal excess atford. 
Sweet as the privilege of heaUng woe 
By virtue sulTcr'd combating below 1 [means 
That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee 
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes. 
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
Thou hadst an industry in doing good. 
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food ; 
Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth 
By rust unpcrishable or by stealth. 
And if the genuine worth of gold depend 
On application to its noblest end. 



Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven 
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. 
And, though God made thee of a nature prone 
To distribution boundless of thy own. 
And still by motives of religious force 
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course. 
Yet was thy liberality discreet, 
Nice in its choice, and of a teniper'd heat : 
And, though in act unwearied, secret still. 
As in some solitude the summer rill 
Refreshes where it winds, tlic faded green, [seen. 
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un- 

.Such was thy charity: no sudden start, 
Afler long sleep of passion in the heart. 
But stedfast principle, and, in its kind. 
Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, 
Traced easily to its true source above, 
To him whose works bespeak his nature, love. 

Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make 
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake; 
That the incredulous themselves may see 
Its use and power exemplified in thee. 
Nov., 1790. 



THE FOUR AGES. 

(a brief FR.4GMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED 
POE.M.) 

" I COULD be well content, allowed the use 
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd 
Froui worn-out follies, now acknowledged such, 
To recommence life's trial, in the hope 
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!" 

Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and 
call'd 
Fresh odors from the shrubbery at my side, 
Taking my lonely winding walk, 1 mused. 
And held accustom'd conference with my heart ; 
When from within it thus a voice replied ; 

" Couldst thou in truth 1 and art thou taught 
at length 
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past 1 
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear. 
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
Of talents, judgment, met;cies, better far 
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err 
With less excuse, and, haply, worse eO'ectV 

I heard, and acquiesced : then to and fro 
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, 
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind 
I pass'd, and next considcr'd — what is man. 

Knows he his origin ? can he ascend 
By reminiscence to his earliest date "? 
Slept he in Adam ] And in tliose from him 
Through numerous generations, till he found 
At length his destined moment to be born 1 
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb "! 
Deep mysteries both ! which schoolmen must 

have toil'd 
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still. 

It is an evil incident to man. 
And of the worst, that unexjilored he leaves 
Truths useful and attainable with ease, 
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies 
Not to be solved, and useless if it might. 
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest 
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man. 
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean 
His manna from the ground, or starve and die. 
May, 1791. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



641 



THE RETIRED CAT.' 

A poet's cat, sedate ond grave, 

As poet well couki wish to have, 

Was much addicted to inquire 

For nooics to wliicli she might retire, 

And where, secure as mouse in chink, 

She might repose, or sit and think. 

I know not where she caught the trick — 

Nature perhap liersell" had cast her 
In such a mould philosophique, 

Or else she learn'd it ot" her master. 
Sometunes ascending, dehonair, 
An apple tree, or lofty pear, 
Lodged with convenience in the fork, 
She watch'd the gardener at his work ; 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty watering pot : 
There, wanting nothing save a fan. 
To seem some nymph in her sedan 
Apparell'd in cxactest sort, 
And ready to be borne to court. 

But love of change, it seems, has place 
Not only in our wiser race ; 
Cats also feel, as well as we, 
That passion's Ibrce, and so did she. 
Her climbing, she began to find. 
Exposed her too much to the wind. 
And the old utensil of tin 
Was cold and comfortless within : 
She therefore wisli'd instead of those 
Some place of more serene repose. 
Where neither cold might come, nor air 
Too rudely wanton with her hair. 
And sought it in the likeliest mode 
Within her master's snug abode. 

.'V drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined 
With linen of the softest kind, 
With such as merchants introduce 
From India, t'or the ladies' use, 
A drawer impending o'er the rest, 
Half open in the topmost chest, 
Of depth enough, and none to spare. 
Invited her to slumber there ; 
Puss with delight beyonil expression, 
Survey "d the scene and took possession. 
Recumbent at her ease, ere long. 
And lull'd by her own hviindruni song. 
She left the cares of life behind. 

And slept as she would sleep her last, 
When in came, housewifely inclined, 

The chambermaid, and shut it fast ; 
By no malignity impell'd. 
But all unconscious whom it held. 

Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) 
" Was ever cat attended thus '. 
The open drawer was left, I see. 
Merely to prove a nest lor nie, 
For soon as I was well composed. 
Then came the maid, and it was closed. 

* Cowper's parti.ilily lu iinimnis is well known. Lady 
Ile.-kelli, in one of her lelters, sUites, ''lliat lie had.ul one 
time, five rabbits three hures. two (fuinea-pifp*, a mag- 
pie, a jay, and a ^lurlint;; besides two coldtlnche!*, two 
c.'iniirj- birds, and two do'.,'s. It it* nmazin? how the lliree 
hares can Hnd room to ifantliol and frolic (a.»» they cer- 
tainly do) in hi3 3mall parl()r ;" and she adds. "I tbrgol 
to ennnierate a sqnirrel. which he had at the same time, 
and which used U> play with one of tlie hares continually. 
One evenin--'. the cat pi\ iiiK one of the liare^ a sound b»>x 
on the ear. the hare ran after her, and, havini,; caiit,dit 
her, punished her by drninminu: on her back with her 
two feet ae hard as drnin.i?tieks, till the creature would 
have actually been kdJcd, hod uot Mrs. IJuwiu rescued 
her." 



How smooth these 'kerchicfe, and how sweet ! 

wh.1t a delicate retreat ! 

1 will resign myself to rest 
Till Sol, declining in the west, 
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, 
Susan will come and let me out." 

The evening came, the sun descended, 
Anil Puss remain'd still unattended. 
The night roH'd tardily away, 
(With her indeed 'twas never day,) 
The sprightly morn her course renew'd. 
The evening grey again ensued. 
And puss came into mind no more 
Than if entomli'd the day before. 
With hunger pineli'd. and pinch'd for room, 
.She now presaged approaching doom. 
Nor slept a wink or purr'd. 
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. 

That night, by chance, the poet watching, 
Heard an inexplicable scratching; 
His noble heart went nit-a-pat, 
And to himself he said — " What's that ■?" 
He drew the curtain at his side, 
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. 
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 
Something imprison'd in the chest. 

And doubtful what, with prudent care 

Resolved it should continue there. 

At length a voice which well he knew, 

A long and melancholy mew. 

Saluting his poetic ears. 

Consoled him and dispell'd his fears : 

He left his bed, he trod the floor. 

He 'gan in haste the ilrawers explore, 

The lowest first, and without stop 

The rest in order to the top. 

For 'tis a truth well known to most, 

That whatsoever thing is lost. 

We seek it. ere it come to linht. 

In every cranny but the rigKt, 

Forth skijip'd the cat, not now replete 

As erst, with airy self-conceit. 

Nor in her own fond apprehension 

A theme for all the world's attention. 

But modest, sober, cured of all 

Her notions h3'perbolical. 

And wishing for a place of rest 

Anything rather than a chest. 

Then stepp'd the poet into bed 

\Vith this reflection in his head : 



Beware of too sublime a sense 
Of your own worth and consequence : 
The man who dreams himself so great. 
And his importance of such weight. 
That all around, in all that's done. 
Must move and act for him alone. 
Will learn in school of tribulation 
The folly of his expectation, 
1791. ' 



THE JUDGMENT OP THE POETS. 

Tivn nymplis, both nearly of an age. 
Of numerous charms possess'd, 

A warm dispute once chanced to wage. 
Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete 
Had both alike been mild ■ 

41 



642 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But one, although her smile was sweet, 
Frown'd ortener than she smiled. 

And in her humor, when she Irown'd, 
Would raise her voice and roar, 

And shake with I'ury to the ground 
The garland that she wore. 

The other was of gentler cast. 

From all such frenzy clear. 
Her frowns were seldom known to last, 

And never proved severe. 

To poets of renown in song 
The nymphs referr'd the cause. 

Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, 
And gave misplaced applause. 

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft. 

The flippant and the scold, 
And though she changed her mood so oil, 

That falling left untold. 

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad. 

Or so resolved to err — 
In short, the charms her sister had 

They lavish'd all on her. 

Then thus the god. whom fondly they 

Their great inspirer call. 
Was heard, one genial summer's day, 

To reprimand them all. 

" Since thus ye have combined," he said, 
" My lavorite nymph to slight, 

Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
With June's undoubted right, 

" The minx shall for your folly's sake, 

Still prove herself a shrew. 
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache. 
And pinch your noses blue." 
May, 1791. 



YARDLEY OAK.* 

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all 

That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, 

(Since which I number threescore winters past ) 

A shattered veteran, hoUow-trunk'd perhaps. 

As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 

Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued 

With truth from heaven, created things adore, 

I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse. 
When our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet 
Unpurified by an authentic act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine. 
Loved not tlic light, but, gloomy, into gloom 
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball [jay 
Which babes might play witli ; and the thievisli 
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 

* This tree liad been known by the name o( Judith fur 
many ages. Perhaps it received that name on bein;; 
planted by the Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, 
whom he gave in marriage to llic English Earl WaJtIieof, 
with the counties of Northampton and Huntingdon hs 
her dower. — yide Letters, p. 301. 



But fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rains 
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 
Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer. 
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared 
The sort receptacle, in which, secure, 
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So i'ancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can. 
Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ 'd too oft amiss. 
Sifts lialf the pleasures of short lil'e away ! 

Thou fell'st mature ; and, in the loamy clod 
Swelling with vegetative force instinct, 
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins. 
Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact j 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf. 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. 

Who lived when thou wast such. Oh, could'st 
thou speak, 
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees 
Oracular, I would not curious ask 
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft. 
The clock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts 
Recovering, and misstated setting right — 
Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again I 

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the 

woods ; 

And lime hath made thee what thou art — a cave 

For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs 

O'erhung the champaign ; and the numerous 

flocks 
That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowdcd. yet safe shelter'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived 
Thy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forgotten, as the tbliage of thy youth, [push'd 

While thus through all the stages thou hast 
Of trceship — first, a seedUng, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and. as century roll'd 
.Slow after century, a giant bulk 
Of girth enormous with moss-cushion'd root. 
Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With prominent wens globose — till at the last 
The rottenness, whieli time is charged to inflict 
On other mighty ones. Ibund also thee. 

What exhibitions various hath the world 
Witncss'd of mutability in all 
That we account most durable below f 
Change is the diet on which all subsist. 
Created changeable, and chann;e at last. 
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought. 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man. 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. 
Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works. 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain 
The Ibrce that agitates not unimpair'd ; 
But worn by frequent impulse to the cause 
Of their l>est tone their dissolution owe. 

Thought cannot spend itself comparing still 
The great and liltle of thy lot, thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
Slow, into such magnificent decay. 
Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



643 



Could shake tlieelo the root — ami time has been 
When ti'mpesls couUl not. At thy firmest n<n. 
Thuu hadst within thy hole, soliil i-ontents [ili c-l; 
Tliat might have ribbd the sides and plank'dlhe 
or some /la!,'(;'d admiral; and tortuous arms, 
The shi|)wrij;hl's darling treasure, didst present 
To the f'()ur-(juartcr'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load!* 
Hut llic axe spared thee. In lluise thriflicr days 
Oaks fell nut, hewn by thousands, to supply 
The bottomless demands of eontest waged 
For senatorial honors. Thus to time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 
With his sly seytbe. whose ever-nibbling edcc, 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, 
Disjoining t'roju the rest, has, unobserved. 
Achieved a labor which had, tar and wide, 
By man pertbrm'd. made all the forest ring. 
Embowell'd now, and of thy aneicnt self 
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that 

seems 
A huge throat ealling to the clouds for drink, 
NVhicli it would give in rivulets to thy root, 
Thou temptest none, but rather much Ibrbidd'st 
The feller's toil, which thou eouldst ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs and knollid fanes. 
Which erook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. 

So stands a kiiigdom, whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laiil, 
Though all the superstructure by the tooth 
Pulverized of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself! 
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent 
thera oir 
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild 
With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some 

have left 
A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white ; 
And some memorial none where once they grew. 
•Vet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not contemptible of what she can. 
Even where death predominates. The sprint 
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet tbrce 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighboring wood. 
So much tliy juniors, who tlieir birth received 
Half a millennium since the date of thine. 
But sinre, altbouijh well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May be expected from thee, seated here 
On thy distorted root, with hearers none. 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
In my own car such matter as I may. 

One man alone, the father of us all, 
Drew not his life tVoin woman ; never gazed, 
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, 
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor owed articulation to his ear; 
But, moulded by his Maker into man 
At once, up^tood intelligent, surveyM 
All creatures, with precision understood 
Their purport, uses, properties. as.sign'd 
To each his name signihcant, and fill'd 
\Vith love and wisdom, render'ii back to Heaven 
In prais • harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excused the penalties of dull 

• Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, 
which, by reason of their disturliun, are easily adjusted 
to the augle formed where the deck and the ship^s sides 
meet. 



Minority. No tutor charged his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, ortask'd his mind 
\Vith problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Lean d on her elbow, watching tune, whose 

course, 
Kventful, should supply her with a theme .... 
not. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE, 

WHICH THE AITHOB IIE.IRD SING ON NEW YEAR'S 
D.VV. 

WiiE.s'CE is it that, amazed, I hear 

From yonder wither'd spray, 
This Ibremost morn of all the year, 

The melody of May "> 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favor shown. 
Am I selecteil from the crowd 

To witness it alone ! 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 

For that I also long 
Have practised in the groves like thee, 

Though not like thee in song 1 

Or sing'st thou, rather, under Ibrce 

Of some divine command, 
Commission'd to pres.atre a course 

Of happier days at hand ! 

Thrice welcome then ! for many a long 

.■\nd joyous year have I, 
.Vs thou to-day, put forth my song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 

But thee no wintry skies can harm, 

Who only need'st to sing 
To make e'en January charm. 
And every season spring. 
179-2. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 

OF Miss PATTY MORE's, SISTER OF HANNAH .MORE. 

In vain to live from age to age 
While modern bards endeavor, 

I write my name in Patty's page, 
And gain my point forever. 

W. COWPER. 

March 6, 1792. 



SONNET 
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain. 
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd 
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enlhrall'd 

From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. 
Friend of the poor, the wronn-'d, the fcttcr- 
gall'd, 

Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain. 

Thou hast achieved a part ; hast gain'd the ear 

Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : 

Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold cau- 
tion pause 
And weave delay, the better hour is near 
That shall remunerate thy toils severe, 

By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. 



644 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on earth and all the blest above. 
April 16, 1795. 



EPIGRAM 

PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. 

To purify their wine, some people bleed 

A lamb into the barrel, and succeed ; 

No nostrum, planters say, is halt" so good 

To make line sugar as a negro's blood. 

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things. 

And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs, 

'Tis in the blood of innocence alone — 

Good cause why planters never try their own. 



TO DR. AUSTIN, 

OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. 

Adstin ! accept a grateful verse from me. 
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. 
Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in my verse may find ; 
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, 
Immortalizing names which else had died: 
And O ! could I command the glittering wealth 
With which sick kings are glad to purchase 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, [health ! 
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 
I would not recompense his arts with less. 
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 
Friend of my friend !* I love thee, though 
unknown. 
And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 
May 21), 1792. 



C.\THARINA ; 

THE SECOND P.IRT : ON HER M.4RRIAGE TO GEORGE 
COURTENAY, ESa. 

Believe it or not, as you choose. 

The doctrine is certainly true, 
That the future is known to the muse. 

And poets are oracles too. 
I did but express a desire 

To see Catharina at home, 
At the side of my friend George's fire. 

And lo — she is actually come ! 

Such prophecy some may despise, 

But the wish of a poet and friend 
Perhaps is approved in the skies. 

And therefore attains to its end. 
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth 

From a bosom effectually warm'd 
With the talents, the graces, and worth 

Of the person for whom it was form'd. 

Mariat would leave us, I knew, 

To the grief and regret of us all. 
But less to our grief could we view 

Catharina the Cluoen of the Hall. 
And therefore I wish'd as I did, 

And therefore this union of hands: 
Not a whisper was heard to forbid. 

But all cry — Amen — to the bans 
* Hayley. t Ludy Tlirockiuoilon. 



Since, therefore, I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain 
When making good wishes for her, 

I will e'en to my wishes again — 
W'ith one I have made her a wife, 

And now I will try with another, 
Which I cannot suppress for my Ufe — 

How soon I can make her a mother. 
'June, 1790. 

EPITAPH ON FOP, 

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name. 
Here moulders one whose bones some honor 

claim. 
No sycophant, although of spaniel race. 
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase — 
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, 
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice ; 
This record of his fate exulting view. 
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. 

" Yes," — the indignant shade of Fop replies— 
" And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies." 
AuL'ust, 1792. 



SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ., 

ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, 

Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the 
mouths of August and September, 1792. 

RoMNEY, expert infallibly to trace 

On chart or canvas, not the form alone 
And semblance, but however taintly shown. 

The mind's impression too on every face — 

With strokes that time ought never to erase. 
Thou hastsopencill'd mine, that though I own 
The subject worthless, I have never known 

The artist shining with superior grace. 

But this I mark — that symptoms none of woe 
In thy incomparable work appear. 

Well — I am satisfied it sliould be so, 

Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear ; 

For in my looks what sorrow could'st thou see 
When I was Hayley s guest, and sat to thee "! 
October, 1792. 



MARY AND JOHN. 

If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 

'Tis a very gooil nmtch between Mary and John. 

Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the 

scratches ! 
It can't be a match — 'tis a bundle of matches. 



EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER. 

* OF CHICHELEY. 

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man 

lies. 
Till all who knew him follow to the skies. 
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep ; 
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants 

weep — 
And justly — few shall ever him transcend 
As husband parent, brother, master, friend. 
April, 1793. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



645 



TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, 

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PUI 
MADE BY HERSELF. 

My <;cntIo Anne, whom heretofore, 
Whtii'I was young, anj thou no more 

Than phivthing (or a nurse, 
I danced and fondled on my knee, 
A kitten botli in size and glee, 

I thank thee for my purse. 

Gold pays the worth of all things here; 
Hut not of love ; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it ; 
I, therefore, as a proof of love, 
Esteem thy present far above 

The best things kept within it. 
May 4, 17<t3. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN 
THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN. 

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
Built as it has been in our waning years, 
A rest afforded to our weary feet, 
Preliminary to — the last retreat. 
May, 1703. 



TO MRS. UNWIN. 

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, 

Such ai<l from heaven as some have I'cign'd 

they drew. 
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new 

And undebased by praise of meaner things. 

That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
I may record thy worth with honor due. 
In verse as musical as thou art true. 

And that immortalizes whom it sings. 

But thou hast little need. There is a book 
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light. 

On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright; 

There all thy dc eds, my faithful Mary, shine. 
And, since tliou own'st that praise, I spare thee 
mine. 
May, 1793. 



TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ., 

ON ni.S PRESENTING ME WITH AN ANTIttUE BDST 
OF HOMEK. 

Kinsman beloved, and as a son. by me ! 

When I lieliold the fruit of lliy regard. 

The sculptured form of my old favorite bard, 
I reverence teel for him, and love for thee : 
Joy too and gricf^much joy that there should be, 

Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to 
reward 

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, 
Which others scorn ; critics by courtesy. 
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, 

I lose my precious years, now soon to fail. 
Handling nis gold, which, how.soe'er it shine, 

Proves dross when balanced in the Christian 
scale. 
Be wiser thou — hkc our forefather Donne, 
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. 
May, 1793. 



TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 

ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NO 
RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. 

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 

found 
While moisture none refresh 'd the herbs around. 
Might litly represent the church, endow 'd 
With heavenly girts to heathens not allow'd ; 
In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high. 
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry : 
Heaven grant us h.iit" the omen — may we see 
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee! 
May, 1793. 



ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING 
A YOUNG BIRD. 

A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you, 

Well t'cd. and at his ease. 
Should wiser be than to pursue 

Each trifle that he sees. 

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 

W'hich flew not till to-day. 
Against my orders, whom you heard 

Forbidding you the prey. 

Nor did you kill that you might eat 

.4nd case a doggish pain. 
For him. though chased with furious heat, 

You left where he was slain. 

Nor was he of the thievish sort. 

Or one whom blood allures, 
But innocent was all his sport 

Whom you have torn for yours. 

My dog ! what remedy remains, 

Since teach you all I can, 
I see you, after all my pains. 

So much resemble man 1 
July 15, 1793. 



BEAU'S REPLY. 

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird 

In spite of your command. 
A louder voice than yours I heard, 

And harder to withstand. 

You cried — Forbear ! — but in my breast 
A mightier cried — Proceed ! — 

Twas nature. Sir, whose strong behest 
Impcll'd me to the deed. 

Yet, much as nature I respect, 

I ventured once to break 
(.\s you perhaps may recollect) 

Her precept for your sake ; 

And when your linnet on a day. 

Passing his prison door. 
Hat! flutter'd all his strength away, 

And panting press'd the floor, 

Well knowing him a sacred thing. 

Not destined to my tooth, 
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, 

And lick'd the feathers smooth. 

Let ray obedience then excuse 
My disobedience now, 



646 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
From your aggrieved bow-wow ; 

If killing birds be such a crime, 
(Which I can hardly see.) 

What think you, Sir, of killing time 
With verse address'd to me ! 



TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, 
Worthier to stand forever, if they could, 
Than any built of stone or yet of wood, 

For back of royal elephant to bear ! 

O for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to my own. though little to thy cood, 
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) 

A partnership of hterary ware ! 

But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth 
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays ; 

Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd l)irth ! 
But what his commentator's happiest praise ■? 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
Which they who need them use, and then 
despise. 
June 29, 1793. 



ANSWER 

To Stanzas addressed to Lady Heakcth, by Miss Catharine 
Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent 
to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor 
lake a copy. 

To be remember'd thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the few like her the same. 

The press might sleep for me. 

So Homer in the memory stored 

Of many a Grecian belle. 
Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 

But never lodged so well. 

1793. 



ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. 

The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, 
Whom all this elegance might well seduce ; 
Nor can our censure on the husband fall, 
Who for a wife so lovely, slew them all. 
September, 1793. 



TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT 
GRAVINA, 

On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into 
Italian Verse. 

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, 

And steep'd not now in rain. 
But in Castilian streams by you. 

Will never fade again 
1793. 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON. 

Pause here, and think: a monitory rhyme 
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. 

Consult life's silent clock, thy bountling vein; 
Seems it to say — "Health here has long to 

reign V 
Hast thou the vigor of thy youth ? an eye 
That beams delight 1 a heart untaught to sigh? 
Yet fear. Youth, ofltimes healthful and at ease. 
Anticipates a day it never sees ; 
And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud 
Exclaims " Prepare thee for an early shroud." 



EPITAPH ON A HARE. 

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue. 
Nor swifter greyhound follow, 

Whose foot ne er tainted morning dew, 
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo; 

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
Who, nursed with tender care, 

And to domestic bounds confined, 
Was still a wild Jack hare. 

Though duly from my hand he took 

His pittance every night. 
He did it with a jealous look, 

And, when he could, would bite. 

His diet was of wheaten bread 
And milk, and oats, and straw ; 

Thistles, or lettuces instead, 
With sand to scour his maw. 

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, 

On pippins' russet peel. 
And when his juicy salads fail'd 

Sliced carrot pleased him well. 

A turkey carpet was his lawn. 

Whereon he loved to bound, 
To skip and gambol like a fawn. 

And swing his rump around. 

His frisking was at evening hoars. 

For then he lost his fear. 
But most before approaching showers, 

Or when a storm drew near. 

Eight years and five round rolling moons 

He thus saw steal away. 
Dozing out all his idle noons, 

And every night at play. 

I kept him for his humor's sake, 

For he would ol^ beguile 
My heart of thoughts that made it ache, 

And force me to a smile. 

But now beneath this walnut shade 

He finds his long last home. 
And waits in snug concealment laid. 

Till gentler Puss shall come. 

He. still more aged, feels the shocks. 
From which no care can save. 

And, partner once of Tiney's box, 
Must soon partake his grave. 




^i2^^^^^£2«i3»^S 



TREATMENT OF HIS HARES. 



647 



EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM. 

Hic ctiam jacet, 

Qui totuin novennium vixit, 

Puss. 

Sistc pauiisper, 

Q.ui prietchturus es, 

Et tecum sic reputa — 

Hunc neque canis venaticus, 

Nee plumbum missile, 

Nee iaqucus, 

Ncc imbres nimii, 

Confeci'^re: 

Taincn iiiortuus est — 

Kt moriar etjo. 



The following account of the treatment of his 
hares was insertcil by Cowper in the Gentle- 
man's Magazine. 

In the 3'ear 1774. being much indisposed both in mind 
and body, jrii;aj>able ot'divertiiii^ myself either wilh coni- 
j»;iTiy or books, and vi-l in a cundiiion thiit made some 
divrr!*ii)n necessary, [ was ^Iftd of anytliin? thiU would 
eiif.M.,'f my attention, without faiiiiuin:; il. The childr<;n 
of a nt'i^diborof mine had u leveret L;iven them for a play- 
tbini;: it was at that time about Ihrco months old. l^n- 
der^umdin^ better how to teasu the poor creatuie than 
to fi-ed it^ and soon bi'Cominu; wearj ol Iheir clian,'!-, ih,y 
readily consented thai (heir latliur, who saw it pinin.,' and 
Krowin;; leaner evury day, should oiler it to my acct-iit- 
ance. 1 was willing enough to take the prisoner unilfr 
my protection, perceivlna; that, in the manju,'enienl of 
sucli an animal, and in the atiempt to tame it, I should 
lind just that sort of urn j)loy[ui'nl wiiirh my case required. 
Il was soon known ami inu' the iieiijlibor^ that 1 was ple:i><eil 
with the present, and the i'on-*'',nieiice was, that hi a short 
time I had as many Irviteis uilered to mo aawuuld have 
slocked a paddock. I uudertiMik the care of three, which 
il in necessary that I slmuid here distinguish by the names 
1 gave them — I'uss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwilhstandini,' 
the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you that 
they were all males. Immediately commcncin;,' carpen- 
ter,! built them houses to sleep in ; each had a separate 
apartment, so contrived thai Iheir ordure would pass 
IhrouKh the bottom of it; an earthen pan placed nmler 
each received whatsoever fell, which btrin-j; duly empned 
and washed, they were thus kepi perfectly s'weei and 
clean. In (he daytime they hud the nuitfe of a hall, and 
at ni^ht retired each tohis'own bed, never intruding into 
that iif another. 

Puss grew prcsendy familiar, would leap into my lap, 
raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from 
my temples, lie would sulTer me to lake him up, and to 
curry him about in my ju'ms, and has more than once 
fallen fiist asleep upon my knee. lie Wiis ill three days, 
diiriiii: which lime I nursed him, kept him apart from 
his fellows, that Ihey mi^ht not molest him (for, like 
many other wild animals, they per:*ecule one of their 
own species that is sick,) and by constant care, and try- 
ing him with a variety of herbs, restored him lo perfect 
heallh. -No crcalure could be more irruteful than my pa- 
tient after his recovery; a sentiment which he most si;^'- 
niticantly expressed by tickin;< ni) hand, llrst the back 
of il, then the i)idm, then every liniter separately, then 
between all the lin'-fers as if anxious lo leave no part of 
it unsaluled ; a cerem;.<ny which he never performed but 
once (u^ain upon a similar occasion. Finding him ex- 
tremely tractable, 1 made it my custom to carry him 
always afier breakfast into the cfarden, where he hid him- 
8**lf generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleep- 
ing or chewing the cud till evening; in the leaves also 
of that vine ho found a favorite repiisL I had not long 
hahituaird him to this taste of liberty, before ho began 
to be impatient for the return of the time when he might 
enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden by drum- 
ming ujion my knee, and by a look of such expression 
as it was not possilde to misinterpret. If this rhetoric 
did not immedialely succeed, he would lake the skirt of 
my coal belwcn his teeth, and pull it with all his force. 
Thus Puss might be said U) l»e perferliy tamed ; the shy- 
ness of his nature w;ls done away, and on thi' wliole it 
was visible by inaiiy symptom**, which 1 have not room 
t«enuraerat*','lhai be was happier in human Bociety than 
wbco shut up wilh hid natural comii.uiions. 



Not BO Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had 
not the least effect. He too was sick, and in bis sickness 
had an eipial sbai-e of my attention; but if, afler his re- 
covery, I look the liberly to stroke him, he would grunt, 
strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bile. He 
wjLs however very entertaining in his way ; oven his sur- 
liness was matter of mirth, and in his play ho preserved 
such an air of gravity, and performed his feata with such 
a solemnity of manner, that in him too 1 had an agreea- 
ble ciunpaniun. 

Bejis, who died soon after ho was full grown, and who:;o 
death was occasioned bv his being turned int(i his box, 
which had been washed, while il was yet damp, was a 
hare of great humor and drollery. Puss was tamed by 
gentle usage; Tiney was not lo be tamed at all; and 
Bess had a courage and contldence that made him tame 
from the beginning. I always admitted them into the 
parlor after supper, when, lh«' carpel alfurding their feet 
a tlrm hold, tliey would frisk, and bound, and play a 
thousand gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably 
strong and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and 
proved liimself the Vcslris of the i)arty. One evening, 
the cat being in the room, had the liardiness to put Bess 
upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drum- 
minu: upon her back with such violence that the cat was 
happy (o e-^caiK' from under Ids paws, and hide herself. 

1 describe the.-^e animals as having each a character of 
his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances 
were so expressive of that character, that, when 1 looked 
only mi the face of either, 1 immediately knew whicli it 
wa«. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his 
flock, soon becomes so familiar wilh their features, that 
he can, by that indication only, distinguish each from 
all the resl ; and yet, to a common ohsrrver, the differ- 
ence is hardly perceptible. I doul<i imi that the same 
discrimination in the cast of counteiiaiuT- would be dis- 
coveiablo in hares, and am persuaded llmt among a 
thousand of (hem no two could be found exactly simi- 
lar: a circumstan<-e little suspected by those who havo 
not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have 
singular s.-ig.icily in discovering the minutest alteration 
that is made in the place to which they are accustomed, 
and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a 
new object. X sniall hole being burnt in the carpel, it 
was mended with a patch, and that patch in a moment 
underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be 
very much directed by the smell in the choice of their 
favorites: to some persons, Ihough they saw them daily, 
they could never be reconciled, and would even scream 
when they attempted to touch them ; but a miller com- 
ing in engaged their affi'ctions at once; his powdered 
coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder 
that my inlirnate acquaintance with these specimens of 
tin- kind has taughl me lo hold the sportman's amuSLv 
meni in abhorrence ; he little knows what amiable crea- 
tures he piT.-'v'cutes, of what gratitude they are capable, 
how cheerful they are in Iheir spirits, what enjoyment 
they have of life, and that, impressed as they seem with 
a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives 
Ihem peculiar cause iVir it. 

That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short sum- 
mary of those articles of diet that suit them best. 

I lake it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but 
it is an erroneous one, at least srass is not their staple ; 
they seem rather to use it mediciniUly. soon ciuitting it 
for loaves of almost any kind. Howiliisile. dandelion, 
and lettuce, are their favtirito vegetaliles. especially the 
!;ist. I discoveriid by accident that line white sand is in 
great estimation with them; I suppose as a digestive. 
It happenc'd, that 1 was cleaning a birdcage when the 
hari's were with me; 1 placed a pot fllled with such 
sand upon the flooi-, whicli, being at once directed to it 
by a stroiri instinct, they devoured voraciously; since 
that lime I have generally Uiken care lo see them well 
supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy, 
both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat: straw 
of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their 
dainties: they will feed greedily upon oats, but if fur- 
nished wilh cle:in straw never want them ; it serves them 
also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will he kept sweet 
and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed re- 
quire aromatic heriis, but will eat a small c|uanlity of 
them with great relish, and are parliculiirly fond of Hie 
plant called musk; they seem to n s<-tnble sheep in this, 
that, if their pasture be too succulent, they are very sub- 
ject to the rot; to prevt-nt which, I always made bread 
their principal nourishment, and, lllling a pan wilh it 
cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their 
cb.inibers, for they feed only at evening and in the night: 
during the winter, when vegetables were not lo be got, I 
mingled this mc^s of bread with shreds of carrot, adding 



648 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin ; for, though 
they are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts Ihein. 
These however nut bein;^ a sufficient substitute for the 
juice of summer herbs, they must at tliis lime be sup- 
plied with water ; but so placed, that they cannot over- 
set it into their beds. I must not omil, that occasionally 
they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of ■ 
the common brier, eating even the very wood when it is 
of considerable thickness. 

Bess, I have said, died young ; Tincy lived to be nine 
yeai's old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of 
some hurt in his loins by a fall ; Puss is still living, and 
hJLS just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs 
of decay, nor even of age, except that he has grown more 
discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot con- 
clude without observing, that I have lately introduced a 
dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a 
hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it 
with great caution, but there was no real need of it. Puss 
discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symp- 
tom of hostility. There is therefore, it should seera, no 
natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit 
of the one occasions the flight of the other, and the dog 
pursues because he is trained to it; they eat bread at 
the same time out of the same hand, and are in all re- 
spects sociable and friendly. 

I should not do complete justice to my subject, did 1 
not add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them, 
that they are indefaligably nice in keeping themselves 
clean, for which purpose nature has furnished Ihem with 
a brush under each foot ; and that they are never infested 
by any vermin. 

May -28, 1784. 

MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. UOWPER's PAPERS. 

Tuesday, March 9, 1786. 
This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven 
months. He diecf between twelve and one at noon, of 
mere old age, and apparently without pain. 



A TALE.* 

In Scotland's realms, where trees are few, 

Nor even shrubs abound ; 
But where, however bleak the view, 

Some better things are found ; 

For husband there and wife may boast 

Their union undefiled, 
And false ones are as rare almost 

As hedgerows in tiie wild — 

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare 

The history chanced of late — 
The history of a wedded pair, 

A chaflinch and Ms mate. 

The spring drew near, each felt a breast 

With genial instinct fill'd ; 
They pair'd. and would have built a nest, 

But found not where to build. 

The heaths uncovered and the moors 

Except with snow and sleet, 
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores 

Could yield them no retreat. 

Long time a breeding-place they sought, 

Till both grew vex'd and tired ; 
At length a ship arriving brought 

The good so long desired. 

* This tale is founded on nn article which appeared 
in the Buckinghamshire lleiuld, Saturday, June 1, 1793: 
—^'Glasgow, May 23. In ii block, or pulley, noiu- the 
head of the miist of a pah.Tt, now lying at the Broomie- 
law, there is a chiitliinlVs iirsi and four eggs. The nest 
was built while the vrv-^.l lay at Greenock, and was fol- 
lowed hither by both birds. Though the block is occa- 
sionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the 
birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, 
visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, 
but when she descends to the hull for food." 



A ship ! — could such a restless thing 

Afford them place of rest 1 
Or was the merchant charged to bring 

The homeless birds a nest 1 

Hush ! silent hearers profit most — 

This racer of the sea 
Proved kinder to them than the coast, 

It served them with a tree. 

But such a tree ! 'twas shaven deal, 

The tree they call a mast, 
And had a hollow with a wheel, 

Through which the tackle pass'd. 

Within that cavity aloft 

Their roofless home they fix'd, 

Form'd with materials neat and soft, 
Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd. 

Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor 
With russet specks bedight — 

The vessel wcigns. forsakes the shore, 
And lessens to the sight. 

The mother-bird is gone to sea, 
As she had changed her kind ; 

But goes the male 1 Far wiser, he 
Is doubtless left behind. 

No — soon as from ashore he saw 

The winged mansion move, 
He flew to reach it, by a law 

Of never-faihng love ; 

Then, perching at his consort's side, 

Was briskly borne along, 
The billows and the blast defied, 

And cheer'd her with a song. 

The seaman with sincere delight 
His feather'd shipmates eyes. 

Scarce less exulting in the sight 
Than when he tows a prize. 

For seamen much believe in signs, 

And from a chance so new 
Each some approaching good divines, 

And may his hopes be true ! 

Hail, honored land ! a desert where 

Not even birds can hide, 
Yet parents of this loving pair 
Whom nothing could divide. 

And ye who, rather than resign 

Your matrimonial plan, 
Were not afraid to plough the brine 

In company with man; 

For whose lean country much disdain 

We English often show, 
Yet from a richer nothing gain 

But wantonness and woe — ' 

Be it your fortune, year by year 
The same resource to prove. 

And may ye, sometimes landing here. 
Instruct us how to love ! 
June, 1793. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 649 


TO MARY. 


Of friends, of hope, of all bereft. 




His floating home forever left. 


The twentieth year is well nigh past 




Since first our sky was overcast ; 


No braver chief could Albion boast 


Ah ! would that this might be the last ! 


Than he with whom be went. 


My Mary ! 


Nor ever ship lolY Albion's coast 




With wanner wishes sent. 


Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 


lie loved ibein both, but both in vain, 


I sec thee daily weaker grow ; 


Nor him beheld, nor her a"ain. 


'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 




My Mary ! 


Not long beneath the whelming brine. 


Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more ; 

My Mary ! 


Kxpcrt to swim, he lay; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But waged with death a lasting strife, 


Supported by despair of life. 


For, though thou gladly wouldst fullil 




The same kind oflice for me still, 


He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 


Thy sight now seconds not thy will. 

My Mary ! 


To check the vessel's course. 


But so the furious blast prevail'd. 
That, pitiless perforce. 


But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 


They left their outcast mate behind. 


And all thy threads with magic art 


And scudded still before the wind. 


Have wound themselves about this heart. 




My Mary ! 


Some succor yet they could afl'ord ; 




And, such as storms allow. 


Thy indistinct expressions seem 


The cask, the coop, the floated cord. 


Like lan™age uttered in a dream : 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. 


Delay "d not to bestow : 


But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, 


My Mary ! 


Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 


Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 


Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 


Are still more lovely in my sight 


Their haste himself condemn. 


Than golden beams of orient light, 


.■iware that flight, in such a sea. 


My Mary ! 


Alone c'ould rescue them ; 


For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see 1 


Yet bitter felt it still to die 
Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 


The sun would rise in vain for me. 

My Mary ! 


He long survives, who lives an hour 
In ocean, self-upheld : 


Partakers of thy sad decline, 


And so long he, with unspent power. 


Thy hands their little tbrce resign ; 


His destiny repell'd : 


Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, 

My Mary ! 


And ever, as the minutes flew. 
Entreated help, or cried—" .\dieu !" 


Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 


At length, his transient respite past. 


That now at every step thou movest 


His comrades, who before 


Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest, 


Had heard his voice in every blast. 


My Mary ! 


Could catch the sound no more : 


For then, by toil subdued, he drank 


And still to love, though press'd with ill, 


The stifling wave, and then he sank. 


In wintry age to feel no chill. 




With me is to be lovely still. 


No poet wept him; but the page 


My Mary ! 


Of narrative sincere. 




That tells his name, his worth, his awe. 


But ah ! by constant heed I know. 


Is wet with Anson's tear; 


How oil the sadness that I show 


.\nd tears by bards or heroes shed 
.'Vlikc immortalize the dead. 


Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 


My Mary ! 




And should my future lot be cast 
"With much resemblance of the past. 
Thy worn-out heart wUl break at last, 

My Mary ! 
Autumn of 1793. 


I therefore purpose not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate. 
To give the melancholy theme 


A more enduring date: 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its semblance in another's case. 




No voice divine the storm allay'd. 


THE CASTAWAY. 


No light propitious shone ; 




When, snalcji'd from all efl"ectual aid. 


Obsccrkst night involved the sky, 


Wi: perish'd, each alone : 


The Atlantic billows roar'd. 


But I benenth a rougher sea, 


When such a destined wretch as I, 


.•\nd whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. 


Wash'd headlong from on board, 


March -M, 1739. 



650 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

Dear President, whose art sublime 
Gives perpetuity to time, 
And bids transactions of a day, 
That fleeting hours would watt away 
To dark futurity, survive. 
And in unlading beauty live, — 
You cannot with a grace decline 
A special mandate of the Nine — 
Yourself, whatever task you choose, 
So much indebted to the Muse. 

Thus say the sisterhood : — We come- 
Fix well your pallet on your thumb, 
Prepare the pencil and the tints — 
We come to furnish you with hints. 
French disappointment, British glory, 
Must be the subject of the story. 

First strike a curve, a graceful bow, 
Then slope it to a point below ; 
Your outline easy, airy, light, 
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. 
Let independence, sanguine, horrid, 
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead : 
Beneath (but lay aside your graces) 
Draw six-and-twcnty rueful faces, 
Each with a staring, stedfast eye, 
Fix'd on his great and good ally. 
France flies the kite — 'tis on the wing- 
Britannia's lightning cuts the string. 
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, 
Just rends it into thirteen pieces, 
Takes charge of every fluttering sheet. 
And lays them all at George's feeK 

Iberia, trembling from afar. 
Renounces the confederate war. 
Her eflbrts and her arts o'ercome, 
France calls her shatter'd navies home. 
Repenting Holland learns to mourn 
The sacred treaties she has torn ; 
Astonishment and awe profound 
Are stamp'd upon the nations round : 
Without one friend, above all foes, 
Britannia gives the world repose. 



THE DISTRESSED TRAVELERS; 

on, LABOR IN VAIN. 

A New Song, to a Tunc never sung before. 

I SING of a journey to Clifton,* 

We would have perfomi'd, if we could ; 
Without cart or barrow, to lift on 

Poor Mnryt and me through the mud. 
Slee, sla, slud. 
Stuck in the mud ; 
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood ! 

So away we went, slipping and sliding ; 

Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs, 
'Tis near as good walking as riding. 
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs. 
Wheels, no doubt, 
Go briskly about, 
But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout. 



* A villiiffe near Olney. 
t Mra. Unwiu. 



DIALOGUE. 

SHE. 

" Well ! now, I protest it is charming; 

How finely the weather improves ! 
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming. 

How slowly and stately it moves." 

HE. 

" Pshaw ! never mind, 
'Tis not in the wind, [hind. 

We are travelling south, and shall leave it be- 

.SHE. 

" I am glad we are come for an airing, 
For folks may be pounded, and penn'd. 

Until they grow rusty, not caring 
To stir half a mile to an end." 



" The longer we stay, 
The longer we may ; 
It's a folly to think about weather or way." 

SHE. 

" But now I begin to be frighted. 
If I fall what a way I should roll ! 

I am glad that the bridge was indicted. 
Stay ! stop ! I am sunk in a hole !" 

HE. 

" Nay, never care. 
'Tis a common affair ; 
You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there." 

SHE. 

" Let me breathe now a little and ponder 

On what it were better to do; 
That terrible lane I see yonder, 

I think we shall never get through." 

HE. 

" So think I :— 
But, by the bye. 
We never shall know, if we never should try." 

SHE. 

"But should we get there, how shall we get home? 
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past ! 
Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come 
To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last ! 
Oh this lane ! 
Now it is plain 
That struggling and striving is labor in vain." 

HE. 

" Stick fiist there while I go and look ;" 

SHE. 

" Don't go away, for fear I should fall :" 

HE. 

" I have examined it, every nook. 

And what you see here is a sample of all. 

Come, wheel round, * 

The dirt we have found 
Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound." 

Now, sister Anne,* the guitar you must take. 

Set it, and sing it, and make it a song: 
I have varied the verse, for variety's sake, 
And cut it off short — because it was long. 
'Tis hobbling and lame. 
Which critics won't blame. 
For the sense and the sound, they say, should 
be the same. 

* The late Lady Austen. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



651 



ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON 
LITERATURE.* 

The Genius of the Augustan age 
His head ninonrr Rome s ruins rear'd, 
And, burstintr with heroic ra^e, 
When literary Heron appear d ; 

Thou hust, he cried, like him of old 
Who set the Ephesian tlomc on fire, 
By being scandalously bold, 
Attained the mark of thy desire. 

And for traducing Virgil's name 

Shalt share his merited reward ; 

A perpetuity of fame, 

That rotSj and stinks^ and is ahhorr'd. 



STANZAS ' 

ON THE I.ATF. INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH 
THE REMAINS OK MILTON.f ANNO 1790. 

"Me too, perchance, in future days, 
The sculptured stone shall show, 
With Paphian myrtle or with bays 
Parnassian on my brow. 

" But I, or rre that season come, 
Escaped from every care, 
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, 
And sleep securely there."J 

So sang in Roman tone and style, 

The youthful bard, ere long 
Ordain'd to grace his native isle 

With her sublimest song. 

Who then but must conceive disdain, 

Hearing the deed unblcst 
Of wretches who have dared profane 

His dread sepulchral restl 

111 fare the hands that heaved the stones^ 

Where Mikon's ashes lay, 
That trembled not to grasp his bones 

And steal his dust away ! 

O ill requited bard ! neglect 
Thy livinfT worth repaid, 
And blind idolatrous respect 
As iiiueh affronts thee dead. 
August, 17'J0. 

* Nominally by Robert Heron, Esq., but suppoBetl to 
have been wtitlt-n by .John PinkiTton. Hvo. lT8j, 

t Tlie bnni's of Milton, who lies buriiil in Cripple^ate 
church, were disinlerri'd ; n patnphlL-t by !,»,■ Xeve was 

pubhslicd lit the time, tjivintj an account of what appeared 
on opcnin-,' tii^ cullln. 

J Forsitan e( nostros ducat de marraore vullus, 
Necleiis aut Paphia myrti aul Parnasside lauri 
Fronde comas— At ego sccura pace quicscam. 

Milton in Manso. 

^ Cowper, no doubt, had in his memory the lines said 
lo have be«,'ii written by .Shukspeare on his torab: 

"r.ood friend, fur Jesus' sake forbear 
To di'< the dust inclosed here. 
Blest be the man that ^pare-s these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 



TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL. 



June 22, 1782. 



My dkak friend, 



Ik reading verse be your delight, 
'Tis mine as mucli, or more, to write; 
But what we would, so weak is man, 
Lies oft remote t'rom what we can. 
For instance, at this very time 
I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme 
To soothe my friend, and, had 1 power, 
To cheat him of an anxious hour; 
Not meaning (for I must confess, 
It were but folly to suppress) 
His pleasure, or his good alone, 
But squinting partly at my own. 
But though tne sun is flaming high 
In the centre of yon arch, the sky, 
And he had once (and who but he 1) 
The name for setting genius free, 
Yet whether poets of past days 
Yielded him undeserved praise, 
And he by no uncommon lot 
Was famed for virtues he had not; 
Or whether, which is like enough. 
His Highness may have taken nuft, 
So seldom sou^Iit with invocation, 
Since it has been the reigning fashion 
To disregard his inspiration, 
I seem no brighter in mv wits, 
For all the radiance he emits, 
Than if I saw, through midnight vapor, 
The glimmering of a tarthing taper. 
Oh for a succedaneum, then, 
To accelerate a creeping pen ! 
Oh for a ready succedaneum, 
Q.uod caput, cerebrum, et cranium 
Pondere Hberet exoso, 
Et morbo jam calijrinoso ! 
'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd 
With best tobacco, finely mill'd, 
Beats all Anticyra's pretences 
To disengage the encumber'd senses 
Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame. 
Where'er thine haunt, whate'cr thy name, 
Whether reposing on the side 
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide, 
Or listening with delight not small 
To Niagara's distant fall, 
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed 
The pungent nose-refreshing weed 
Which, whether pulverized it gain 
A speedy passage to the brain, 
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise 
In circling eddies to the skies, 
Does thought more quicken and refine 
Than all the breath of all the Nine- 
Forgive the hard, if bard he be, 
Who once too wantonly made free. 
To touch with a satiric wij)e 
That symliol of thy power, the pipe; 
So may no blight infest thy plains, 
And no unseasonable rains; 
And so may smiling peace once more 
Visit America's sad snore ; 
And thou, secure from all alarms, 
Of thundering drums and glittering arms, 
Rove unconfined beneath the shade 
Thy wide expanded leaves have made; 
So may tliy votaries increase, 
And fumisation never cease. 



652 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



May Newton with renew'd delights 
Perform thine odoriterous rites. 
While clouds of incense half divine 
Involve thy disappearing shrine; 
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull 
Be always filling, never full. 



EPITAPH ON MRS. M, HIGGINS, 

op WESTON. 

Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's 

tomb, 
But happiest they who win the world to come ■ 
Behevers have a silent field to finht 
And their exploits are veild from himan sitrht 
1 hey m some nook, where little known Ihev 

dwell, 
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell • 
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, ' 

And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine 
1791. 



SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER 
BIRTH-DAY. 

Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many 
a thorn, ^ 

Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consi<rn'd 
Can e'er forget the channs he lell behind" ' 
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn ! ' 
In happier days to brighter prospects born, 
O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous miiid, 
Like thee, content in every state may find, 
And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn' 
To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme 
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy ; 
To blend good sense with elegance and ease ■ 
To bid ,4(fliction's eye no longer stream ; ' 
Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy, 
The guide to pleasures which can never cease 



ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION 
OP HOMER. 

CowpER had sinn'd with some excuse, 

If, bound in rhyming tethers. 
He had committed this abuse 

Of changing ewes for wethers;* 

But, male for female is a trope, 

Or rather bold misnomer, 
That would have startled even Pope 

When he translated Homer. ' 



ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS 
MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHING IN 
THE YEAR 1789. 

O SOVEREIGN of an isle renown 'd 

For undisputed sway. 
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound 

Her navies wing their way. 

* I have heard about my wether mulloii from various 
quarters. It was a bhinder hardly pardonable in a man 
who has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, 



With juster claims she builds at length 

Her empire on the sea. 
And well may boast the waves her strength, 

Which strength restored to thee. 



ADDRESSED TO MISS ON READING 

THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.' 

And dwells there in a female heart, 
By bounteous Heaven design'd. 

The choicest raptures to impart, 
To feel the most refined — 

Dwells there a wish in such a breast 

Its nature to forego, 
To smother in ignoble rest 

At once both bliss and woe ! 

Far be the thought, and far the strain, 

Which breathes the low desire. 
How sweet so'er the verse complain, 

Though Phoebus string the lyre. 

Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,) 

Who, knowing them, can tell 
From generous sympathy what joys 

The glowing bosom swell : 

In justice to the various powers 

Of pleasing, which you share. 
Join me, amid your silent hours, 

To form the better prayer. 

With lenient balm my Oberon hence 

To fairy land be driven. 
With every herb that blunts the sense 

Mankind received from heaven. 

Oh ! if my sovereign Author please, 

Far be it from my fate 
To live unbless'd in torpid ease, 

And slumber on in state ; 

" Each tender tie of life defied, 
Whence social pleasures spring. 
Unmoved with all the world beside, 
A solitary thing — " 

Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow. 

Thus braves the whiriing blast. 
Eternal winter doom'd to know, 

No genial spring to taste. 

In vain warm suns their influence shed, 

The zephyrs sport in vain. 
He rears unchanged his barren head. 

Whilst beauty decks the plain. 

What though in scaly armor dress'd. 

Indifference may repel 
The shafts of wo — in such a breast 

No joy can ever dwell. 

'Tis woven in the world's great plan, 
.4nd fix'd by heaven's decree, 

almost these thirty years. I have accordinjlv satirized 
myself in two stanzas, which I composed last ni[?ht, while 
I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with 
laudanum. If you lind them not very brilliant, Iherefore, 
you will know how to account for H.—LMcr to Joseph 
Hill, F.aa., dated April 15, 1792. 
* For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. v. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



653 



That all the true delights of man 
Should spring from sympathy. 

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws 

Of nature we retain. 
Our self-ajjproving bosom draws 

A pleasure from its pain. 

Thus grief itsrlf has comforts dear 

The sordid never know ; 
And ecstacy attends the tear 

When virtue bids it flow. 

For, when it streams from that pure source, 

No bribes the heart can win 
To check, or alter from its course, 

The luxury within. 

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, 

Who. if from labor eased. 
Extend no care beyond themselves, 

Unpleasing and unplcased. 

Let no low thought suggest the prayer, 
Oh ! grant, kind Heaven, to me. 

Long as I draw ethereal air. 
Sweet Sensibility ! 

NVhere'er the heavenly nymph is seen, 

With lustre-beaming eye, 
A train, attendant on their queen, 

(Her rosy chorus) fly ; 

The jocund loves in Hymen's band, 

With torches ever bright, 
And generous friendship, hand in hand 

VVith pity's wat'ry sight. 

The gentler virtues too are join'd 

In youth immortal warm ; 
The soft relations, which, combined. 

Give hie her every charm. 

The arts come smiling in the close, 

And lend celestial nre; 
The marlilc breathes, the canvas glows. 

The muses sweep the lyre. 

" Still may my melting bosom cleave 

To sufferings not my own. 
And still the sigh responsive heave 

Where'er is heard a groan. 

" So pity shall take virtue's part, 

Her natural ally, 
.■\nil fasliioning my soften'd heart, 

Prepare it for the sky." 

This artless vow may Heaven receive. 

And you, fond maid, approve: 
So may your guiding angel give 

Whate'er you wish or love ! 

So may the rosy-finger'd hours 

Lead on the various year. 
And every joy, which now is yours, 

Extend a larger sphere 1 

And suns to come, as round they wheel. 

Your golden moments bless 
With all a tender heart can feel, 

Or lively fancy guess I 

ITGS. 



FROM 
A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, 

LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, 

S A Ys the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand 

What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face. 
That you arc in fashion all over the land, 
And 1 am so much fallen into disgrace. 

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air 
I give to the company — pray do but note 'em — 

You'would think that the wise men of Greece 

were all there, [of Gotham. 

Or at least would suppose them the wise men 

Jly breath is as sweet as the breath of blown 

roses. 

While you are a nuisance where'er you appear ; 

There is nothing but snivelling and blowmg of 

noses, [hear. 

Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to 

Then, lifting his lid in a dehcate way, [gaging, 
And opening his mouth with a smile quite en- 

The box in reply was heard plainly to say, 
What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! 

If you have a little of merit to claim, [weed, 
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian 

And 1, if I seem to deserve any blame. 

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. 

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own. 

No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, 
We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, [in us. 

But of anything else they may choose to put 



THE FLATTING MILL. 

AN ILLUSTRATION. 

Whf.n a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold 
Is sent to lie flatted or wrought into lenjith. 
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd 
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. 

Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears 
Like a loose heap of ribl)on, of glittering show, 
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears, 
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow. 

This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain 
The tnump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet, 
And at last is of service in sickness or pain 
To cover a pill for a delicate palate. 

Alas for the poet ! who dares undertake 

To urge reformation of national ill — 

His head and his heart are both likely to ache 

With the double employment of mallet and mill. 

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight. 
Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow, 
Must tinkle and glitter hke gold to the sight. 
And catch in its progress a sensible glow. 

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine 
As the leafthatenlbltls what an invalid swallows; 
For truth is unwelcome, however divine. 
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows. 



654 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME 
REDBREAST, 

A FAVORITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS. 

Thesk are not dewdrops, these are tears, 

And tears by Sally shed 
For absent Robin, who she fears, 

With too much cause, is dead. 

One morn became not to her hand 

As he was wont to come, 
And, on her finger perch'd, to stand 

Picking his breakfast-crumb. 

Alarm'd, she cali'd him, and perplcx'd 

She sought him, but in vain — 
That day he came not, nor the next, 

Nor ever came again. 

She therefore raised him here a tomb. 
Though where he fell, or how. 

None knows, so secret was his doom, 
Nor where he moulders now. 

Had half a score of coxcombs died 

In social Robin's stead, 
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, 

Or haply never shed. 

But Bob was neither rudely bold 

Nor spiritlessly tame ; 
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, 

But always in a flame. 
March, 1792. 



SONNET, 

ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HaYLEY, ESQ,. 

Hayley — thy tenderness fraternal shown 
In our first interview, delightful guest ! 
To Mary, and nie for lior ifear sake distress'd, 

Such as it is, has made my heart tby own, 

Though heedless now of new engagements 
grown ; 
For threescore winters make a wintry breast, 
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest 

Of friendship more, except with God alone. 
But thou, hast won me ; nor is God my foe, 

Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, 
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, 
My brother, by whose sympathy I know 

Thy true deserts infallibly to scan, 

Not more to admire the bard than love the man. 
Juiio 2, 1792. 



AN EPITAPH. 

Here lies one who never drew 
Blood himself yet many slew; 
Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
Made in field, yet ne'er pulfd trigger. 
Armed men have gladly made 
Him their guide, and him obey'd ; 
At his signified desire 
Would advance, present, and fire — 
Stout he was and large of limb, 
Scores have tied at sight of him! 
And to all this fame he rose 
Only following his nose. 
Neptune was he cali'd. not he 
Who controls the boisterous sea, 



But of happier command. 
Neptune of the furrow'd land ; 
And, your wonder vain to shorten, 
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 
1792. 



ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. 

In language warm as could be breathed or penn'd 
Thy picture speaks the original, my friend, 
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind — 
They only speak thee friend of all mankind; 
Expression here more soothing still I see, 
That friend of all a partial friend to me. 
January, 1793. 



ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER. 

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT. 

Thrive, gentle plant ! and weave a bower 

For Mary and for me. 
And deck with many a splendid flower. 

Thy foUage large and free. 

Thnu earnest from Eartham, and wilt shade 

(If truly I divine) 
Some future day the illustrious head 

Of him who made thee mine. 

Should Daphne show a jealous frown 

And envy seize the bay, 
Affirniing none so fit to crown 

Such honor'd brows as they. 

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend, 

And with convincing power ; 
For why should not the virgin's friend 

Be crown'd with virgin's bower"? 
Spring of 1793. 



ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL 

FROM MR. IIAYI.EY. 

I SHOULD have deem'd it once an efllbrt vain 
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain, 
But from that error now behold me free, 
Since I received him as a gitl from thee. 



STANZAS. 

ADDRESSED TO LADV HESKETH, BY A LADY, 

In returning a Ponii of Mr. Cowper^n^ Init to the TVritcr, 
on condition she should neither show it nor take a copy. 

What wonder! if my wavering hand 

Had dared to disobey. 
When Hesketh gave a harsh command, 

And Gowper led astray. 

Then take this tempting gift of thine, 

By pen uncopied yet! 
But canst thou Memory confine, 

Or teach me to tbrget f 

3Iore lasting than the touch of art, 

Her characters remain ; 
When written by a feeling heart 

On tablets of the brain. 



MISCELANEOUS POEMS. 



655 



COVVPER'S REPLY. 

To be romomber'J thus is fame, 

And in the first di-groe; 
Anil did the lew. like her the same, 

The press might rest I'or rac. 

So Homer, in the mcm'ry stor'J 
Of many a Grecian belie, 

Was once preserved — a richer hoard, 
But never lodged so well. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA 
JANE COWPER. 

William was once a bashful youth, 

His modesty was such, 
That one miwht say, to say the truth, 

He rather had too much. 

Some said that it was want of sense, 

And others, want of spirit, 
(So blest a thing is impudence,) 

While others could not bear it. 

But some a different notion had. 

And at each other winking, 
Observed, that though he little said, 

He paid it off with thinking. 

Howe'cr, it happen'd, by degrees, 

He mended, and grew better, 
In company grew more at ease. 

And dress'd a little smarter ; 

Nay, now and then, could look quite gay. 

As other people do ; 
And soinetiines said, or tried to say, 

A witty thing or so. 

He eyed the women, and made free 

To comment on their shapes, 
So that there was, or scem'd to be, 

No fear of a relapse. 

The women said, who thought him rough. 

But now no longer foolish. 
" The creature might do well enough. 

But wants a deal of polish." 

At length improved from head to heel, 

'Twas scarce too much to say. 
No dancing beau was so genteel. 

Or half so degage. 

Now that a miracle so strange 

May not in vain be shown. 
Let the dear maid who wrought the change 

E'en claim him for her own ! 



TO THE SAME. 

How quick the change from joy to wo, 
How clie(|Uer'd is our lot below ! 
Seliloai we view the prospwt fair; 
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care, 
(Some pleasing intervals between,) 
Scowl over more than half the scene. 
Last week with Delia gentle maid ! 
Far hence in happier fields I stray "d. 



Five suns successive rose and set. 
And saw no monarch in his state, 
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty. 
So free from every care as I. 
Next d.'iy the scene was overcast^ 
Such day till then I never pass'd, — 
For on that day, relentless fate I 
Delia and I must separate. 
Yet ere we look'd our last farewell. 
From her dear lips this comfort fell, — 
" Fear not that time, where'er we rove, 
Or absence, shall abate my love." 



LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT. 

SwKET babe I whose image here express'd 
Does thy peaceful slumbers show ; 

Guilt or fear, to break thy rest. 
Never did tliy spirit know. 

Soothing slumbers! soft repose. 
Such as mock the painter's skill, 

Such as innocence bestows, 
Harmless infant! lull thee still. 



LINES. 



On ! to some distant scene, a willing exile 
From the wild roar of this busy world. 
Were it my fate with Delia to retire, 
With her to wander through the sylvan shade. 
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrovvncd turf, 
Where, blest as tlie prime parents of mankind 
In their own Eden, we would envy none. 
But greatly pitying whom the world calls happy. 
Gently spin out the silken thread of life ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE 
THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON. 

Here, free from riot's hated noise. 
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys, 

A book or friend bestows ; 
Far from the storms that shake the great. 
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat. 

And sweeten my repose. 



IN 



LINES ON THE DE.iTHOP SIR WILLIAM 
RUSSEL. 

Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste 
The present moments, and regret the past; 
Deprived of every joy I valued most. 
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost ; 
Call not this gloom I Vv^ear, this an.\ious mcin. 
The dull elT'iot of humor, or of spleen! 
Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day. 
Him' snateii'd by fat-.- in early voutli away; 
.\nd her — thro" tedious years of douiit and pain, 
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — but in vain! 
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, 
whose eye ne'er yet ret'us'd the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 

* Sir WiUiftm Uussel, t)io favorite friend of the young 
pocL 



656 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



See me — ere yet my destin'd course linlf done, 
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! 
See me neglected on the world's rude coast, 
Each dear companion of my voyajje lost ! 
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, 
And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, 
All that delights the happy — palls with me ! 



ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH. 

Cocoa-nut naught, 
Fish too dear, 
None must be bought 
For us that are here ; 

No lobster on earth, 
That ever I saw. 
To me would be worth 
Sixpence a claw. 

So. dear madam, wait 
Till fish can be got 
At a reas'nable rate, 
Whether lobster or not ; 

Till the French and the Dutch 
Have quitted the seas, 
And then send as much 
And as oil as you please. 



TO MRS. NEWTON. 

A NOEi.E theme demands a noble verse. 
In such I thank you for your fine oysters. 
The barrel was magnificently large, 
But, being sent to Olney at free charge, 
Was not inserted in the driver's list. 
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd ; 
For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd 
Inquir'd for oysters, Hob his noddle scrateh'd ; 
Denying that his wagon or his wain 
Did any such commodity contain. 
In consequence of which, your welcome boon 
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon ; 
In consequence of which some chanc'd to die. 
And some, though very sweet, were very dry. 
Now Madam says, (and what she says must still 
Deserve attention, say she what she will,) 
That what we call the diligence, be-case 
It goes to London with a swifter pace. 
Would better suit the carriage of your gift. 
Returning downward with a pace as swift ; 
And therefore recommends it with this aim — 
To save at least three days, — the price the same; 
For though it will not carry or convey [may. 
For less than t^velve pence, send whate'er you 
For oyster bred upon the salt sea-shore, 
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more. 

News have I none that I can deign to write, 
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last ni^ht ; 
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour. 
Caught in the first beginning of the show'r ; 
But walking, running, and with much ado. 
Got home— just time enough to be wet through, 



"i^et both are well, and, wond'rous to be told. 
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold ; 
And wishing just the same good hap to you. 
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu ! 



VERSES PRINTED BY HIMSELF ON A 
FLOOD AT OLNEY. 

To watch the storms, and hear the sky 
Give all our almanacks the lie; 
To shake with cold, and see the plains 
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains ; 
'Tis thus I spend my moments here, 
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer; 
I then should have no need of wit ; 
For lumpish Hollander unfit ! 
Nor should I then repine at mud. 
Or meadows deluged with a flood ; 
But in a bog live well content, 
And find it just my element; 
Should be a clod, and not a man; 
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, 
With charitable aid to drag 
My mind out of its proper quag; 
Should have the genius of a boor, 
And no ambition to have more. 



EXTRACT FROM A SUNDAY-SCHOOL 
HYMN. 

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r, 

In heaven, thy dwelling-place. 
From infants, made the public care. 

And taught to seek thy face ! 

Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, 

And grant us, we implore. 
Never to waste in sinful play 

Thy holy sabbaths more. 

Thanks that we hear — but, oh ! impart 

To each desires sincere. 
That we may listen with our heart. 

And learn, as well as hear. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER. 

(m THE MAN.NER OF HOSIER.) 

The straw-slufl"d hamper with its ruthless steel 
He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords 
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth 

came 
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat. 
Or oats, or barley ; next a bottle green 
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd 
Drop after drop odorous, by the art 
Of the fair mother of his friend— the Rose. 



ON THE NEGLECT OF HOMER. 

Could Homer come himself distress'd and poor. 
And tune his harp at Rhcdicina's door, 
The rich old vixen would exclaim, (I fear,) 
.'■ Begone ! no trauiper gets a farthing here." 



SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



The Rev. John Newton has formed too 
proiuinciil :i feature in the life and correspond- 
ciice ofCowpcr, and is too intimately associ- 
ated with his endeared name, not to require a 
brief notice of the leading events of his life, 
on introduciiiif those beautiful Olney Hymns 
wliieli were written by Cowper. Any detailed 
statement is rendered unnecessary by his own 
memoir of himself,* and a subsequent one 
by the Rev. Mr. Cecil. The life of Newton 
abounds with the most extraordinary inci- 
dents, reseinbliiiff the fictions of romance, 
rather than the realities of common life. But 
the hand of God is so visible, and the ulti- 
mate triumph of divine grace is so signally dis- 
played amidst the most daring provocations, 
as to render it one of the most remarkable 
biographical memoirs ever submitted to the 
public eye. 

The Rev. John Newton was born in 
London the •24th of July, 1725. Ilis thither 
was master of a ship in the Jlediterranean 
trade. His mother was a pious character ; 
and it is to her that he was indebted, in his 
early years, for those religious impressions 
which, however subsequently weakened, were 
probably never wholly effaced. Her pre- 
mature death deprived him of this excellent 
parent, at an age when he most needed her 
superintending care. When he was eleven 
years old he joined his father, and made five 
voyages with him to the Mediterranean. 
His early life seems to present a mingled 
detail of religious duties and declensions — 
relapses into sin, accompanied by strong con- 
vielions of his guilt and danger — providential 
warnings, wliich roused liis conscience for a 
time, and were subsequently forgotten ; till 
at length, by successive instances of grieving 
God's Holy Spirit, he sank into the very 
depths of wickedness. In the year 1742 he 
formed an attachment, e(iualling in degree 
all that the writers of romance have ima- 
gined: but in its duration unalterable. In 
1743 ho was impressed, put on board a ten- 
der, from which he was released by the exer- 
tions of his father, and soon after entered the 
navy as a midshipman. Here he was seduced 
into infidel principles by one of his compan- 

• Spo The I-iTo or (ho Rov. John Nowlon, written by 
himself, in a scriuy of luUcrs addressed to tho Ilcv. Mr. 
Ilawcis. 



ions, who in a violent storm was swept into 
eternity, while he himself was mercifully 
spared. Having deserted his ship, he was 
overtaken, kept in irons, publicly whipped, 
and degraded from his otlice. He now be- 
came a prey to the most gloomy thoughts, 
and seemed to be given up to judicial hard- 
ness, and even to doubt the existence of a 
future state of being. 

We contemplate this period of nis life with 
awe and terror. He subsequently engaged in 
the slave-trade on the coast of Africa, where 
his conduct awakened, even among the slaves, 
emotions of alarm and astonishment. In 
tlie midst of this daring impiety, Newton 
p.assed through every successive stage of 
providential dealings, from the first whisper of 
conscience, till the awful catalogue of judg- 
inents seemed to be utterly expended. Every- 
thing w.as exh.austed save the long-suffering 
and mercy of God. His guilt was equalled 
oidy by his misery. The slave-trade on the 
coast of Africa was to him the fit memoi'ial 
of a captivity more galling in its character, 
more terrible in its consequences. At home, 
abroad, on the mighty deep, or on foreign 
shores, he carried with him the marks of his 
servitude, the taint of his corruption, and the 
visible wrath of an olfended God. 

The divine dealings towards the children 
of pious parents are strongly illustrated in 
the foregoing narrative. We have often ob- 
served that they are generally the subjects of 
a special dispensation whenever they become 
wanderers from God. In mercy to the pray- 
ing p.arent, as well as to the erring child, he 
never leaves them without repeated tokens 
of his displeasure and intimations of iiis will. 
He disap])oints their hopes, blights their pros- 
pects, and brings upon them the day of his 
wrathful visitation. "//" his children fon^riki^ 
my taw ami icalk not in my Jiidgmcnla ; ij 
they break my statutes, and keep not my com- 
mandments ; then will I visit their transgres. 
sinn icith the rod, and their iniquity icilh 
stripes. JVevrrtheless, my Inring-kindness trill 
I not utterly take from him, nor si/flcr 7ny faith- 
fulness to fail." Psalm. Ixxxix. 30 — 33. 

Wo by no means interpret this clause as 

generally conveying the assurance that the 

children of pious parents will ultimately be 

s.aved. The conclusion would bo too ab- 

42 



658 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



solute, and seem opposed to the testimony 
of facts. But we nevertheless believe that 
the jjrayers and instructions of a godly parent 
vise up, like the alms of Cornelius, as a me- 
morial before God; .ind that early impres- 
sions are seldom utterly effaced. They pur- 
sue the memory amid the tumult of business, 
the seductions of pleasure, and the broad 
pith of sin. They are a powerful stimulant 
lu conscience in moments of pain, depression, 
and sorrow; till at lengh the cry of penitence 
oUf!i bursts from the overwhelmed heart, and 
tlie last accents have been known to be those 
of prayer and praise. 

We now proceed to detail the particulars 
of Newton's conversion. This event occurs 
on his return homewards from the coast of 
Africa, when the ship is overtaken by a dread- 
ful storm, and death seems to be inevitable. 
Wc extract the account from bis own nar- 
rative. 

'• The 21st of iMarch is a day much to be re- 
membered by me, and I have never suffered 
it to pass wholly unnoticed since the year 
17J8. On that day the Lord sent from on 
luLjIi, and delivered me out of deep waters. I 
began to think of my former religious profes- 
sions; the extraordinary turns in my life: 
tlie calls, warnings, and deliverances I had 
met with ; the licentious course of my con- 
versation, particularly my mipaniUeled eft'ron- 
tery in making the gospel-history the constant 
subject of profane ridicule. I thought, allow- 
ing the Scripture premises, th<'re never was 
nor could be such a sinner as myself; and 
tlien, comparing the .advantages I had broken 
tlu'ough, I concluded at lirst, that my sins 
were to great to be forgiven. The Scripture 
likewise seemed to say the same; for I had 
formerly been well acquainted with the Bible, 
and many passages upon this occasion re- 
turned upon my memory, particularly those 
awful passages, Prov. i. 24 — 31; Ileb. vi. 
4 — 6 ; and 2 Pet. ii. 20, which seemed so 
exactly to suit my case and character as to 
bring with them a presumptive proof of a 
divine original. Thus, as I have said, I waited 
with fear and impatience to receive my in- 
evitable doom. Yet, though I had thoughts 
of this kind, they were exceedingly faint and 
disproportionate ; it w.as not till long after, 
(perhaps several years,) till 1 had gained 
some clear views of the infinite righteousness 
and grace of Jesus Christ my Lord, that I 
had a di^cp and strong apprehension of my 
state by nature and practice ; and, perhaps, 
till tlien I could not have borne the sight. 
When I saw, beyond all probability, tliere 
was still hope of respite, and heard about six 
in the evening that the ship was freed from 
water, there arose a gleam of hope ■ I thought 
I saw the hand of God displayed in our favor. 
I began to pray ; I could not utter the prayer 
of faith ; I could not draw near to a recon- 



ciled God, and call him Father. My prayer 
was like the cry of the ravens, which yet the 
Lord does not disdain to hear. I now be- 
gan to think of that Jesus whom I had so 
often derided. I recollected the particulars 
of his life, and of his de.ath : and death for 
sins not his own, but, as I remembered, for 
the sake of those who in their distress should 
put their trust in Him. And now I chiefly 
wanted evidence. The comfortless principles 
of infidelity were deeply riveted, and I rather 
wished than believed these things were real 
facts. The great question now was, how to 
obtain fai/h ! I speak not of an appropria- 
ting faith, (of which I then knew neither the 
nature nor necessity,) but how I should gain 
an assurance that the Scriptures were of di- 
vine inspiration, and a sufficient warrant for 
the exercise of trust and hope in God. One 
of the first helps I received (in consequence 
of a determination to examine the New Tes- 
tament more carefully) was from Luke xi. 13. 
I had been sensible that to profess faith in 
Jesus Christ, when in reality I did not be- 
lieve bis history, was no better than a mock- 
ery of a heart-searching God : but here I 
found a Spirit spoken of, which was to be 
communicated to those who ask it. Upon 
this I reasoned thus. If this book is true, 
the promise in this passage is true likewise. 
I have need of that very Spirit by which the 
whole was written, in order to understand it 
aright. He has engaged here to give that 
Spirit to those who ask. I must, therefore, 
pray for it ; and if it is of God, he will make 
good his own word. My purposes were 
strengthened by John vii. 17. I concluded 
from thence, tliat though I could not say 
from my heart that I believed the gospel, yet 
I would for the present take it for granted, 
and that by studying it in this light I should 
be more and more confirmed in it. If wliat 
I am writing could be perused by our mod- 
ern infidels, they would say (for I too well 
know their manner) that I was very desirous 
to persuade myself into this opinion. I con- 
fess I was ; and so would they be, if the Lord 
should show them, as he was pleased to 
show me at that time, the absolute necessity 
of some expedient to interpose between a 
righteous God and a sinful soul. Upon the 
gospel scheme I saw at least a peradventuro 
of hope, but on every other side I was sur- 
rounded witli black unfathomable despair."* 
Alluding to tlie means which he enjoyed at 
this eventful period, for acquiring spiritual 
light and knowledge, be observes, "As to 
books, I had a New Testament, Stanhope, and 
a volume of Bishop Beveridge's Sermons, one 
of which, upon our Lord's passion, afl'ected me 
much. In perusing the New Testament, I 
was struck with several passages, particularly 
that of the fig-tree, Luke xiii. ; tlie case of 
* Soo " Life of Newton," preli.\od to his woilis. 



LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



659 



St. Paul, 1 Tim. i. ; but particularly the prodigal, 
LulvC .\v. — ;i ea.se I t!ioiij,dit liad never been so 
elc;iriy excmpliiied as by myself. And then 
the i,'i"wdness of tlic father in receiving, nay, 
in running to meet sueli a son, and this in- 
tended only to illustrate the Lord'.s goodness 
to returning sinners; this g.iined upon me. I 
eontinned muehin prayer; I saw that the Lord 
iiad iulfriiosed siifar to save me ; and I hoped 
he would do more. The outward circumstan- 
ces lielped in this place to make ma still nujre 
serious and earnest in crying to Him who 
alone could relieve me ; and sometimes I 
thought I could be content to die even for 
want of Tood, if I might but die a believer. 
Thus far I was answered, that before we ar- 
rived in Ireland I had a satisfactory evidence 
in my own mind of the truth of the gospel, 
as considered in itself, and its exact suitable- 
ness to answer all my needs. I saw that, by 
the way there pointed out, Ciod might declare, 
not his mercy only, but his justice also, in the 
pardon of sin, on account of the obedience 
and sufTerings of Jesus Christ. I stood in 
need of an Almighty Saviour, and such a one 
I found described in the New Testament. 
Thus far the Lord had wrought a marvellous 
thing. I was no longer an infidel. I heartily 
renounced my former profaneness; I had 
taken up some right notions; was seriously 
disposed, and sincerely touched with a sense 
of the undeserved mercy I h.ad received, in 
being hrouglit safe through so many dan- 
gers. I was sorry for my past misspent life, 
and purposed an immediate reformation ; I 
was (|uite freed from the habit of swearing, 
which seemed to have been deejjly rooted in 
me as a second nature. Thus, to all appear- 
ance, I was a new man. But though I cannot 
douht that this change, so far as it prevailed, 
was wrought by the Spirit and power of God ; 
yet still I was greatly deficient in many re- 
spects. I was, in some degree, affected with 
a sense of my more enormous sins, but I was 
little aware of the innate evils of my heart. 
I liad no apprehension of the spirituality and 
extent of the law of God. The hidden life 
of a ("hristian, as it consi.sts in communion 
with God by Jesus Christ, and a continual de- 
pendence on him for hourly supplies of wis- 
dom, strength, and comfort, was a my.stcry, 
of which 1 liad as yet no knowledge. 1 ac- 
knowledged tiie Lord's mercy in i)ardoning 
what was past, but depended cliiiHy upon my 
own resolution to do better for the time to 
come. I had no (Christian friend or f;iithful 
raitnsier to .advise me that my strength was no 
more than n)y righteousness : and though I 
soon began to inquire for serious books, yet, 
not having spiritual discernment, I frequently 
made a wrong choice; and I was not brought 
in the way of evangelical preaching or conver- 
sation, (except a few times, when I heard hut 
understood not,) tor six years after this period. 



Those things the Lord was pleased to discover 
to me gradually. I learned them here a little 
and there a little, by my own puiiful experi- 
ence, at a distance from the common means 
and ordinances, and in the midst of the same 
course of evil company, and bad examples, as 
I had been conversant with for some time. 
From this period I could no more make a mock 
at sin, or jest with holy things: I no more 
questioned the truth of Scripture, or lost a 
sense of the rebukes of conscience. There- 
fore I consider this as the beginning of my 
return to God, or rather of his return to me; 
but 1 cannot consider myself to have been a 
believer (in the full sense of the word) till a 
considerable time afterwards."* 

Progressive conversions seem to be most 
agreeable to the analogy of n.aturo ; and 
though we by no means question the reality 
of inst;mtaneous conversions, or consider that 
the grace of God is limited either to time, 
manner or degree ; yet we have generally ob- 
served tliat they partake too much of a spirit 
of excitement to tbrm a sure and safe test. 
The excitement of the senses is a dangerous 
ingredient in holy things, because they are 
equally susceptible of opposite impressions. 
Those conversions ultimately prove most 
solid and abiding, wliere the understanding is 
enlightened, the conscience roused, and the 
will subdued by the simultaneous energy and 
power that luoves and purifies the feelings 
and alTections of the heart'. 

But in whatever manner it was accom- 
plished, the conversion of Newton claims to 
rank among those memorable acts of divine 
grace which have invested the names of a 
Rochester, a Gardiner, and a Banyan, with bo 
much interest and celebrity. iMay we not also 
mark its aftinity to the still more distinguished 
examples recorded in the sacred writings, such 
as a jianasses, or a Saul, prototypes not less 
in guilt than in mercy? If any man could 
justly appropriate the words of the apostle, 
surely that individual was Newton. •' How- 
heit for this cause I obtained mercy, that in me 
(irst Jesus Christ might show forth all long 
suffering, for a pattern to them whicii should 
iiereafter believe on him to life everlasting." 
1 Tim. i. 16. Instances like these abound in 
edifying truths. They exhibit the divine 
sovereignty in legible and unerring characters. 
They serve also to conlbund the pride and 
self-glory of man by proving that" base things 
of the world, and things whicli are despised, 
hath God chosen, yea and things which are 
not, to bring to nought things that are ; that 
no flesh should glory in his presence." 1 Cor. 
i. 28, 29. 

But above all they proclaim that no man is 

beyond the reach of mercy, however guilty, 

depraved, or lost : and that the door is never 

closed to the broken and contrite spirit. Let 

* Life of .Vewton. 



660 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



not then the penitent despair, nor yet the im- 
penitent presume ; but rigliliy interpreting 
these wonderful and gracious dispensations, 
may many a returning prodigal, like Newton, 
exclaim in the accents of adoring faith and 
love, "Who is God like unto thee, that par- 
doneth iniquity, and passeth by the trans- 
gression of the remnant of his heritage? He 
retainetli not his anger forever, because he 
delighteth in mercy." Micah vii. 18. 

That we may proceed to tlie more impor- 
tant events of Newton's subsequent histor}', 
we shall liere briefly mention, that at this time 
he wrote to his father, wlio was then going 
out as Governor of York Fort, in Hudson's 
Bay, where he died in 1750. He previously 
gave his consent to his son's marriage with 
Miss Catlett, the lady who liad been the ob- 
ject of so long and romantic an attachment. 
They were united on the 1st of February, 
1750. After this event he made three voya- 
ges to Africa, devoting much of his lime to 
elassical and devotional studies, and jjcrform- 
ing public worship in his vessel according to 
the Liturgy of the Church of England, twice 
every day. The moral change which his mind 
had experienced is expressed in the following 
beautiful and edifying manner, strongly ex- 
emplifying the power of divine grace to raise 
and elevate the soul. 

" To be at sea in these circumstances, with- 
drawn out of the reach of innumerable tempt- 
ations, with opportunity and turn of mind 
disposed to observe the wonders of God in 
the great deep, with the two noblest objects 
of sight, the expanded heavenx and the ex- 
• panded ocM?i, continually in view; and where 
evident interpositions of Divine Providence, 
in answer to prayer, occur almost every day; 
these are helps to quicken and confirm the 
life of faith, which, in a good measure, supply 
to a religious sailor the want of those advan- 
tages which can be enjoyed only upon the 
shore. And, indeed, though my knowledge 
of spiritual things, as knowledge is usually 
estimated, was at tliis time very small ; yet I 
sometimes look back with regret on these 
scenes. I never knew sweeter or more fre- 
quent liours of divine communion, than in my 
two last voyages to Guinea, when I was either 
almost secluded from society on sliipboard, 
or when on shore amongst the natives. I have 
wandered through the woods, reflecting on 
the singular goodness of the Lord to me, in 
a place where, perhaps, there was not a person 
that knew Him for some fIiou.sands of miles 
round abo'ut me. 

■' In desert woods, with thee, my Got], 
Where human footsteps never troil. 

How happy could 1 be ; 
Thou my repose from care, my Iij:jht, 
.■Vmid.st the darkness of the niglit, 

In soUtude my company."* 

* Tlicae linos are a triinsliition from the following well- 



His views on the subject of the slave-trade 
are thus recorded by himself. 

" During the time I was engaged in the 
slave-trade, I never had the least scruple as to 
its lawfulness. I was upon the whole satis- 
fied with it, as the appointment Providence 
had marked out for me; yet it was, in many 
respects, far from eligible. It was indeed, ac- 
counted a genteel employment, and usually 
very profitable, though to me it did not prove 
so, the Lord seeing tiiat a large increase of 
wealth would not be good for me. However, 
I considered myself as a sort of a gaoler or 
turnhctj, and I was sometimes shocked with 
an employment that was perpetually convers- 
ant with chains, bolts and shackles. In this 
view I had often petitioned in my prayers that 
llie Lord, in his own time, would be pleased 
to fix me in a more humane calling, and, if it 
might be, place me where I might have more 
frequent converse with his people and ordi- 
nances, and be freed from those long separa- 
tions from home which very often were hard 
to bear. My prayers were now answered, 
though in a way which I little expected."* 

Tiie circumstance to wliich he alludes may 
be briefly stated. When he was within two 
days of sailing on a new voyage, and to all 
appearance in good health, he was suddenly 
seized with a fit, wliicli deprived him of sense 
and motion. It lasted about an hour, but left 
behind sueli symptoms as induced the physi- 
cians to judge that it would not be safe or 
prudent to proceed on the voyage. The event 
was remarkable. The person who was ap- 
pointed to take his place, most of the oflicers, 
and many of the crew died, and the vessel 
was brought back to Liverpool with great 
dirtjculty.f 

Thus ended Newton's connexion with Af- 
rica and the slave-trade and with a sea-i;iring 
mode of lite. He was destined for higher 
ends, and the providence and grace of God 
soon pointed out a sphere more suited to his 
newly acquired views, and presenting ample 
i means for extended usefulness. 

" And now," he observes, " having reason 
to close with the Apostle's determination, 
' to know nothing but Jesus Christ and him 
crucified," I devoted my life to the pi'osecu- 
tion of spiritual knowledge, and resolved to 
pursue nothing but in subservience to this 
main design."]: With this view he acquired 
a sulficient proficiency in the Greek lan- 
guage, so as to read with facility the New 
Testament and Septuagint ; he then entered 
upon the study of the Hebrew, and twp 

known passage of Properlius ; Newton piously applying 
to the Creator what the pout addresses to the creature. 

Sic ego desertis possim bene viverc sylvis, 

Quo nulla humane sit via trita pede. 

Tu mihi curarum requies, in nocte vol atr^ 

Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis. 

See JJfe of J^ewton. 

* Life of Newton. t Ibid. { Ibid. 



LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



661 



years afterwards engsiged in the Syriac, be- 
sides rc.-idin<T the best writers in divinity, 
and atlendins; on the ministry of men dis- 
tinguislu'd for their piety and their scriptural 
views. In referenee to iiis own entrance on 
the sacred ollice, he thus states his senti- 
ments. 

"One word concerning my views to the 
ministn/, and I have done. I have told you, 
that tliis was my dear mother's hope con- 
cerning me: bnt her death and the scenes 
of life in which I afterw:)rds engaged, seemed 
to cut off the probability. The Hrst desires 
of this sort in my own mind arose many 
years ago, from i-ellection on Gal. i. 23, 24. 
' But they had heard only, that he wliich 
persecuted us in times past, now i)reacheth 
the faith which once he destroyed. And 
they glorified God in me.' I could not but 
wish for such a public opportunity to testify 
the riches of divine grace. I thought I was, 
above most living, a fit person to proclaim 
that faithful saying, ' That Jesus Chri.st came 
into the world to save the chief of sinners;' 
and as my life had been full of remark.able 
turns, and I seemed selected to show what 
the Lord could do, I was in some hopes that 
perhap.s, sooner or later, he might call me 
into this service."* 

This choice of Newton seemed to be not 
only a matural consequence of his newly- 
acquired state of mind, but to be in perfect 
conformity with those leadings of Provi- 
dence which we have so fully recorded. Who 
so fit to proclaim the adorable mercy and 
goodness of God, the freeness of his grace, 
the severity of his justice, and the tenderness 
of his love, as he who had so recently gone 
through the whole of the mighty process ? 
Who could trace the natural obduracy and 
corruption of the huin.an heart, the rebellion 
of the will, the vile shivery of sin, and the 
power that breaks its fetters, like him whose 
past history so forcibly illu.stratcd these 
truths? Men cannot teach others till they 
themselves are first taught of God : and so 
long as this necessary discipline is wanting 
preaching is but a sublime and empty decla- 
mation. 

Newton being further confirmed in his 
resolution by the judgment of some Chris- 
tian friends, received a title to a curacy in 
Yorkshire, Dec. 16, 17.^8, and applied to the 
Archbishop of York, Dr. Gilbert, for ordin.a- 
tion. As he had not however graduated at 
the University, he was rejected, the Arch- 
bishop alleging the rules and canons of the 
church. Four years after this period, in 
1762, having experienced a contiimance of 
the same ditliculties, and conscious thjit he 
was burying his talents, he was about to 
direct his zeal in another channel, when he 

* Life of Nuwlon. 



was restrained by the influence of his wife. 
In reference to this trial, he makes the fol- 
lowing reflection. "The exerci.ses of my 
mirul upon tliis point, I believe, h.avo not 
been peculiar to myself I have known sev- 
eral per.-ions, sensible, pious, of competent 
abilities, and cordially attached to the estab- 
lished church, who, being wearied out with 
rejicated refusals of ordination, and, perhaps, 
not having the advantage of such an adviser 
as 1 had, have at length struck into the itin- 
erant path, or settled among the Dissenters. 
Some of these, )'ct living, are men of re- 
spectable characters and useful in their min- 
istry. But their influence, which would once 
have been serviceable to the true interests 
of the church of England, now rather oper- 
ates against it." 

Finally, being recommended by the E,irl 
uf Dartmouth* to Dr. Green, Bishop of Lin- 
coln, of whose candor and kindness he speaks 
with much respect, he Wiis ordained deacon 
at Buckden, April 29, 1761, aiul appointed 
to the curacy of Olney, Bucks. He received 
priest's orders the year following. 

In this sphere of duty Newton continued 
nearly sixteen years exercising the functions 
of his office with exemplary fidelity, going 
from house to house, and exhibiting a pat- 
tern of an excellent parish priest. By the 
munificence of John Thornton, Esq., he w.as 
en;ibled to exercise the rites of hospitalitv 
and to dispense relief effectually to the poor. 
" Be hospitable," said Mr. Thornton, " and 
keep an open house for such as are worthy 
of entertainment. Help the poor and needy. 
I will statedly allow you 200^ a year, and 
readily send whatever you have occasion lo 
draw for more." Newton once observed, 
that he thought he had received of Mr. 
Thornton upwards of 3,000/. in this way, 
during the time he resided at Olney.f 

Such traits do honor to hum.an n.aturc. 

One of the incidents which distinguishes 
the residence of Newton at Olney is his 
friendship and intercourse with Cowper. It 
is said, that this intercourse was injurious to 
the poet, and that Newton's peculiar views, 
which were Calvinistic, increased the morbid 
turn of his mind. The doctrinal sentiments 
of Newton we shall shortly consider, with- 
out however entering upon a lengthened dis- 
cussion unsuited to the character of the 
present work. But we hesitate not to affirm 
that though the standard of Newton was un- 
questionahly more Calvinistic than wluat is 
generally adopted by the clergy in these 
times, the main doctrines which he held were 
the common fundamental principles of the 

' Lord D.irtraoiuh vras the patron of the livini; of Olney 
iind (ii'iliniroisticd for hia piety. U id due to ttiia noblo 
family to state, tliat iti no instance has a vacancy in tho 
livinj; ever been tilled up but in subserviency to the in- 
tcrestii of true relii^ion. 

t CeciPs Memoir of Newton. 



662 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Christian faith, and that no preachor could 
liave been more practical in his views. In 
other respects, Newton was social in his 
spirit, affectionate in his feelings, and culti- 
vated in his understanding. Having had 
ample means of ascertaining his real char- 
aelcr, the editor can with truth assert that 
no man was more beloved, admired, and re- 
spected. 

We next examine Newton's doctrinal views. 
The doctrines of Newton embraced all 
those great fundamental truths which distin- 
guish "tlie period of the reformation, and 
were continued downwards to tlie times of 
Charles I., when an evident departure from 
sound doctrine is perceptible in the writers 
of that age, as well as in those which suc- 
ceeded.* We claim for Newton the praise 
of having been one among a few faithful 
witnesses who boldly proclaimed those truths, 
when religion was degener.ating, with some 
few exceptions, into a system of moral ethics. 
It is to such men as Roniaine, Venn, Ber- 
ridge, Milncr, Walker of Truro, Adam of 
Wintringham, Stillinglleet, Jones of St. Sav- 
iour's, Newton, and a few others, that we 
owe that revival of piety wliich is now diffus- 
ing itself so generally among the members 
of our church. These doctrines comprise 
the fall and corruption of man, the divinity 
and offices of the Saviour, the necessity of 
conversion by the grace of the Holy Spirit, 
free justification by faith in the atonement, 
tlie work of sanctilication in all its progres- 
sive stages, attested by the evidence of a 
holy and devoted life, founded on these 
views and principles. 

These great and important truths are gen- 
erally called " doctrines according to godli- 
ness";"' that is, tliey constitute the only gen- 
nine spring and source of godliness. It 
cannot be effected without them, because 
the principle would be wanting which is 
alone competent to produce re.al holiness. 
Tliey form the vital essence of Christianity, 
its distinguishing and essential badge, its 
grace, its ornament, and glory. 

Some men decry doctrine altogether, and 
assert tliat we are more concerned with the 
precepts than the doctrines of the Bible. 
But these doctrines are to be found in our 
Articles,! in our IIomilies,{ in the works of 
Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley, Hooper, Tindal, 
and others, the confessors and martyrs of 
the glorious Reformation. 

We subjoin the testimony of an eminent 
prelate on this subject, delivered in a charge 
in the year 1792. We refer to the venerable 
Bishop of Durham, Dr. Shute Barrington. 

" AH that distinguishes Christianity from 

* Bisliops Hall, DavcnanI, and Jeremy Taylor, are hon- 
orable exceptions. 

t See 9, 11), 11, 12, 131h Articles. 

i See the Homilies entitled " On the misery of man ;" 
on '• Justifying liuth ;" " Good works annexed to faith ;" 



other religions is doctrinal ; a Christian's 
hopes and consolations, his obligations and 
motives, are doctrinal points ; the very means 
and end of his salvation, the many objects 
of his most earnest intention, are all points 
of faith and doctrine. Divest Christianity 
of its faith and doctrines, and you despoil it 
of all that is peculiar to it in its motives, its 
consolations, its sanctions, and its duties. 
You divest it of all that made revelation 
necessary ; you reduce it to the cold and iu- 
elTectual substance of what is called philos- 
ophy; that philosophy wliich has of late 
shown it.self not the friend of religion, learn- 
ing, and civil order, but of anarchy, conceit, 
and atheism : you reduce it to the obscure 
glimmerings of human knowledge ; that 
knowledge which the greatest of the ancient 
philosophers* confessed to be totally insuffi- 
cient to satisfy the doubts and solicitude of 
an inquiring mind, and looked forward with 
a kind of prophetic exultation to the period 
when Divine Providence, in compassion to 
the weakness of our n.iture, should enligliten 
mankind by the revelation of himself, which 
modern philosophers rcject."| 

We add the distinguished testimony A 
Archbishop Seeker. 

"To improve the people effectually, you 
must be assiduous in teacliing tlie principles 
not only of virtue and natural religion, but 
of the gospel ; and of the gospel, not as al- 
most explained away by modern refiners, 
but ' as the truth is in Jesus;' as it is taught 
by the church of which you are members ; 
as you have engaged by your subscriptions 
and declarations, that you will teacli it your- 
selves. You must preach to them faith in 
tlie ever-blessed Trinity ; you must sot forth 
the original corruption of our nature ; our 
redemption, according to God's eternal pur- 
pose in Christ, by the sacritice of the cross ; 
our sanctification by the influences of the 
Divine Spirit ; the insufficiency of good 
works, and the efficacy of faith to salva- 
tion 

" The truth, I fear, is, that many, if not 
most of us, have dwelt too little on these 

doctrines in our sermons, partly 

from not having studied theology deeply 
enough to treat of them ably and benefi- 
cially. God grant it may never have been 
for want of inwardly experiencing their im- 
jiortance. But, whatever be the cause, the 
effect hax bee^i lamenlnhlc'^l 

If a solemn and admonitory warning was 
ever conveyed to the Christian world on 
this subject, it has been afforded by the con- 
duct of the church of Geneva. By a regula- 



on " the death and pa.ssion of our Saviour Christ ;" Hom- 
ily for Whitsunday, &c. 

* Plato. 

t See Bishop of Durham's Charge, (Barrington,) 1792. 

i See " Watson's Tracts," vol. vi. 



LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 



663 



tion, the brc.ich of which was made punish- 
able by expulsion, the great fuiulainental 
doeti-iues, such as the essential divi[iily (if 
Christ, the doctrine of human corruption, tlie 
atonement, justiKcatiou by fulli,and the jier- 
Honality aiul ollices of the Holy Spirit, were 
proliibited in tlie pulpit. Tlie people, no 
longer accustomed to these important truths, 
soon forgot them, and the cojisequence has 
been tlie substitution of a cold and lil'eless 
Soeinianism. Had it not been for tliat band 
of faitliful men in this country, so much 
misrepresented and traduced, who shall say 
whether, in our own communion, we might 
not liave incurred the same fearful result? 
They stoijd in the gap, like Phinehas, and the 
plague was stayed. 

VVe know all that is urged in opposition 
to this reasoning, and we will examine its 
merits. These doctrines, it is said, are over- 
charged. The corruption of hum:in nature, 
for instance, instead of being described as 
partial, is represented to be total. Society, 
we are assured, could not exist on such a 
supposition. 

Let us listen to what Newton remarks on 
this subject. 

"His n.'itural powers, though doubtless im- 
paired, were not destoyed. Man by nature 
is still capable of great things. His under- 
standing, reason, memory, imagination, &c. 
sulficiently proclaim that the ' liand whicli 
made liim is divine.' He is, as Milton s-ays 
of Beelzebub, ' majestic Ihnugh in ruins.'' He 
can reason, invent, and, by application, attain 
a considerable knowledge in natural things. 
The exertions of human genius, as specified 
in the characters of some philosophers, poets, 
orators, &e., are wonderful. Jiut man can- 
not know, love, trust or serve his Maker, un- 
less he b; reneioed in the spirit of his mind."* 

" Sin did not deprive him of rationality but 
of spirituality.''-i- 

Again : '• God has not left man destitute of 
such dispositions as are necessary to the 
peace of society ; but I deny tliat there is 
any moral goodness in them, unless they are 
founded in a supreme love to God, have his 
glory for their aim, and are produced by faith 
in Jesus Christ."f 

\V'liat does Newton here assert th.at is not 
maintained in the 13th Article of our own 
Chin-ch ?t 

Thus mnn's natural and moral powers sur- 
vive the fall: but those which are spiritual 
are eftaeed and lost. Nature cannot confer 
what it is tlu' province of grace alone to be- 
stow. It re(|uires a divine power to restore 
and ipiicken the soul. Hut what is the doc- 
trine of the church of England as regards 

* Sl-i- Ncwlon's " C:irdiplumiii.'* Letli-r lo Itfv. Mr. S. 

f Ibid. 

I Wiirksduiie lipfoi-L' the [,'raco ofClirist unit Hit' inspi- 
riilion uf liis Spirit, are not pk-iisaiil to «Io(l, furusmucti 
03 Ihoy spring not of faith in Jusus Clirisl, fitc. 



man's partial or total corruption ? We ex- 
tract the following passage from the Homily 

on the Nativity : — 

•■ Whereby it came to pass thiit, as before 
(the fall) he was blessed, so now he was ac- 
cursed; as before he was loved, so now he 
was abhorred ; as before he was most beau- 
tiful and precious, so now he was most vile 
and wretched in the sight of his Lord and 
Maker. Instead of the image of God, he 
was now become the image of the devil, in- 
stead of the citizen of heaven, he was hecomi^ 
the bond slave of hell, having in himsel no 
one part <f his former purity and cleanness, but 
being altogether spotted and defiled, inso/nueh 
that note he seemed to be nothing else but a 
lump of sin."* Who ever used language 
stronger and explicit than these words '.' 

Thus we see that men, in att.icking these 
views and sentiments, are in fact, impugning 
the doctrines of their own church. 

We merely add one more remark on the 
much-controverted subject of conversion. To 
those who deny this doctrine, .and describe 
it as "spiritual revelry," pretended illnmin.a- 
tions, &c., we recommend the consideration 
of the following passage in the Homily on 
Whitsunday. It refers to our Lord's conver- 
sation with Nicodemus, and to the inability 
of the latter to comprehend this great spirit- 
ual cliange of heart. 

" Beliold a lively pattern of a fleshly and 
carnal man. He had little or no intelligence 
of the Holy Ghost, and therefore he goeth 
bluntly to work, and asketh how this thing 
were possible to be true. Whereas, other- 
wise, if he had Icnown the great power of 
the Holy Ghost in tliis behalf, that it is He 
whicli inwardly worketh the regeneration 
and new birtli of mankind, he would never 
hav(^ marvelled at Christ's words, but would 
rather Uikr. occasion thereby to praise and 
glorify God." 

We have thought proper to adduce these 
testimonies, because they vindicate the doc- 
trines o Newton, and of those who concur 
with him in these views. They fully prove 
how much the stability of our church, in the 
estimation of some of its ablest advocates, 
depends on the faithfulness with which these 
doctrines are maintained. On this subject 
we would beg to express our deepest con- 
viction that, if the Church of England is lo 
survive those perils by which she is tlireat- 
ened ; if as we anticipate, she will rise from 
her tribulation with renewed strength and 
beauty ; it is to the purity of her doctrine, 
and to the devoteduess of her ministers, and 
not to the richness of her endowments, or to 
the secular arm of the state, that she must 
be indebted for her durability aiul greatness. 
To l)e upheld, she must bo " strong in the 

» Sco also Article IX. of llio Church of England, on 
Original Sin. 



664 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Lord and in the power of his might," apos- 
tolical in her doctrines, restored in her dis- 
cipline, and holy in her practice. The lan- 
guage shall then be addressed to her that is 
applied by the inspired prophet to Zion ; 
" No weapon that is formed against thee 
shall prosper, and every tongue that shall 
rise against thee in judgment thou shall con- 
demn." Isaiah liv. 17. Or, to use words 
still more emphatic, " The gates of hell shall 
not prevail against her." 

Having thus generally vindicated the doc- 
trines of Newton, we next advert to some of 
hi.s writings. We make a few extracts from 
his Cardiphonia, the most popular of his writ- 
ings, being a series of letters on religious 
.subjects. The following is addressed to a 
nobleman, distinguished for his piety. 

" To devote soul and body, every talent, 
power and faculty, to the service of the 
Lord's cause and will ; to let our light shine 
(in our several situations) to the praise of 
grace ; to place our highest joy in the con- 
templation of his adorable perfection ; to re- 
joice even in tribulations and distresses, in 
reproaches and infirmities, if thereby the 
power of Clirist may rest upon us, and be 
magnified in us ; to be content, yea, glad to 
be nothing, that he may be all in all : — to 
obey hhn in opposition to the threats or so- 
licitations of men ; to trust him, though all 
outward appearances seem against us ; to 
rejoice in A/m, though we should (as will 
sooner or later be the case) have nothing 
else to rejoice in ; to live above the world, 
and to have our conversation in heaven ; to 
be like the angels, finding our own pleasure 
in performing his ; — this, my Lord, is the 
prize, the mark of our high calling, to which 
we .are encourged with a holy ambition con- 
tinually to aspire. It is true, we shall still 
fall short; we shall find that, when we 
should do good, evil will be present with 
us : but the attempt is glorious, and shall not 
be wholly in vain. He that gives us thus to 
will, will enable us to perform witli growing 
success, and teach us to profit even by our 
mistakes and imperfections."* 

The privileges of the believer are thus set 
forth. 

" How great and honorable is the privilege 
of a true believer ? That he has neither wis- 
dom nor strength in himself is no disadvan- 
tage ; for he is connected with infinite wi.s- 
dom and almighty power. Tliough weak as 
a worm, his arms are strengthened by the 
mighty God of Jacob, and all things become 
possible, yea, easy to him, that occur within 
the compass of his proper duty and calling. 
The Lord, whom he serves, engages to pro- 
portion his strength to his day, whether it 
be a day of service or of suH'ering; and, 

* " Cardiphonia.*' Letters to a Nobleman. 



though he is fallible and short-sighted, ex- 
ceedingly liable to mistake and imposition, 
yet, wliile he retains a sense that he is so, 
and with the simplicity of a child asks coun- 
sel and direction of the Lord, he seldom 
takes a wrong step, at least not in matters 
of consequence ; and even his inadvertencies 
are overruled for good. If he forgets his 
true state, and tliinfcs himself to be some- 
thing, he presently finds he is indeed nothing; 
but if he is content to be nothing, and to have 
nothing, he is sure to find a season.able and 
abundant communic.ition of all that he wants. 
Thus he lives, like Israel in the wilderness, 
upon mere bounty ; but then it is a bounty 
unchangeable, unwearied, inexhaustible, and 
all-sufficient."* 

The believer's call, duty, and privilege is 
thus illustrated by the happy application of 
Milton's character of Abdiel, at the end of 
book 5, of the " Paradise Lost." The com- 
pliment to his noble friend is just and 
merited. 

" Faithful found 
Among the faithless, faitlilul only he, 
.\mong innumerable false, unraov'd, 
Unshaken, unseduc'd, unterrified, 
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal; 
Nor number, nor example, with him wrought 
To swerve from truth, ot change hie constant 

mind 
Though single." 

" Methinks your Lordship's situation par- 
ticularly resembles that in which the poet has 
placed Abdiel. You are not indeed called to 
serve God quite alone ; but, amongst those 
of your own rank, and with whom the station 
in which he has placed you necessitates you 
to converse, how few are there who can un- 
derstand, second, or approve the principles 
upon which you act ; or easily bear a con- 
duct which must impress conviction or reliect 
dishonor upon themselves? But you are 
not alone. The Lord's people (many of 
whom you will not know till you meet them 
in glory) are helping you here with their 
prayers. His angels are commissioned to 
guard and guide your steps. Yea, the Lord 
himself fixes his eye of mercy upon your pri- 
vate and public path, and is near you at your 
right hand, that you may not be moved! 
That he m.iy comfort you with the light of 
his countenance, .and uphold you with the 
arm of his power, is my frequent prayer."* 

Such is the sweet strain of practical and 
experimental piety in which Newton writes, 
uniting the graces of composition with the 
courtesy of Christian feeling, and the senti- 
ments of an exalted piety. The noblem.an, 
to whom these letters are addressed, (twenty- 
six in number,) was the Earl of Dartmouth, 

* " Cardiphonia." 



the patron of the living of Olney. Happy 
would it be if nion of rank were always will- 
insf to listen to such truths, and the pen of a 
Newton could record them with so much faith- 
fulness and grace. The date of this corre- 
spondence commences in the year 1765, and 
terminates in 1777. The succeding eight 
letters, to the Rev. Jlr. S., are addressed to 
the Rev. Thomas .Scott, and will be shortly 
adverted to. 3Ir. B., to whom eleven letters 
arc inscribed, is Mr. Barluun, the father of 
the late Jos. Poster Barham, Esq. M.P. One 
letter is addressed to the hitter, as Mr. B., 
jun. ; and Miss M. B., is Jliss Martha Bar- 
ham, his sister. The Rev. Mr. R., is Mr. 
Rose, late Rector of Bcckcnham, who ni.arried 
her sister. I am enabled to verify these facts 
from family connexion, and personal knowl- 
edge. Besides these letters, Newton was 
the author of " Omicron," " Letters to a 
Wife," " Review of Ecclesiastic.il History," 
"Sermons," "The Aged Pilgrim's Triumph," 
" Life of the Rev. William Grimshawe," an 
ancestor of the Editor, distinguished for his 
piety and laborious e.\ertions, though accom- 
panied with some peculiarities; I cannot 
however record his name without reverence 
for his piely and zeal. The majority of the 
Olney Hymns were contributed by Newton, 
.and have idways been acceptable to the re- 
ligious public. They are diversified in their 
subject, and uniformly spiritual and experi- 
mental, though inferior, as poetical composi- 
tions, to those contributed by Cowper. 

His lines on the Ocean are characterized 
by great force and beauty. 

A THOUyHT OS THE SEA SHORE. 

In ev'ry object here I see 

Somelhmg, O Lord ! that leads to thee. 

Firm as the rocks thy promise stands, 

Tliy mercies countless as the sands; 

Thy love a sea immensely wide, 

Thy grace an everllowing tide. 

In ev'ry object here I see 

Something, my heart, that points at thee. 

Hard as the rocks that bound the strand, 

Unfruitful as the barren sand. 

Deep and deceitful as the ocean, 

And, like the tides, in constant motion. 

The last point of view in which Newton 
claims to be considered is, as tlie honored 
instrument, in the bands of God, for raising 
up others who became eminent for piety and 
usefulness. We puss over many instances 
of comparatively less importance, and select 
two ofknown celebrity, the late Rev. Thomas 
Scott, and the Rev. Claudius Buchanan. Mr. 
Scott, at the time of Newton's residence at 
Olney, was the curate of Ravenstone, in that 
neighborhood. Though strictly conscien- 
tious, and earnest in the discharge of his 
duties, yet his views were indistinct, and bis 
mind laboring under strong prejudices. The 



sentiments and principles of Newton, so op- 
posite to his own, e.xcited his attention. He 
w.as unable to comprehend them, and, as a 
natural conse(iuence, deprecated and rejected 
them. Newton presented him with one of 
his publications, entitled "Omicron." This 
led to a correspondence, which is inserted in 
the " Cardiphonia." The influence of New- 
ton's arguments, though slow, was finally 
successful. The strong and powerful preju- 
dices of Scott yielded, like the mists that are 
dispelled by the penetrating beams of the 
sun. He has recorded this eventful ])eriod 
of his life in his " Force of Truth," a book 
which merits to be universally read. Mr. 
Scott's subsequent career and usefulness are 
well known. He was " a burning and a shin- 
ing light." His " Commentary on the Bible" 
requires no eulogium, its praise is in all the 
churches. In America alone, we believe that 
not less than forty or fifiy thousand copies 
have been sold. It is now circulating in 
France and in Switzerland. Perhaps no 
book h.as contributed so essentially to dif- 
fuse the great doctrines of the Reformation, 
and to revive the piety and spirit of former 
ages. We do not know a more splendid 
trophy to the name and usefulness of New- 
ton, than to be recorded as the instrument, 
under the Divine blessing, of having raised 
up so distinguished a character as the Rev. 
Thomas Scott. 

The second instance is that of the Rev. 
Claudius Buchanan. Mr. Newton, after a 
residence of nearly sixteen years at Olney, 
was removed to London, having been pre- 
sented, by the recommendation of John 
Thornton, Esq., to the living of St, Mary 
Woolnoth. On a Sunday evening a stranger 
stood in one of the aisles of the elmreh, 
while Newton was preaching. He became im- 
pressed with what he heard,andcommunicated 
to him the state of his mind: Newton admir- 
ing his Clients, and anticipating his future 
u.scfulness, introduced him to the late Henry 
Thornton, Esq., by whose liberality he was 
sent to college. He was afterwards or- 
dained, and subsequently filled an important 
situation in the ea.st. He at length returned 
to Europe to awaken Britain to the claims 
of Indii. The effect produced by his ap- 
peals, and by his celebrated sermon, " The 
Star in the East," will long be remembered. 
He w.as eminently instrumental in rousing 
public attention to the duty of evangelizing 
India. 

The stranger whose history we have thus 
briefly recorded was the Rev. Claudius Bu- 
chanan. 

Such is the history of Newton, abounding 
in the most singular and eventful incidents, 
and exhibiting a man not less distinguished 
by his piety than by his .•leknowledged talents 
and great usefulness. The moral truths that 



666 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



it conveys are both numerous and liiglily in- 
structive. To p.irents it is fraught with the 
greatest encouragement, by proving that early 
impres.sions of piety, however tlicy may seem 
to be extinguished Ijy a long course of im- 
penitence, may subsequently revive, though 
probably under the most solemn dispensa- 
tions; "Thou shalt be visited of the Lord 
with thunder, and with earthquake, and great 
noise, with storm and tempest, and the flame 
of devouring fire." Isaiah xxix. 6. The mercy 
that spares in the midst of manifold provoca- 
tions; the long-suffering and goodness of 
God ; the doctrine of a particular Providence ; 
the strivings of his Spirit ; the necessity of 
the conversion of the soul to God ; and the 
ultimate triumphs of his grace; how forcibly 
have these truths been illustr.ited in the fore- 
going narrative I Reader, adore the wonder- 
ful power and grace of God ! See what this 
grace has done for others ! Learn wliat it is 
capable of efl'ecting for yourself, and wh.at an 
instrument of extended usefulness Providence 
may render you, when your own heart is once 
renewed by his Spirit! Who shall trace the 
final consequences of a single soul tlius 
brought to God ! The last great day alone 
can reveal the issue. If then you have not 
yet entered on this he.ivenly road, make the 
grand expcrimeiU in the strength and power 
of God. " It is high time to .aw.ake out of 
sleep." " The night is far spent, the day is 
at hand." Save thyself ami others. Flee to 
the cross of Christ for pardon and mercy. 
Read the neglected Bible. Pour out the 
heart in fervent, persevering prayer ; and let 
thy faith be quickened, and thy fears as- 
suaged by the gracious assurance, " All things 



whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, 
ye shall receive." Matt. .\.\i. -22. 

He died at his residence in Coleman-street 
Buildings, London, Dec. 21, 1807, in his 83rd 
year. 

The following epitaph, composed by him- 
self, is inscribed on a plain marble tablet, 
near the vestry door, in the church of St. 
Mary Woolnoth, London. 

JOHN NEWTON, Clerk, 

ONCE AN INFIDEL AND LIBERTINE, 

A SERVANT OP SLAVES IN AFRICA, 

WAS, BY THE RICH MERCV OF OUR LORD AND 

SAVIOUR JESOS CHRIST, 

PRESERVED, RESTORED, PARDONED, 

AND APPOINTED TO PREACH THE FAITH HE HAD 

LONG LABORED TO DESTROY, 

NEAR SIXTEEN YEAR.? AT OLNEY IN BUCKS, 

AND TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS IN THIS CHURCH. 

ON FEB. 1, 1750, HE MARRIED 

MARY, 

DAUGHTER OF THE LATE GEORGE CATLETT, 

OP CHATHAM, KENT. 

HE RESIGNED HER TO THE LORD WHO GAVE HER, 

ON THE 15tH OF DECE.MEER, 1790. 



In his study at the vicarage in Olney, 
Bucks, are still to be seen the following 
lines, inscribed on the wall : — 

" Since thou wast precious in my sight thou 
hast been honorable." — Isaiah xliii. 4. 

But, 

" Thou shalt remember that thou wast a bond- 
man in the land of Egypt, and the Lord thy God 
redeemed thee." — Deutcron&my xv. 15. 



PRELIMINARY REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



The origin of the Olney Hymns, and the 
proportion contributed by Cowper to that 
collection, have been already .stated in the 
first part of this work.* Before, however, 
we enter on tlie subject of these hymns, it 
will not perhaps be thought uninteresting to 
present the reader witli a brief historical ac- 
count of Psalmody, and to detail the circum- 
stances which first gave rise to a metrical ver- 
sion of the Psalms of D.ivid. We shall ex- 
tract the information principally from " War- 
ton's History of English Poetry." Sir John 
Hawkins may also be consulted on the same 
subject.! 

* Page 56. t History of Music. 



The praise of having first effected a metri- 
cal version of the Psalms is to be assigned 
to France. About the year 1540, Clement 
Marot, valet of the bedchamber to Francis I., 
was the favorite poet of France. Being tired 
of the vanities of profane poetry, and anxious 
to raise the tone of public taste and feeling, 
he attempted a version of the Psalms into 
French rhyme, aided by Theodore Beza, and 
encouraged by the Professor of Hebrew in 
the University of ParLs. Tliis translation, 
not aiming at any innovation in the public 
worship, received the sanction of the Sor- 
bonne, as containing nothing contrary to 
sound doctrine. Solicitous to justify this 



REMARKS ON THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



667 



new application of his poetical powers, Ma- 
rot expatiates in liis dedication on tlie supe- 
rior claims of sacred poetry, and observes 
"that the ijolden age would now be restored, 
when we should see the peasant at his ploui^h, 
the carman in the streets, and the mechanic 
in his shop, solacing their toils with psalms 
and canticles; and the sliejiherd and shej)- 
hcrdess, reposing in the shade, and teach- 
ing the rocks to echo the name of the Cre- 
ator.''* 

This version soon eclipsed tlie brilliancy 
of his madigrals and sonnets. In the festive 
and splendid court of Francis I. of a sudden 
nothing was heard but the psalms of Cle- 
ment Marot. By each of the royal family 
and the principal nobility of. the court, a 
j)salm was chosen, and adapted to a popular 
ballad tune. 

Calvin soon discovered what a powerful 
auxiliary psalm-singing might prove to the 
reformed religion, and immediately intro- 
duced Marot's version into his congregation 
at Geneva- They were adapted to plain and 
easy melodiesf by Guillaume de Fnwic, and 
became a characteristic badge of the newly- 
established worship. Germany next caught 
the sacred ardor, and the choral mode of ser- 
vice yielded to the attractive and popular 
character of a devotional melody, in which 
all might join, w ithout distinction of rank or 
character. Psalm-singing being thus asso- 
ciated with the Reformed religion, became 
interdicted to the Catholics under the most 
severe penalties. 

This predilection for sacred song soon 
reached England. Previously however to 
this event. Sir Thomas Wyatt and the cel- 
ebrated Lord Surrey had translated portions 
of the Psalms into metre. We subjoin a 
brief specimen from each of these writers, 
as illustrating the style and poetical preten- 
sions of that early period of English litera- 
ture. 

Psalm xxxii. — Beati qtwrum, <f-c. 

Oh ! happy arc they that have forgiveness got 
Of their olTencc. not by their penitence, 
As t)y merit, whioli rccompenscth not; 
Altlioui^h tiiat yet pardon hatfi not otTence 
Without the same, t>ut by the goodness 
Of him that hath perfect intelligence, 
Of heart contrite, and covcrcth the greatness 
Of sin witliin a merciful discharge. — 

• Lft Laboureur a sa cbarrui*, 
1.0 Charrelier parmy Ic rug. 
El t'Arti!fati en 8a buuUtiue, 
Avectiucs iin Pseaume ou Cantique, 
Kn sun labour su aoula^cr. 
Heureiix qui orra le Iterirer 
Et la llergure au bois eslun-s 
Fair que roclicrs el cslaiiirs 
Apre.H eux chanteiit la tiautcur 
Dii saiuct nom du Createur. 

Clement Marot. 
t This mode oradaptalion may be seen in tbo "Godly 
and Spiritual .Son',r*," &c., print(fd nl ICdinburgli in 1597, 
and reprinted there in 1801.— ParA. 



And happy is he to whom God doth impute 
No more his faults, by 'knowled^jin!; his sin : 
But cleansed now the Lord doth hiiu repute. 
Sir 'iViomas Wi/att. 

PsAi.M viii. LORD, WHAT IS MAN 7 

But yet among all these I ask, " What thing is 

man '." 
Whose turn to serve in his poor need this work 

Thou tirst began. 
Or what is Adam's son that bears his father's 

mark ] 
For whose delight and comfort eke Thou has 

wrought all this work. 
I see thou mind'st him much, that dost reward 

him so: 
Being l)ul earth, to rule the earth, whereon him- 
self doth go. 
From angels' substance eke Thou mad'st him 

dilTer small ; 
Save one doth change his Hfe awhile ; the other 

not at all. 
The sun and moon also Tliou mad'st to give him 

light ; 
And each one of the wandering stars to twinkle 

sparkles bright. 
The air to give him breath; the water for his 

health ; 
The earth to bring forth grain and fruit, for to 

increase his wealth. 

Earl of Surrey. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt versified the seven 
Penitential Psalms, and died in 1542. The 
Earl of Surrey honored his memory and vir- 
tues by three sonnets. Five years after- 
wards this distinguished and highly-gifted 
nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of 
Henry VIII., and was beheaded, in the year 
1547. He has left a version of the eighth, 
fifty-fifth, seventy-third, and eighty-eighth 
P.s.alms.* 

The versification of Sternhold and Hop- 
kins, the first th.at was ever used in the 
Church of England, ne.xt demands our at- 
tention. Sternhold was groom of the robes 
to Henry VIII. It is singular that both in 
France and England we are indebted to lay- 
men and court poets for the introduction of 
what subsequently became so characteristic 
a feature in the reformed worship. Stern- 
hold composed fifty-one Psalms, and dedi- 
cated his version to King Edward VI. His 
coadjutor in this undertaking was John 
Hopkins, a elergyinan and school-master, in 
Suffolk. His poetry is ratlier of a higiicr 
order than that of Sternhold. He translated 
fifty-eight Psalms. To the above may be 
added the names of William Whyttingliam, 
Dean of Durham, who added sixteen Psalms. 
The hundredth and hundred and ninteenth 
Psalms were included in this number. The 
rest were contributed by Robert Wisdome, 
Archdeacon of Ely; by William Hethe, a 

* There is .also a frm^tnent of a comment on the Seven 
Penitential Psalms, in Enstlish verse, attriliutcd to Dr. 
Alcock, Itishop of Ely, Iho founder of Jesus College, 
Cambridge. 



668 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Scotch divine; John Pullain, and Thomas 
Churchyard, one of the pages of the Earl of 
Surrey. The entire version of the Psalter 
was at length published by John Day, in 
1562, .attached for the first time to the Com- 
mon Prayer, and entitled, " The whole Booke 
of Psalmes, collected into English metre, by 
J. Sternhold, J. Hopkins, and others, con- 
ferred with the Ebrue, with apt Notes to sing 
them withall." 

They are believed to contain some of the 
original melodies composed by French and 
German musicians. JIany of them are the 
tunes of Gondinel and Le Jeune, who are 
among the first composers of Marot's French 
psalms. Not a few were probably imported 
by the Protestant refugees from Flanders, 
who tied into England from the persecution 
of the Duke of Alva. Some of our own 
musicians, such as Marbeck, Tallis, Tye, 
Parsons, and Slunday, are supposed to h.ave 
contributed their talents towards this imder- 
taking. 

We insert a few extracts from the original 
version, which in this refined age will appear 
rather ludicrous, and unsuited to the dignity 
of sacred poetry. 

Psalm Ixxxiv. 13. 

Why doost vvithdrawe thy hand aback, 
And hide it in thy lappe ! 
O plucke it out, and be not slack 
To give thy Ibes a rappe ! 

Psalm Ixviii, 37. 

For why 1 their hearts were nothing bent, 
To him nor to his trade. 

The miraculous march of Jehovah before 
the Israelites, through the wilderness, is thus 
represented by Sternhold. 

Psalm Ixviii. 

When thou didst march before thy folk, 

The Egyptians from among, 
And brought them from the wilderness, 

fVhich was both wide and long : 

The earth did quake, the raine pourde downe, 
Heard were great claps of thunder'; 

The mount Sinai shooke m such a sorte, 
As it would cleave in sunder. 

Thy heritage with drops of rain 

Abundantly was waslit ; 
And if so be it barren was. 

By thee it was refresht. 

God's army is two millions. 

Of warriors good and strong, 
The Lord also in Sinai 

Is present them among. 

Though this version has undergone many 
revisions, yet we fully agree with Warton, 
that its continued use is discreditable to the 



Church of England.* The translation, in its 

genuine and unsophisticated st.ate, may justly 
indeed bo considered, as he observes, no in- 
considerable monument of our .ancient liter- 
ature, if not of our ancient poetry; and Ful- 
ler, likewise, remarks, "Match these verses 
for their ages, they shall go abreast with the 
best poems of those times." Still the spirit 
of the present age dem.ands a higher stand- 
ard both of poetical taste .and devotional 
piety. They are too bald and jejune. The 
public feeling requires a more luminous ex- 
hibition of the great truths of the gospel, 
and a more experiraental mode of delineating 
the trials and conflicts of the Christian war- 
fare. No man has accomplished this impor- 
tant task mote successfully than Watts. He 
has united the inspiration of poetry with the 
hallowed fire from the altar; and we hesitate 
not to assert, that if Watts had been a diurch- 
man, his version would h.ave been in univer- 
sal repute among us. It is already incorpo- 
r.ated with most of the modern selections, 
where there is a return to the doctrijies of 
the Reform.ation ; and Sternhold and Hop- 
kins are becoming increasingly unsuited to 
the advancing spirit of religious inquiry. 

It Wiis this conviction th.at induced New- 
ton, in the year 1771, to eng.age in the com- 
position of the Olney Hymns. They were 
designed to be the joint contribution of New- 
ton and Cowper, but the morbid depression 
of the poet prevented the fulfilment of his 
share of the eng.agement. Tlie total number 
contributed by Cowper has been variously 
stated. Hayley estimates it at sixty-eight. 
Other biographers have considerably reduced 
the amount. Some editions assign sixty- 
three ; otliers insert sixty-five. There is at 
present no uniform standard, nor is there, to 
the best of our judgment, one single edition 
entitled to the credit of correctness.f We 
trust that we have the means of deciding 
this controverted subject. So f;tr as the 
original edition, now lying before us, pub- 
lished, under (lie superintendence of Newton 
himself, by Johnson, the bookseller, and bear- 
ing the date of 1779, may be considered as 
the most authentic guide and criterion, we 
are en.abled to state that the original number, 
distinguished by the initial letter C (Cow- 
per's signature), is sixty-seven. If to the 
above we add a hymn not inserted in New- 
ton's origin.al edition, because subsequently 
composed, but which we have been enabled 
to authenticate as the production of Cowper, 
the total number, entitled to be ascribed to 



* Warton 's censure is expressed in very strong lan- 
guage. " To tlie disgrace of sacred music, sacred poetry, 
and our estalilislied worsliip, tliese Psalms still continue 
lo be sung in the Church of England.*' See History of 
F.nfrlish Poetry, vol. ii. p. 461. 

t Oim edition imputes two hymns of Newton's to Cow- 
per, by mistaking the numerical letter C for the initial 
of Cowper's name. 



his pen, is sixty-eight. The hymn tluit we 
allude to begins, 

" To Jesus, the crown of my liope." 

It has iirready appeared before tlie public in 
some modern selections. 

Of these hymns two were written at the 
period of Cowper's roeovery at St. Albans, 
when his mind h:id received those fjracious 
impressions wliicli so pouerfully inlhieneed 
his future principles and writings. The first 
which Cowper ever composed was in allusion 
to tliis event. It is entitled " The Happy 
Change," and begins with the words, 

" How bless'd thy creature is, O God." 

The second was written when he contempla- 
ted retiring from the busy world. It is the 
beautiful and admired hymn, 

'■ Far from the world, O Lord, I flee." 

It may be interesting to the reader to learn, 
from concurring sources of information, that 
the celebrated iiymn commencing with 

" God moves in a mysterious way," 

was the laat in the collection that he com- 
posed, and that it was written on the eve of 
tliat afflicting malady, whicli, occurring in 
Jan., 1773, suspended his powers for nearly 
seven successive years, though his corre- 
spondence was partially resumed with Mr. 
Hill and Mr. Uiiwin, from the year 1776. It 
was during a solitary walk in the fields that 
he had a presentiment of his approaching at- 
tack, and it is to this remarkable impression 
that we owe the origin of the above admired 
composition. 

This hymn acquires a peculiar interest 
from the above incident as well as from the 
unshal;cn failh and subniission which it incul- 
cates under the darkest dispensations. It 
seems as if God were giving him a chart of 
the voyage through those seas of trouble 
which he was about to navigate. No man 
could have written this hymn unless under 
the influence of a real or supposed special 
dispensation ; and one end perhaps designed 
by it was, that Cowper slnnild not only con- 
vey instruction to his own mind, but be made 
the in.strument of consoling others. Few 
hymns have been more admired or more fre- 
quently quoted. It stands pre-eminent in that 
class which refer to the mysterious dealings 
of God, and is singularly qualified to invig- 
orate the faith, to check the speculations of 
finite reason, and to lead the sufiercr to re- 
pose on the unerring wisdom and goodness 
of God. 

We must be careful, at the same time, how 
we reason on these subjects. That impres- 
sions of approaching trials may be sent from 
God, and subsc(]nenlly be reali cd, we are bv 



no means prepared to deny ; but that they are 
often the occasion of fulfilling themselves, by 
acting strongly on a nervous temperament, 
we still more hrmly believe. Again, tliat 
they frequently e.\ist, and are not confirmed 
by the result, is well known. On the whole, 
we think reason as well as Scripture militates 
strongly against the doctrine of impressions. 
There is often an order and progression in 
tliem which, if minutely traced, prove their 
fallacy. An.\iety first suggests fear. A too 
great sensitiveness of feeling, an excursive 
imagination, and the want of a more vigorous 
e.xercise of faith next invest what was only 
imaginary, with reality. It thus acquires a 
form and existence, next expands into mag- 
nitude, and then rises into the power and as- 
cendancy of an absorbing idea; till, by a linal 
deception, the impression is attributed to a 
divine hand. But wlio does not see that it is 
more justly to be ascribed to morbid sensi- 
bility, to nervous excitement, and, most of all, 
to the want of a firmer confidence in the 
power and goodness of God ? The language 
of Scripture is decidedly opposed to the the- 
ory of impressions. Tlie Bible directs us 
never to indulge in anticipations of evil, and 
to '-take no thought for the morrow." An 
habitual trust in a superintending Providence 
will e\er jirove to be the best preservative 
against imaginary or real evil, and will til! 
the mind with the sweet calm of a holy and 
abiding ])e;ice. 

In returning to the subject of the Olney 
Hymns, we may remark th.at those contrib- 
uted by Cowper are, with some few excep- 
tions, distinguished by excellences of no com- 
mon kind. To the grace and beauty of po- 
etical composition, they unite the sublimity 
of religious sentiment, and the tenderness 
and fervor of devotional feeling. 'J'lie nearer 
approaches to the Deity, which constitute the 
connnunion of the soul with God, and in which 
the believer is able to contemplate him as a 
rec<jnciled Father in Christ Jesus; the suffi- 
ciency of divine "race to pardon all our sins, 
and to renew and sanctify the soul ; the as- 
pirations of prayer for the .attainment of these 
blessings, and the song of praise in the con- 
sciousness of their enjoyment ; the <;iith that 
reposes every care on his promises, and re- 
alises their covenanted truth ; such are the 
subjects on which Cowper delights to dwell 
with a fervor which gives new wings to our 
devotion, and raises us above the enfeebling 
vanity of earthly things. 

To specify all the hymns which l.iy claim 
to our .admiration, would far exceed the limits 
of our plan, and interfere with the jtulgment 
and discrimination of the reader. We cannot, 
however, avoid referring to the following : — 
" O for a closer walk with God ;" " Ere (Jod 
had built the mountains :" " The Lord will 
happiness divine;" "There is a fountain fiU'd 



with blood ;" " Hark, my soul, it is the Lord ;" 
" God of my life, to thee I call ;" and espe- 
cially, '"The billows swell, the winds are 
high." There is a character of experimental 
piety pervading the hymns of Cowper, wliicli 
singularly adapts them to meet the feelings 
of the contemplative or tried Christian. The 
deeper and more secret emotions of the soul ; 
the vicissitudes of joy and sorrow; Ihe fears 
tliat depress, and tlie hopes that soothe and ! 
tranquillize the mind, are treated witli a fidel- 
ity and pathos, that render Cowper emphati- 
cally the poet of the heart. His hymns pos- 
sess one peculiar feature which powerfully 
engages our sympathies. Tliey disclose the 
inward recesses, and deep exercises of his 
own mind. But the sorrows of Cowper are 
now ended. Every trace is obliterated, ex- 
cept the record of them which is stamped on 



his interesting page. He has entered within 
the vail, where the mysterious dispens.ations 
of Providence, which once cast their deep 
shade on his chequered path, are vindicated 
and explained. He has joined "the general 
assembly and church of the first-horn, which 
are written in heaven, and an innumerable 
company of angels, and God, the judge of all, 
and tlie spirits of just men made perfect, and 
Jesus, tlie Jtcdi.ator of the new covenant." 
There, freed from the sorrows and finite con- 
ceptions of erring reason, he unites with the 
redeemed of the Lord in that nobler song of 
praise, "Unto Him that loved us, and washed 
us from our sins in his own blood, and hatli 
m.ade us kings and priests unto God and his 
Father; to him be glory and dominion forever 
and ever. Amen. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



I. WALKING WITH GOD.— G«n. v. SI. 

Oh ! for a closer walk with God, 
A calm and heavenly frame; 

A lifr'it to shine upon the road 
That leads me to the Lamb ! 

Where is the blessedness I knew 

\Vhen first I saw the Lord 1 
Where is the soul-refreshing view 

Of Jesus and his word 1 

What peaceful hours I once enjoy 'd ! 
' How sweet their uieiuory stil! ! 
But they have left an aching void, 
The world can never fill. 

Return, O holy Dove, return ! 

Sweet messentrer of rest; 
I hate the sins that made thee mourn. 

And drove thee from ray breast. 

The dearest idol I have known, 

Whate'er that idol be. 
Help me to tear it from thy throne, 

And worship only thee. 

So shall my walk be clo.se with God, 

Calm and serene my, frame: 
So purer light shall marl; the road 

That leads mo to the Lamb. 



II. JEHOVAH-JIREH. THE LORD WILL 
PROVIDE.— G«i. xxii. 11. 

The saints .should never be dismay'd, 
Nor sink in hopeless fear ; 



For when they least expect his aid, 
The Saviour will appear. 

This Abraham found : he raised the knife ; 

God saw. and said. " Forbear ! 
Yon ram shall yield his meaner life ; 

Behold the victim there." 

Once David seem'd Saul's certain prey; 

But hark ! the foe's at hand ;* 
Saul turns his arms another way, 

To save the invaded land. 

When Jon.ah sunk beneath the wave, 

He thought to rise no more ;f 
But God prepared a fish to save, 

And bear him to the shore. 

Blest proofs of power and grace divine, 

That meet us in his word ! 
May every deep-felt care of mine 

Be trusted with the Lord. 

Wait for his seasiin.able aid, 

And though it tarry, wait : 
The promise may be long delay'd, 

But cannot come too late. 



III. JEHOVAH-ROPHI. I AM THE LORD 
THAT HEALETH THEE.— Exod. xv. 26. 

HEAt. US, Emmanuel, here we are, 

Waiting to feel thy touch : 
Deep-wounded souls to thee repair, 

And, Saviour, we arc such. 



' 1 Sam. xjtiii. 27. 



t Jonah j. 17. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 671 


Our faith is feeble, we confess, 


To reconcile offending man, (^ 
Make Justii-e drophcr angry ro(^ 


We faintly trust thy word ; 


But wilt thou pity us the Ires'! 


What creature could have fcirm'd the plan, 


Be that far froiu ihce, Lord ! 


Or who fuKil it but a God 1 


Remember him who once applied, 


No drop remains of all the curse, 


With trcmhlini; for relief; 


For wretches who deserved the whole; 


" Lord, I lirlicvc. " with tears he cried,* 


No arrows dipl in wrath to pierce 


"Oh, help my unbelief!" 


The guilty but returning soul. 


She too, who touch'd thee in the press. 


Peace by such means so dearly bought, 


And healinij virtue stole, 


What re.bel could have hoped to see 1 


Was iinswer'il, ' Dau^jiitpr, go in peace,! 


Peace, by his injured Sovereign wrought, 


Thy taith hath made thee whole." 


His Sovereign t'asten'd to a tree. 


Conccal'd amid the gathering throng. 
She would have shunn'd tliy view ; 


Now, Lord, thy feeble worm prepare ! 
For strife with earth and hell begins ; 


And if her faith was linn and strong. 


Confinn and gird me tor the war, 


Had strong misgivings too. 


They hate the soul that hates his sins. 


Like her, with hopes and fears we come, 


Let them in horrid league agree I 

rnl 1. 1 !• . 


To touch thee, if we may, 


I hey may assault, they may distress ; 


Oh ! send us not despairing home, 
Send none unheal'd away. 


But cannot quench thy love to me. 
Nor rob me of the Lord, my peace. 


IV. JEHOVAH-NISSI. THE LORD MY 


VI. WISDOM.— /-"ror. viii. 2-2—31. 


BANNER.— E.corf. xvii. 15. 


Ere God had built the mountains, 


By whom was David taught 


Or raised the fruitful hills; 


To aim the deadly blow. 


Before he fiU'd the Ibuntains 


When be Goliath fought, 


That feed tlie running rills; 


And 1,-iid the Gittitc low t 


In me, from everlasting, 


Nor sword nor spear ttie stripling took, 


The wonderful I AM, 


But chose a pebble from the brook. 


Found pleasures never-wasting. 




And Wisdom is ray name. 


'Twas Israel's God and king 


Who sent him to the fight ; 


When, like a tent to dwell in. 


Who rave him strength to sling. 


He spread the skies abroad. 


And skill to aim aright. 


And swathed about the sweUing 


Ye feeble saints, your strength endures, 


Of Ocean's mighty flood ; 


Because young David's God is yours. 


He wrought liy weight and raeasure. 




And I was with him then : • 


Who order'd Gideon forth. 


Myself the father's pleasure. 


To storm the invaders' camp, 


And mine the sons of men. 


With arras of little worth, 




A pitcher and a lamp ! ^ 


Thus Wisdom's words discover 


The trumpets made his coming known, 


Thy glory and thy grace, 


And all the host was overthrown. 


Thou everlasting lover 


Oh ! I have seen the day. 

When, with a single word, 
God helping me to say. 


Of our unworthy race ! 
Thy gracious eye survey 'd us 
Kre stars were seen above; 


In wisdom thou hast made us. 


My trust is in the Lord, 
My soul hath qut^ll'd a thousand foes, 


And died ibr us in love. 


Fearless of all that could oppose. 


And couldst thou be delighted 


But unbelief self-will, 

Self-righteousness, and pride. 


With creatures such as wc. 


Who. wlien we saw thee, slighted 


And naild thee to a tree '^ 


How often do tluy steal 


Unfathomable wonder, 


i\Iy weapon I'rom my side! 
Yet David's Lord, and Gideon's friend, 
Will help his servant to the end. 


And mystery divine ! 
The voice that speaks in thunder, 
Says, " Sinner, I am thine !" 

— ♦ — 
VII. VANITY OF THE WORLD. 


V. JEHOVAH-SHALOM. THE LORD 


SEND PEACE— Judges vi. 'il. 




Jf.sls, whesc blood so freely slream'd, 


God gives his mercies to be spent ; 

Your hoard will do your soul no good ; 


To satisfy the law's demand ; 
By thee from guilt and wrath redeem'd, 


Gold is a blessing only lent. 
Repaid by giving others food. 


Before the Father's face I stand. 


♦ Mark Lx. 24. t Mark v. Jl. 


The world's esteem is but a bribe, 


X Judges vii. 9 and 20. 


To buy their peace you sell your own ; 



672 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The slave^f a vain-glorious tribe, 

Who h^ you whue they malie you known. 

The joy that vain amusements give, 
Oh ! sad conclusion that it brings ! 

The honey of a crowded hive, 
Defended by a thousand stings. 

'Tis thus the world rewards the fools 
That live upon her treacherous smiles ; 

She leads them blindfold by her rules, 
And ruins all whom she beguiles. 

God knows the thousands who go down 
From pleasure into endless woe; 

And with a long despairing groan 
Blaspheme tlieir Maker as they go. 

O fearful tliought ! be timely wise : 
Delight but in a Saviour's charms, 

And God shall take you to the skies, 
Embraced in everlasting arms. 



VIII. O LORD, I WILL PRAISE THEE.- 
Isaiah xii. 1. 

I WILL praise thee every day 
Now thine anger's turned away ! 
Coaifortable thoughts arise 
From the bleeding Sacrifice. 

Here in the fair gospel-field, 
Wells of free salvation yield 
Streams of life, a plenteous store. 
And my soul shall thirst no more. 

Jesus is become at length 
My salvation and my strength ; 
And his praises shall prolong, 
While I live, my pleasant song. 

praise ye then his glorious name, 
Pulilish his exalted fame ! 
Still his worth your praise exceeds. 
Excellent are all his deeds. 

Raise again the joyful sound. 
Let the nations roll it round ! 
Zion, shout, for this is he, 
God the Saviour dwells»in thee I 



IX. THE CONTRITE HEART.-Isaiah Ivii. 15. 

The Lord will happiness divine 

On contrite hearts bestow ; 
Then tell me, gracious God, is mine 

A contrite heart or no '? 

I hear, but seem to hear in vain, 

Insensible as steel ; 
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain 

To find I cannot feel. 

I sometimes think myself incUned 

To love thee, if I could ; 
But often feci another mind. 

Averse to all that's good. 

My best desires are faint and few, 

I fain would strive for more ; 
But when I cry, " My strength renew," 

Seem weaker than before. 



Thy saints are comforted, I know. 
And love thy house of prayer; 

I therefore go where others go, 
But find no comfort there. 

O make this heart rejoice or ache ; 

Decide this doubt for me ; 
And if it be not broken, break. 

And heal it if it be. 



X. THE FUTURE PEACE AND GLORY 
OF THE CHURCH.— /sam/i ix. 15—20. 

Hear what God the Lord hath spoken, 
" O my people, faint and few, 
Comfortless, afflicted, broken, 
Fair abodes I build for you ; 
Thorns of heart-felt tribulation 
Shall no more perplex your ways: 
You shall name your walls, Salvation, 
And your gates shall all be praise. 

" There, like streams that feed the garden. 
Pleasures without end shall flow ; 
For the Lord, your faith rewarding. 
All his bounty shall bestow; 
Still in undisturl)'<l possession 
Peace and righteousness shall reign; 
Never shall you feel oppression. 
Hear the voice of war again. 

" Ye no more your suns descending, 
Waning moons no more shall see ; 
But, your griefs forever ending, 
Find eternal noon in me ; 
God shall rise, and shining o'er you. 
Change to day the gloom of night; 
He, the Lord, shall be your glory, 
God your everlasting light." 



XI. JEHOVAH OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS.- 
Jer. xxiii. G. 

My God, how perfect are thy ways ! 

But mine polluted are; 
Sin twin' s itself about my praise. 

And shdes into my prayer. 

When I would speak what thou hast done. 

To save me from my sin, 
I cannot make thy mercies known, 

But sclt-applause creeps in. 

Divine desire, that holy fiamc 

Thy grace creates in me ; 
Alas ! inipatience is its name. 

When it returns to thee. 

This heart, a fountain of vile thoughts. 

How does it overflow ! 
While self upon the surface floats, 

Still bubbling from below. 

Let others in the gaudy dress 

Of fancied merit shine ; 
The Lord shall be my righteousness. 

The Lord forever mine. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



673 



XII. EPHRAIM REPENTING — 
Jer. xxxi. 18— '20. 

My GoJ, till I received thy stroke, 

How like a beast was I ! 
So unaccustoni'd to the yoke, 

So backward to eoiiiply. 

With grief my just reproach I bear, 
Shame fdls me at the thought; 

How frequent my rebellions were! 
\\'hat wickedness I wrought ! 

Thy merciful restraint I scorn'd, 

And left the pleasant road ; 
Yet turn me, and I shall be turn'd 

Thou art the Lord my God. 

" Is Ephraim banish'd from my thoughts, 

Or vile in my esteem % 
No," saith the Lord, " with all his faults, 

I still remember him. 

" Is he a dear and pleasant child "i 

Yes, dear and pleasant still ; 
Though sin his foolish heart beguiled. 
And he withstood my will. 

" My sharp rebuke has laid him low. 

He seeks my face again ; 
My pity kindles at his woe, 

He shall not seek in vain." 



XIII. THE COVENANT.— SzeA. xxxvi. 25-28. 

Thk Lord proclaims his grace abroad ! 
Behold I change your hearts of stone ; 
Each shall renounce his idol-god. 
And serve, henceforth, the Lord alone. • 

My grace, a flowing stream, proceeds 
To wash you filthiness away ; 
Ye shall abhor your former deeds, 
And learn my statutes to obey. 

My truth the great design ensures, 
I give myself away to you ; 
You shall be mine, I will be yours, 
Your God unalterably true. 

Yet not unsought, or uniinplored, 
The plenteous grace shall I confer;* 

No — your whole heart shall seek the Lord, 
I'll put a pr.iying Sjurit there. 

From the first breath of lite divine, 
Down to the last expiring hour, 

The gracious work shall all be mine, 
Begun and ended in my power. 



XIV. JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH. 

Ezck. xlviii. 35. 

As birds their infant brood protect.t 
And spread their wings to stielter them, 
Thus saith the Lord to his elect, 
" So will I guard Jerusalem." 

And what then is Jerusalem, 
This darling object of his care I 
Where is its worth in God's esteem'! 
Who built it, who inhabits there 1 



• Verse 37. 



t baiah xxxi. .V 



Jehovah founded it in blood. 
The blood of his incarnate Son ; 
There dwell the saints, once tbes to God, 
The sinners whom he calls his own. 

There, though besieged on every side, 
Yet much beloved and guarded well. 
From age to age they have defied 
The utmost force of earth and hell. 

Let earth repent, and hell despair. 
This city has a sure defence ; 
Her name is call'd The Lord is there. 
And who has power to drive him thence '! 



XV. PRAISE FOR THE FOUNTAIN 
OPENED.— Zee. xiii. 1. 

There is a fountain fill'd with blood 
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins; 

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood. 
Lose all their guilty stains. 

The dying thief rejoiced to see 

That fountain in his day ; 
And there have I, as vde as he, 

Wash'd all my sins away. 

Dear dying Lamb, thy precious blood 

Shall never lose its power, 
Till all the ransom'd church of God 

Be saved to sin no more. 

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream 

Thy flowing wounds supply, 
Redeeming love has been my theme, 

And shall be till I die. 

Then in a nobler, sweeter song, 

I'll sing thy power to save ; 
When this poor lisping stammering tongue 

Lies silent in the grave. 

Lord, I believe thou hast prepared 

(Unworthy though I be) 
For me a blood-bought free reward, 

A golden harp for me ! 

'Tls strung, and tuned, for endless years, 

And forni'd by power divine, 
To sound in God the Father's ears 

No other name but thine. 



XVI. THE .';OWER.— j>/a«. xiii.3. 

Ye sons of earth, prepare the plough. 
Break up the fallow ground ; 

The sower is gone forth to sow, 
.^nd scatter blessings round, 

The seed that finds a stony soil. 

Shoots forth a hasty blade ; 
But ill repays the sower's toil. 

Soon wittier'd, .scorch'd, and dead. 

The thorny grouml is sure to balk 

All hopes of harvest there ; 
Wc find a tall and sickly stalk, 

But not the fruitful ear. 

The beaten path and highway side 
Receive the trust in vain ; 

43 



674 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



The watchful hirJs the spoil divide, 
And pick up all the grain. 

But where tlie Lord of grace and power 

Has bless'd the happy field, 
How plenteous is the golden store 

The deep-wrought furrows yield ! 

Father of mercies, we have need 

Of thy preparing grace ; 
Let the same hand that gives the seed 

Provide a fruitful place. 



XVII. THE HOUSE OP PRAYER.— 

Mark xi. 17. 

Thy mansion is the Christian's heart, 

Lord, thy dwelling-place secure ! 
Bid the unruly throng depart. 

And leave the consecrated door. 

Devoted as it is to thee, 

A thievish swarm frequents the place ; 
They steal away my joys from me. 

And rob my Saviour of his praise. 

There, too, a sharp designing trade 
Sin, Satan, and the world maintain ; 

Nor cease to press me and persuade 
To part with ease, and purchase pain. 

I know them, and I hate their din, 

Am weary of the bustling crowd ; 
But while their voice is heard within, 

1 cannot serve thee as I would. 

Oh ! for the joy thy presence gives. 

What peace shall reign when thou art here ! 

Thy presence makes this den of thieves 
A calm dehghtful house of prayer. 

And if thou make thy temple shine, 

Yet, selt-abased, will I adore; 
The gold and silver are not mine, 

I give thee what was thine before. 



XVIII. LOVEST THOU ME I—John xxi. 16. 

Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord : 
'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word ; 
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee : 
" Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me t 

" I deliver'd thee when bound. 
And when bleeding, hcal'd thy wound ; 
Sought thee wandering, set thee right, 
Turn'd thy darkness into light. 

" Can a woman's tender care 
Cease towards the child she bare t 
Yes. she may forgetful be. 
Yet will I remember thee. 

" Mine is an unchanging love. 
Higher than the heignts above; 
Deeper than the depths beneath, 
Free and foithful, strong as death. 

" Thou shalt see my glory soon. 
When the work of grace is done ; 
Partner of my throne shalt be : — 
Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me V 



Lord, it is my chief complaint. 
That my love is weak and faint : 
Yet I love thee and adore : 
Oh for grace to love thee more ! 



XIX. CONTENTMENT.— PAiZ. iv. 11. 

Fierce passions discompose the mind, 

As tempests vex the sea ; 
But calm content and peace we find, 

When, Lord, we turn to thee. 

In vain by reason and by rule 

We try to bend the will ; 
For none but in the Saviour's school 

Can learn the heavenly skill. 

Since at his feet my soul has sat, 

His gracious words to hear. 
Contented with my present state, 

I cast on him my care. 

" Art thou a sinner, soul V he said, 
" Then how canst thou complain "? 

How light thy troubles here, if weigh'd 
With everlasting pain ! 

" If thou of murmuring wouldst be cured, 
Compare thy grids with mine ; 

Think what my love for thee endured, 
And thou wilt not repine. 

" 'Tis I appoint thy daily lot. 

And I do all things well ; 
Thou soon shalt leave this wretched spot, 

And rise with me to dwell. 

" In life my grace shall strength supply, 

Proportion'd to thy day ; 
At death thou still shalt find me nigh, 

To wipe thy tears away." 

Thus I, who once my wretched days 

In vain repinings spent, 
Taught in my Saviour's school of grace, 

Have, learnt to be content. 



XX. OLD TESTAMENT GOSPEL.- 
Heb. iv. 2. 

IsRAKL, in ancient days, 

Not only had a view 
Of .Sinai in a blaze. 

But learn'd the Gospel too; 
The types and figures were a glass 
In which they saw a Saviour's face. 

The paschal sacrifice. 

And blood-besprinkled door,'* 
Seen with enlighten'd eyes. 
And once applied with power. 
Would teach the need of other blood. 
To reconcile an angry God. 

The Lamb, the Dove, set forth 

His perfect innocence, f 
Whose blood of matchless worth 
Should be the soul's defence ; 
For he who can for sin atone, 
Must have no failings of his own. 



* £xod. xii. 13. 



t Lev. xii. 6. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 675 


The scape-aoat on his head* 
The people's trespass bore, 


Or half the crimes which you have done 


Would rob you of your rest. 


Ami, to the ilcscrt led, 




Was to be seen no more : 


For you the public prayer is made. 
Oh ! join the public prayer ! 


In him our Surely seem'd to say. 


'• Behold I bear your sins away." 


For you the secret tear is shed. 




shed yourself a tear! 


Dipt in his fellow's blood, 




The livintr bird went free ;t 


We pray that you may early prove 


The type well understood, 
Express'd (he sinner's plea ; 
Described a guilty soul enlarged. 


The .Spirit's power to teach ; 


You cannot be too young to love 


That Jesus whom we preach. 


And by a Saviour's death discharged. 




Jesus, I love to trace. 




Throughout the sacred page, 


XXIII, PLEADING FOR AND WITH 


The footsteps of thy grace. 


YOUTH. 


The same in every age ! 
grant that I may faithful be 


Sin has undone our wretched race, 


To clearer light vouchsafed to me 1 


But Jesus has restored. 




.'Vnd brought the sinner face to face 
With his forgiving Lord. 






XXI. SARDIS—Iiev. iii. 1— G. 


This we repeat, from year to year, 


" Write to Sardis," saith the Lord, 


And press upon our youth ; 
Lord, give them an attentive ear. 


And write what he declares. 
He whose Spirit, and whose word. 


Lord, save them by thy truth. 


Upholds the seven stars ; 


Blessings upon the rising race I 


" All thy works and ways I search, 


Make this a happy hour. 


Find thy zeal and lu\ e decay'd ; 


According to thy richest grace. 


Thou art ealld a living church, 


And thine almighty power. 


Hut thou art cold and dead. 






We feel for your unhappy state, 


" Watch, remember, seek, and strive, 


(May you regard it too,) 


Exert thy former pains ; 


And would awhile ourselves forget 


Let thy timely care revive. 


To pour out prayer for you. 


.4nd strengthen what remains : 




Cleanse thine heart, thy works amend, 


We see, though you perceive it not, 


Former times to mind recall. 


The approaching awful doom ; 


Lest my sudden stroke descend. 
And smite thee once lor all. 


tremble at the solemn thought, 


And flee the wrath to come ! 


" Yet I numlier now in thee 


Dear Saviour, let this new-born year 


A few that are upright ; 


Spread an alarm abroad ; 


These ray fathers face shall see 


And cry in every careless ear, 


And walk with me in white. 


" Prepare to meet thy God I" 


When in judgimnt I appear. 
They for mine will be confestj 






Let my faithtui servants hear. 
And woe be to the rest." 


XXIV. PRAYER FOR CHILDREN. 






Gn,vcious Lord, our children see. 


o 


By thy mercy we are free ; 


XXII. PRAYER FOR A BLE.SSING ON 


But shall these, alas! remain 
Subjects still of Satan's reign ■? 


THE YOUNG. 


Israel's young ones, when of old 


Bestow, dear Lord, upon our youth 


Pharaoh thre.iten'd to withold,* 


The gift of saving grace ; 


Then thy messenger said, " No ; 


And let the seed of sacred truth 


Let the children also go." 


Fall in a fruitful place. 


When the angel of the Lord, 


Grace is a plant, where'er it grows. 


Drawing forth his dreadful sword. 


Of pure and heavenly root ; 


Slew, with an avenging hand, 


But fairest in the youngest shows, 


All the first-born of llie land ;t 


.\nd yields the sweetest fruit. 


Then the poo[)|e's doors he pass'd. 




Where the bloody sign was placed; 


Ye careless ones, hear betimes 


Hear us, now, upon our knees, 


The voice of sovereign love ! 


Plead the blood of Christ for these I 


Your youth is stain'il with many crimes. 




But mercy reigns above. 


Lord, we tremble, for we know 


' 


How the fierce malicious foe. 


True, you are young, but there's a stone 
Within the youngest breast ; 


Wheeling round bis watchful flight. 


Keeps them ever in his sight : 


• Lev. xvl. 'Jl. t Lev. xiv. 51-53. 


• Exod. X. 9. t E.vod. xii, 12. 



676 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Spread thy pinions, King of kings ! 
Hide them safe beneath thy wings ; 
Lest the ravenous bird of prey 
Stoop, and bear the brood away. 



XXV. JEHOVAH JESUS. 

My song shall bless the Lord of all, 
My praise shall climb to his abode ; 

Thee, Saviour, by that name I call, 
The great Supreme, the mighty God. 

Without beginning or decline. 
Object of faith, and not of sense ; 

Eternal ages saw him shine. 
He shines eternal ages hence. 

As much, when in the manger laid. 

Almighty ruler of the sky, 
As when the six days' works he made 

Fill'd all the morning stars with joy. 

Of all the crowns Jehovah bears, 

Salvation is his dearest claim ; 
That gracious sound well pleased he hears. 

And owns Emmanuel for his name. 

A cheerful confidence I feel. 

My well placed hopes with joy I see ; 
My bosom glows with heavenly zeal, 

To worship him who died for me. 

As man, he pities my complaint. 
His power and truth are all divine ; 

He will not fail, he cannot faint, 
Salvation's sure, and must be mine. 



XXVL ON OPENING A PLACE FOR 
SOCIAL PRAYER. 

Jesus ! where'er thy people meet, 
There they behold thy mercy-scat ; 
Where'er they seek thee, thou art ibund. 
And every place is hallow'd ground. 

For thou, within no walls confined, 
Inhabitest the humble mind ; 
Such ever bring thee when they come, 
And going, take thee to their home. 

Dear Shepherd of thy chosen few ! 
Thy former mercies here renew ; 
Here to our waiting hearts proclaim 
The sweetness of thy saving name. 

Here may we prove the power of prayer, 
To strengthen faith, and sweeten care ; 
To teach our faint desires to rise, 
And bring all heaven before our eyes. 

Behold, at thy commanding word 
We stretch the curtain and the cord ;* 
Come thou and fill this wider space. 
And bless us with a large increase. 

Lord, we are few, but thou art near ; 
Nor short thine arm, nor deaf thine ear; 
Oh rend the heavens, come quickly down. 
And make a thousand hearts thine own ! 

* Isaiah liv. ^. 



XXVII. WELCOME TO THE TABLE. 

This is the feast of heavenly wine 

And God invites to sup ; 
The juices of the living vine 

Were press'd to fill the cup. 

Oh ! bless the Saviour, ye that eat, 

With royal dainties fed ; 
Not heaven affords a costlier treat, 

For Jesus is the bread. 

The vile, the lost, he calls to them, 

Ye trembling souls appear ! 
The righteous in their own esteem 

Have no acceptance here. 

Approach, ye poor, nor dare refuse 
"The banquet spread for you ; 

Dear Saviour, this is welcome news, 
Then I may venture too. 

If guilt and sin aiford a plea, 

And may obtain a place. 
Surely the Lord will welcome me, 

And I shall see his face. 



XXVIII. JESUS HASTING TO SUFFER. 

The Saviour, what a noble flame 

Was kindled in his breast. 
When hasting to Jerusalem, 

He march'd before the rest I 

Good-will to men and zeal for God 

His every thought engross ; 
He longs to be baptized with blood,* 

He pants to reach the cross ! 

With all his sufferings full in view, 

And woes to us unknown, 
Forth to the task his spirit flew ; 

'Twas love that urged him on. 

Lord, we return thee what we can : 
Our hearts shall sound abroad 

Salvation to the dying Man, 
And to the rising God ! 

And while thy bleeding glories here 

Engage our wondering eyes. 
We learn our lighter cross to bear. 

And hasten to the skies. 



XXIX. EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. 

What various hindrances we meet 

In coming to a mercy-seat ! 

Yet who that knows the worth of prayer. 

But wishes to be often there 1 

Prayer makes the darken'd cloud withdraw, 
Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw. 
Gives exercise to faith and love. 
Brings every blessing from above. 

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight. 
Prayer makes the Christian's armor bright j 
And Satan trembles when he sees 
The weakest saint upon his knees. 

^ Luke xii. 50. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



677 



While Moses stood with arms spread wide, 
Success was found on Isreal's side ; 
But when through weariness they fail'd, 
That moment Amalek prevail'd.* 

Have you no words'! Ah ! think again, 
Words flow apace when you complain. 
And fill your t'cllow creature's ear 
With the sad tale of all your care. 

Were half the breath thus vainly spent 
To Heaven in supplication sent, 
Your cheerful song would ortener be, 
" Hear what the Lord has done for me." 



XXX. THE LIGHT AND GLORY OF THE 
WORD. 

The Spirit breathes upon the Word, 
And brings the truth to sight ; 

Precepts and promises afford 
A sanctifying light. 

A glory gilds the sacred page, 

Majestic like the sun ; 
It gives a light to every age, 

It gives, but borrows none. 

The hand that gave it still supplies 

The gracious light and heat ; 
His truths upon the nations rise, 

They rise, but never set. 

Let everlasting thanks be thine. 

For such a bright display, 
As makes a world of darkness shine 

With beams of heavenly day. 

My soul rejoices to pursue 

The steps of him I love. 
Till glory breaks upon my view 

In brighter worlds above. 



XXXI. ON THE DEATH OF A MINISTER. 

His master taken from his head, 

EUsha saw him go ; 
And in desponding accents said, 

"Ah, what must Israel dol" 

But he forgot the Lord who lifts 

The beggar to the throne ; 
.\or knew, that all Elijah's gifts 

Will soon be made his own. 

What ! when a Paul has run his course. 

Or when Apoilos dies, 
Is Israel left without resource 1 

And have we no supplies 1 

Yes, while the dear Redeemer Uvcs 

VV*e have a boundless store, 
.\nd shall be fed with what he gives, 

Who lives for evermore. 



XXXII. THE SHINING LIGHT. 

My former hopes are fled. 
My terror now begins ; 

* Exodus xvii. 11. 



I feel, alas I that I am dead 
In trespasses and sins. 

.•ih, whither shall I fly ! 

I hear the thunder roar; 
The law proclaims destruction nigh. 

And vengeance at the door. 

When I review my ways, 
I dread impending doom ; 

But sure a friendly whisper says, 
" P^ee from the wrath to come." 

I see, or think I see, 
A glimmering from afar ; 

A beam of day, that shines for me, 
To save me from despair. 

Forerunner of the sun,* 
It marks the pilgrim's way ; 

I'll gaze upon it while I run. 
And watch the rising day. 



XXXIII. SEEKING THE BELOVED. 

To those who know the Lord I speak. 

Is my beloved near ^ 
The bridegroom of my soul I seek, 

Oh ! when will he appear t 

Though once a man of grief and shame, 

Vet now he fills a throne, 
Antl bears the greatest, sweetest name, 

That earth or heaven has known. 

Grace flics before, and love attends 

His steps where'er he goes ; 
Though none can see him but his friends, 

And they were once his foes. 

He speaks — obedient to his call 

Our warm affections move : 
Did he but shine alike on all. 

Then all aUke would love. 

Then love in every heart would reign, 
.\nd war would cease to roar ; 

And cruel and bloodthirsty men 
Would thirst for blood no more. 

Such Jesus is, and such his grace. 

Oh, may he shine on you ! 
.■Vnd tell him, when you see his face, 

I long to see him too.f 



XXXIV. THE WAITING SOUL. 

Brkatiif, from the gentle south, O Lord, 
And cheer me from the north ; 

Blow on the treasures of thy word, 
.\nd call the spices tbrth ! 

I wish, thou knovv'st, to be resigned, 
\m\ wait with patient hope; 

But hope dclay'd fatigues the mind, 
.And ilrinks the spirit up. 

Help me to reach the distant goal. 

Confirm my feeble knee; 
Pity the sickness of a soul 

That faints lor love of thee. 



' Psulm cxxx. 0. 



f CanU V. 8. 



678 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Cold as I feel this heart of mine, 

Yet since I feel it so ; 
It yields some hope of life divine 

Within, however lovp. 

I seem forsaken and alone, 

I hear the lion roar ; 
And every door is shut but one. 

And that is mercy's door. 

There, till the dear DeUv'rei come, 
I'll wait with humble pray'r ; 

And when he calls his exile home. 
The Lord shall find me there. 



XXXV. WELCOME CROSS. 

'Tis my happiness below 

Not to live without the cross, 
But the Saviour's power to know, 

Sanctifying every loss ; 
Trials must and will befall ; 

But with humble faith to see 
Love inscribed upon them all 

This is happiness to me. 

God in Israel sows the seeds 

Of affliction, pain, and toil ; 
These spring up and choke the weeds 

Which would else o'erspread the soil : 
Trials make the promise sweet, 

Trials give new life to prayer ; 
Trials bring me to his feet, 

Lay me Tow, and keep me there. 

Did I meet no trials here. 

No chastisement by the way: 
Might I not, with reason, fear 

I should prove a castaway 1 
Bastards may escape the rod,* 

Sunk in earthly, vain delight : 
But the true born child of God 

Must not, would not, if he might. 



XXXVI. AFFLICTIONS SANCTIFIED BY 
THE WORD. 

HOW I love thy holy word. 
Thy gracious covenant, O Lord ! 
It guides me in the peaceful way ; 

1 think upon it all the day. 

What are the mines of shining wealth. 
The strength of youth, the bloom of health ! 
What are all joys compared with those 
Thine everlasting word bestows ! 

Long unafflicted, undisraay'd. 
In pleasure's path secure I stray'd ; 
Thou mad'st me feel thy chastening rodjf 
And straight I turn'd unto my God. 

What though it pierced my fainting heart, 
I bless thine hand that caused the smart ; 
It taught my tears awhile to flow, 
But saved me from eternal woe. 

Oh! hadst thou lell me unchastised. 
Thy precept I had still despised ; 
And still the snare in secret laid, 
Had my unwary feet betray'd. 

* Hebrews xii. 8. \ Psalm cxix. 71. 



I love thee, therefore, O my God, 
And breathe towards thy dear abode ; 
Where, in thy presence fully blest, 
Thy chosen saints forever rest. 



XXXVII. TEMPTATION. 

The billows swell, the winds are high. 
Clouds overcast my wintry sky ; 
Out of the depths to thee I call, — 
My fears are great, my strength is small. 

O Lord, the pilot's part perform, 
And guard and guide me through the storm, 
Defend me from each threatening ill. 
Control the waves, — say, " Peace be still." 

Amidst the roaring of the sea. 
My soul still hangs her hope on thee ; 
Thy constant love, thy faithful care. 
Is all that saves me from despair. 

Dangers of every shape and name 
Attend the followers of the Lamb, 
Who leave the world's deceitful shore, 
And leave it to return no more. 

Though tempest-toss'd and half a wreck, 
My Saviour through the floods I seek; 
Let neither winds nor stormy main 
Force back my shatter'd bark again. 



XXXVIII. LOOKING UPWARDS IN A 
STORM. 

God of my life, to thee I call. 
Afflicted at thy feet I fall ; 
When the great water-floods prevail,* 
Leave not my trembling heart to fail ! 

Friend of the friendless and the faint 
Where should I lodge my deep complaint? 
Where but with thee, whose open door 
Invites the helpless and the poor ! 

Did ever mou/ner plead with thee. 
And thou refuse that mourner's plea? 
Does not the word still fix'd remain. 
That none shall seek thy face in vain? 

That were a grief I could not bear. 
Didst thou not hear and answer prayer ; 
But a prayer-hearing, answering God, 
Supports me under every load. 

Fair is the lot that's cast for me ; 
1 have an Advocate with thee ; 
They whom the world caresses most 
Have no such privilege to boast. 

Poor though I am, despised, forgot.f 
Yet God. my God, forgets me not ; 
And he is safe, and must succeed. 
For whom the Lord vouchsafes to plead. 



XXXIX. THE VALLEY OP THE SHADOW 
OP DEATH. 

My soul is sad, and much dismay'd. 
See, Lord, what legions of my foes. 



* Psalm bcix. 15. 



t Psalm xl. 17. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



079 



With fierce Apollyon at their head, 
My heavenly pilgrimage oppose ! 

Sec, from the ever-burning lake 
How hke a smoky cloud they rise ! 

•With horrid blasts my souT they shake, 
With storms ol' blasphemies and Ues. 

Their fiery arrows reach the mark,* 
My throbbing heart with anguish tear ; 

Each lights upon a kindred spark, 
And finds abundant fuel there. 

I hate the thought that wrongs the Lord ■, 
Oh ! I would drive it from my breast, 

With thy own sharp two-edged sword. 
Far as the east is from the west. 

Come, then, and chase the cruel host. 
Heal the deep wounds I have received ! 

Nor let the powers of darkness boast, 
That I am foird, and thou art grieved ! 



XL. PEACE AFTER A STORM. 

WnF.fj darkness long has veil'd my mind. 
And smiling day once more appears^ 

Then, my Redeemer, then I find 
The folly of my doubts and fears. 

Straight I upbraid my wandering heart, 
And blush that I should ever be 

Thus prone to act so base a part, 
Or harbor one hard thought of thee ! 

Oh ! let me then at length be taught 
What I am still so slow to learn 

That God is love, and changes not. 
Nor knows the shadow of a turn. 

Sweet truth, and easy to repeat ! 

But when my faith is sharply tried, 
I find myself a learner yet, 

Unskillul, weak, and apt to slide. 

But, O my Lord, one look from thee 
Subdues the disobedient will ; 

Drives doubt and discontent away, 
And thy rebellious worm is still. 

Thou art as ready to forgive 

As I am ready to repine ; 
Thou therefore all the praise receive ; 

Be shame and self-abhorrence mine. 



XLL MOURNING AND LONGING. 

The Saviour hides his face ! 
My spirit thirsts to prove 
Renew'd supplies of pardoning grace, 
And never-failing love. 

The favor'd souls who know 
What glories shine in him, 
Pant for liLs presence as the roe 
Pants for the living stream ! 

What trifles tease me now ! 
They swarm like summer flies, 
They cleave to everything I do, 
And swim before my eyes. 

• Ephca. vi. 16. 



How dull the sabbath day, 
Without the sabbath's Lord ! 
How toilsome then to sing and pray. 
And wait upon the word! 

Of all the truths I hear. 
How few delight my taste ! 
I glean a berry here and there. 
But mourn the vintage past. 

Yet let me (as I ought) 
Still hope to be supplied ; 
No pleasure else is worth a thought, 
Nor shall I be denied. 

Though I am but a worm, 
Un^'orthy of his care, 
The Lord will my desire perform. 
And grant me all my prayer. 



XLII. SELF-ACQUAINTANCE. 

DE.tR Lord ! accept a sinful heart. 

Which of itself complains, 
And mourns, with much and frequent smart, 

The evil it contains. 

There fiery seeds of anger lurk. 

Which often hurt my frame; 
And wait but for the tempter's work. 

To fan them to a flame. 

Legality holds out a bribe 

"To purchase Ute from thee ; 
And discontent would fain prescribe 

How thou shalt deal with me. 

While unbelief withstands thy grace. 

And puts the mercy by; 
Presumption, with a brow of brass, 

Says, ■■ Give me, or I die." 

How eager are my thoughts to roam 

In quest of what they love ! 
But ah ! when duty calls them home. 

How heavily they move ! 

Oh. cleanse me in a Saviour's blood. 

Transform me by thy power, 
And make me thy beloved abode, 

.'Vnd let me rove no more. 



XLIII. PRAYER FOR PATIENCE. 

Loan, who bust suffer'd all for me, 

I\Iv peace and pardon to procure, 
The lighter cross I bear for thee. 

Help me with patience to endure. 

The storm of loud repining hush, 
I would in liUEuble silence mourn ; 

Why should the unlmrnt. though burning bush. 
Be angry as the crackling thorn ? 

Man should not faint at thy rebuke. 

Like Joshua falling iin his face,* 
When the cur.st thing that Achan took 

Brought Israel into just disgrace. 

Perhaps some golden wedge suppress'd, 
Some secret sin olTcnds my God ; 

* Joshua vii. 10, 11, 



680 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Perhaps that Babylonish vest, 

Self-righteousness, provokes the rod. 

Ah ! were I buffeted all day, 

Mock'd, crown'il with thorns, and spit upon ; 
I yet should have no right to say, 

My great distress is mine alone. 

Let me not angrily declare 
No pain was ever sharp like mine ; 

Nor murmur at the cross I bear, 

But rather weep, remembering thine. 



XLIV. SUBMISSION. 

Lord, my best desire fulfil, 

And help me to resign 
Life, health, and comfort to thy will, 

And make thy pleasure mine. 

Why should I shrink at thy command, 
Whose love forbids my fears 1 

Or tremble at tlie gracious hand 
That wipes away my tears 1 

No, let me rather freely yield 

What most I prize to thee ; 
Who never hast a good withheld. 

Or wilt withhold, from me. 

Thy favor all my journey through. 
Thou art engaged to grant ; 

What else I want, or think I do, 
'Tis better still to want. 

Wisdom and mercy guide ray way, 

Shall I resist them both 1 
A poor bhnd creature of a day, 

And crush'd before the moth ! 

But ah ! my inward spirit cries, 

Still bind me to thy sway ; 
Else the next cloud that veils the skies. 

Drives all these thoughts away. 



XLV. THE HAPPY CHANGE. 

How blest thy creature is, O God, 

When, with a single eye. 
He views- the lustre of thy word, 

The day-spring from on high ! 

Through all the storms that veil the skies. 
And frown on earthly things. 

The Sun of Righteousness he eyes, 
With healing in his wings. 

Struck by that light, the human heart, 

A barren soil no more, 
Sends the sweet smell of- grace abroad. 

Where serpents lurk'd before.* 

The soul a dreary province once 

Of Satan's dark domain, 
Feels a new empire form'd within, 

And owns a heavenly reign. 

The glorious orb, whose golden beams 

The fruitful year control, 
Since first, obedient to thy word. 

He started from the goal ; 

* Isaiah xxxv. 7. 



Has cheer'd the nations with the joys 

His orient rays impart ; 
But Jesus, 'tis thy light alone 

Can shine upon the heart. 



XL VI. RETIREMENT. 

Far from the world, O Lord, I flee. 

From strife and tumult far ; 
From scenes where Satan wages still 

His most successful war. 

The calm retreat, the silent shade, 
With prayer and praise agree ; 

And seen by the sweet bounty made 
For those who Ibllow thee. 

There, if the Spirit touch the soul, 

And grace her mean abode. 
Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, 

She communes with her God ! 

There like the nightingale she pours 

Her solitary lays ; 
Nor asks a witness of her song, 

Nor thirsts for human praise. 

Author and Guardian of my life. 
Sweet source of light divine. 

And, (all harmonious names in one) 
My Saviour, thou art mine ! 

What thanks I owe thee, and what love, 

A boundless, endless store. 
Shall echo through the realms above 

When tune shall be no more. 



XLVII. THE HIDDEN LIFE. 

To tell the Saviour all my wants. 

How pleasing is the task ! 
Nor less to praise him when he grants 

Beyond what I can ask. 

My laboring spirit vainly seeks 

To tell but half the joy; 
With how much tenderness he speaks. 

And helps me to reply. 

Nor were it wise, nor should I choose. 

Such secrets to declare ; 
Like precious wines their tastes they lose. 

Exposed to open air. 

But this with boldness I proclaim, 

Nor care if thousands hear, 
Sweet is the ointment "f his name. 

Not life is half so dear. 

And can you frown, my former friends. 
Who knew what once I was ; 

And blame the song that thus commends 
The Man who bore the cross t 

Trust me, I draw the likeness true, 

And not as fancy paints ; 
Such honor may he give to you, 

For such have all his saints. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



681 



XLVIII. JOY AND PEACE IN BELIEVING. 

Sometimes a light surprises 

The Christiun while he sings ; 
It is the Lore! who rises 

With hcahni; in his wings ; 
When comforts are tleciining, 

He grants the. soul again 
A season ot' clear shining, 

To cheer it alter rain. 

In holy contemplation, 

We sweetly thin pursue 
The theme oV GoJ's salvation, 

And find it ever new. 
Set free from present sorrow 

We cheerfully can say, 
E'en let the unknown to-morrow* 

Bring with it what it may. 

It can liring with it nothing. 

But he will bear us through ; 
Who gives the lilies clothing. 

Will clothe his people too ; 
Beneath the spreading heavens 

No creature but is fed ; 
And he who feeds the ravens. 

Will give his children bread. 

The vine nor fig-tree neitherf 

Their wonleil fruit should bear. 
Though all the fields should wither. 

Nor Hocks nor herds be there : 
Yet God the same abiding. 

His praise shall tunc my voice. 
For, wliile in him confiding, 

I cannot but rejoice. 



XLIX. TRUE PLEASURES. 

Lord, my soul with pleasure springs. 

When Jesus' name I hear; 
And when God the Spirit brings 

The word of promise near: 
Beouties too, in holiness, 

Still delighted I perceive ; 
Nor have words that can express 

The joys thy precepts give. 

Clothed in sanctity and grace, 

How sweet it is to see 
Those who love thee as they pass. 

Or when they wait on thee ; 
Pleasant too, to sit and tell 

What we owe to love divine ; 
Till our bosoms grateful swell. 

And eyes begin to shine. 

Those the comforts I possess, 

Which God shall still increase, 
All his ways are pleasantness, | 

And all his paths arc peace. 
Nothing Jesus did or spoke. 

Henceforth let me ever slight ; 
For I love his easy yoke,^ 

.\nd find his burden light. 



L. THE CHRISTIAN. 

Honor and happiness unite 
To make the Christian's name a praise; 

• Mallliiw vi. 34. t Ilnbnkkuk iii. 17, 18. 

t Prov. iii, 17. 5 Malt. xi. 30. 



How fair the scene, how clear the light, 
That fills the remnant of his days ! 

A kingly character he bears, 
No change his priestly office knows; 

Unlading is the crown he wears, 
His joys can never reach a close. 

Adorn 'd with glory from on high, 
Salvation shines upon his face; 

His robe is of the ethereal dye, 
His steps are dignity and grace. 

Inferior honors he disdains, 

Nor stoops to take applause from earth: 
The King of kings himself maintains 

The expenses of his heavenly birth. 

The noblest creature seen below, 
Ordain'd to fill a throne above ; 

God gives him all he can bestow. 
His kingdom ol' eternal love ! 

My soul is ravish'd at the thought I 
Methinks from earth I see him rise ! 

.\ngels congratulate his lot, 

.\nd shout him welcome to the skies ! 



LI. LIVELY HOPE AND GRACIOUS 
FEAR. 

I WAS a grovelling creature once, 

And basely cleaved to earth ; 
I wanted spirit to renounce 

The clod that gave me birth. 

But God has breath'd upon a worm, 

And sent me, from above. 
Wings such as clothe an angel's form, 

The wings of joy and love. 

With these to Pisgah's top I fly, 

,\nd there delighted stand, 
To view beneath a shining sky 

The spacious promised land. 

The Lord of all the vast domain 

Has iiromisoil it to me; 
The length and breadth of all the plain. 

As far as faith can see. 

How glorious is my privilege I 

To thee for help I call; 
I stand Upon a mountain's edge, 

Oh save me, lest I fall ! 

Though much exalted in the Lord, 

My strength is not my own ; 
Then let me tremble at his word. 

And none shall cast me down. 



LII. FOR THE POOR. 

When Hagar found the bottle spent, 

And wept o'er Ishmael, 
A message from the Lord was sent 

To guide her to a well.* 

Should not Elijah's cake and cruse-f 

Convince us at this day, 
A gracious God will not refuse 

Provisions by the way 1 
* Cen. ixi. I'J. 1 1 Kings xvii. 14. 



682 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



His saints and servants shall be fed, 

The promise is secure ; 
" Bread shall be given them," he has said, 

" Their water shall be sure."* 

Repasts far richer they shall prove, 
Than all earth's dainties are ; 

'Tis sweet to taste a Saviour's love. 
Though in the meanest fare. 

To Jesus then your trouble bring, 

Nor murmur at your lot ; 
While you are poor and he is King, 

You shall not be forgot. 



LIII. MY SOUL THIRSTETH FOR GOD. 

I THIRST, but not as once I did. 

The vain delights of earth to share; 

Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid 
That I should seek my pleasures there. 

It was the sight of thy dear cross 

First wean'd my soul from earthly things ; 

And taught me to esteem as dross 

The mirth of fools and pomp of kings. 

I want that grace that springs from thee. 
That quickens all things where it flows, 

And makes a wretched thorn like me 
Bloom as the myrtle or the rose. 

Dear fountain of delight unknown! 

No longer sink below the brim ; 
But overflow and pour me down 

A living and life-giving stream I 

For sure, of all the plants that share 
The notice of thy Father's eye, 

None proves less grateful to his care, 
Or yields him meaner fruit than I. 



LIV. LOVE CONSTRAINING TO OBEDI- 
ENCE. 

No strength of nature can suflice 

To sene the Lord aright : 
And what she has she misapplies, 

Ftir want of clearer light. 

How long beneath the law I lay 

In bondage and distress! 
I toil'd the precept to obey, 

But toil'd without success. 

Then, to abstain from outward sin 

Was more than I could do; 
Now, if I feel its power within, 

I feel I hate it too. 

Then, all my servile works were done 

A righteousness to raise ; 
Now, freely chosen in the Son, 

I freely choose his ways. 

" What shall I do," was then the word, 
" That I may worthier grow V 

"What shall l" render to the Lord V 
Is my inquiry now. 

* Isa. x.vxiil. 16. 



To see the law by Christ fulfiU'd, 
And hear his pardoning voice. 

Changes a slave into a child,* 
And duty into choice. 



LV. THE HEART HEALED AND 
CHANGED BY MERCY. 

Sin enslaved me many years, 

And led me bound and bhnd ; 
Till at length a thousand fears 

Came swarming o'er my mind. 
'■Where," I said, in deep distress, 

'• Will these sinful pleasures end 1 
How shall I secure my peace, 

And make the Lord my friend V 

Friends and ministers said much 

The gospel to enforce ; 
But my blindness still was such, 

I chose a legal course : 
Much I fasted, watch'd, and strove. 

Scarce would show my face abroad, 
Fear'd almost to speak or move, 

A stranger still to God. 

Thus afraid to trust his grace, 

Long time did I rebel ; 
Till, desparing of my (yise, 

Down at his feet 1 fell : 
Then my stubborn heart he broke, 

And subdued me to his sway; 
By a simple word he spoke, 

■' Thy sins are done away." 



LVI. HATRED OF SIN. 

Holt Lord God ! I love thy truth. 

Nor dare thy least commandment slight ; 

Yet pierced by sin, the serpent's tooth, 
I mourn the anguish of the bite. 

But, though the poison lurks within, 
Hope bids me still with patience wait ; 

Till death shall set me free from sin. 
Free from the only thing I hate. 

Had I a throne above the rest. 

Where angels and archangels dwell. 

One sin, unslain, within my breast, 

Would make that heaven as dark as hell. 

The prisoner, sent to breathe fresh air. 
And bless'd with liberty again, 

Would mourn, were he condemn'd to wear 
One link of all his former chain. 

But, oh ! no foe invades the bUss, 

When glory crowns the Christian's head ; 

One view of .lesus as he is 

Will strike all sin for ever dead. 



LVII. THE NEW CONVERT. 

The new-born child of gospel grace, 

Like some fair tree when summer's nigh, 

Beneath Emmanuel's shining face 
Lifts up his blooming branch on high. 

* Romans iii. 31. 



THE OLNEY HYMNS. 



683 



No fears he feels, he sees no foes. 
No conflict yet hU faith employs. 

Nor lias ho Iciirnt to whom he owes 
The strcngtli and peace his soul enjoys. 

But sin soon darts its cruel sting. 
And comforts sinking day by day : 

What secm'd his own, a sell- led spring, 
Proves but a brook that glides away. 

When Gi<leon ann'd his numerous host, 
The Lord soon made his numbers less ; 

And said, " Lest Israel vainly boast,' 
' My arm procured me this success.' " 

Thus will he bring our spirits down, 
.And draw our ebbing comlbrls low. 

That, saved by grace, but not our own, 
We may not claim the praise we owe. 



LVIIL TRUE AND FALSE COMFORTS. 

O Goii, whose favorable eye 

The sin-sick soul revives, 
Holy and heavenly is the joy 

Thy shining presence gives. 

Not such as hypocrites suppose, 

Who with a graceless heart 
Taste not of thee, but drink a dose, 

Prepared by Satan's art. 

Intoxicating joys are theirs. 

Who, while they boast their light, 

And seem to soar above the stars. 
Are plunging into night. 

Lull'd in a sort and fatal sleep, 

They sin. and yet rejoice ; 
Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, 

Would they not hear his voice t 

Be mine the comforts that reclaim 

The soul from .Satan's power ; 
That make me blush for what I am, 
And hate my sin the more. 

'Tis joy enough, my All in All, 

At thy dear feet to lie ; 
Thou wilt not let me lower fall. 

And none can higher fly. 



LIX. A LIVING AND A DEAD FAITH. 

The Lord receives his highest praise 
From humble minds and heart* sincere ; 

While all the loud professor says 
OtTends the righteous Judge's ear. 

To walk as children of the day. 

To mark the precepts' holy light. 
To wage the warfare, watch, and pray, 

Show who are pleasing in his sight. 

Not words alone it cost the Lord, 
To purchase pardon for his awn ; 

Nor will a soul, by grace restored. 
Return the Saviour words alone. 

^Vitll golden bells, the priestly vest, 
And rich pomegranates border'd round,t 



► Judges 1 



1 Exod. xxviii. 33. 



The need of hohness express'd. 

And call'd for fruit, as well as sound. 

Easy, indeed, it were to reach 
A mansion in the courts above, 

If swelling words and fluent speech 
Might serve, instead of faith and love. 

But none shall gain the blissful place, 
Or God's unclouded glory see. 

Who talks of free and sovereign grace. 
Unless that grace has made him firee ! 



LX. ABUSE OP THE GOSPEL. 

Too many, Lord, abuse thy grace. 

In this licentious day ; 
And wliilc they boast they see thy face. 

They turn their own away. 

Thy book displays a gracious light 

"That can the blind restore ; 
But these are daz/.led by the sight, 
*And blinded still the more. 

The pardon, such presume upon, 

They do not iieg. but steal ; 
And when they plead it at thy throne. 

Oh ! Where's the Spirit's seal 1 

Was it for this, ye lawless tribe. 

The dear Redeemer bled 1 
Is this the grace the saints imbibe 

From Christ the living head 1 

Ah, Lord, we know thy chosen few 

Are fed with heavenly fare ; 
But these, the wretched husks they chew 

Proclaim them what they are. 

The lilierty our hearts implore 

Is not to live in sin ; 
But still to wait at wisdom's door 

Till mercy calls us in. 



LXI. THE NARROW WAY. 

What thousands never knew the road ! 

What thousands hate it when 'tis known ! 
None but the chosen tribes of God 

Will seek or choose it for their own. 

A thousand ways in ruin end. 
One, only, leads to joys on high; 

By that my willing steps ascend. 
Pleased with a journey to the sky. 

No more I ask, or hope to find, 

Delight or happiness below ; 
Sorrow may well possess the mind 

That feeds where thorns and thistles grow. 

The joy that fades is not for me, 

I seek immortal joys above ; 
There glory without end shall be 

The liright reward of faith and love. 

Cleave to the world, ye sonlid worms, 
Contented lick your native dust. 

But God shall fight with all his storms 
Against the idol of your trust. 



684 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



LXII. DEPENDENCE. 

To keep the lamp alive, 
With oil we fill the bowl ; 
'Tis water makes the willow thrive, 
And grace that feeds the soul. 

The Lord's unsparing hand 

Supphes the living stream ; 

It is not at our own command, 

But still derived from him. 

Beware of Peter's word,* 
Nor confidently say, 
" I never will deny thee, Lord," 
But, " Grant I never may !" 

Man's wisdom is to seek 
His strength in God alone ; 
And e'en an angel would be weak. 
Who trusted in his own. 

Retreat beneath his wings. 
And in his grace confide ; 
This more exalts the King of kingsl 
Than all your works beside. • 

In Jesus is our store, 
Grace issues from his throne ; 
Whoever says, " I want no more," 
Confesses he has none. 



LXIII. NOT OF WORKS. 

Grace, triumphant in the throne, 

Scorns a rival, reigns alone ; 

Come and bow beneath her sway, 

Cast your idol works away. 

Works of man, when made his plea. 

Never shall accepted be ; 

Fruits of pride (vain-glorious worm !) 

Are the best he can perform. 

Self, the god his soul adores, 
Influences all his powers : 
Jesus is a slighted name. 
Self-advancement all his aim ; 
But when God the Judge shall come, 
To pronounce the final doom. 
Then for rocks and hills to hide 
All his works and all his pride ! 

Still the boasting heart replies. 
What ! the worthy and the wise. 
Friends to temperance and peace, 
Have not these a righteousness 1 
Banish every vain pretence 
Built on human excellence ; 
Perish everything in man, 
But the grace that never can. 



LXIV. PRAISE FOR FAITH. 

Of all the gifts thine hand bestows, 

Thou giver of all good ! 
Not heaven itself a richer knows 

Than my Redeemer's blood. 

Faith too, the blood-receiving grace, 
From the same hand we gain ; 

* Matthew xxvi. 33. t John vi. 29. 



Else, sweetly as it suits our case, 
That gift had been in vain. 

Till thou thy teaching power apply. 

Our hearts refuse to see, 
And weak, as a distemper'd eye, 

Shut out the view of thee. 

Blind to the merits of thy Son, 

What misery we endure ! 
Yet fly that hand from which alone 

We could expect a cure. 

We praise thee, and would praise thee more, 

To thee our all we owe ; 
The precious Saviour, and the power 

That makes him precious too. 



LXV. GRACE AND PROVIDENCE. 

Almighty King ! whose wondrous hand 
Supports the weight of sea and land. 
Whose grace is such a boundless store. 
No heart shall break that sighs for more. 

Thy providence supplies my food. 
And 'tis thy blessing makes it good ; 
My soul is nourish'd by thy word. 
Let soul and body praise the Lord, 

My streams of outward comfort came 
From him who built this earthly frame ; 
Whate'er I want his bounty gives. 
By whom my soul forever lives. 

Either his hand preserves from pain. 
Or, if I feel it, heals again ; 
From Satan's malice shields my breast, 
Or overrules it for the best. 

Forgive the song that falls so low 
Beneath the gratitude I owe ! 
It means thy praise, however poor. 
An angel's song can do no more. 



LXVI. 



I WILL PRAISE THE LORD AT 
ALL TIMES. 



Wintp:r has a joy for me, 

While the Saviour's charms I read, 
Lowly, meek, from blemish free, • 

In the snow-drop's jxnsive head. 

Spring returns, and brings along 

Life-invigorating suns : 
Hark ! the turtle's plaintive song 

Seems to speak his dying groans ! 

Summer has a thousand chsirms. 
All expressive of his worth ; 

'Tis his sun that li^dils and warms. 
His the air that cools the earth. 

What ! has Autumn left to say 
Nothing of a Saviour's grace 1 

Yes, the beams of milder day 
Tell me of his smiling face. 

Light appears with early dawn, 
While the sun makes haste to rise ; 

See his bleeding beauties drawn 
On the blushes of the skies. 



ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 



685 



Evening with a silent pace, 
Slowly moving in the west, 

Shows an emblem of his grace, 
Points to an eternal rest. 



LXVII. LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST. 

To Jesus, the Crown of my hope, 

My soul is in haste to be gone : 
O bear me, ye cherubim, up, 

And waft me away to his throne ! 

My Saviour, whom absent I love. 
Whom, not having seen, I adore; 

Whose name is exalted above 
All glory, dominion, and power; 

Dissolve thou these bonds, that detain 
My soul from her portion in thee; 

Ah ! strike off this adamant chain 
And make me eternally free. 

When that happy era begins, 
When array'd in thy glories I shine, 

Nor grieve any more, by my sins, 
The bosom on which I recline : 

then shall the veil be remov'd. 

And round me thy brightness be pour'd 

1 shall meet him whom absent I lov'd, 

I shall see whom unseen I ador'd. 

And then, never more shall the fears. 
The trials, temptations, and woes, 

Which darken this valley of tears. 
Intrude on my blissful repose. 

Or, if yet remember'd above. 

Remembrance no sadness shall raise ; 



They will be but new signs of thy love, 
New themes for my wonder and praise. 

Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain 

Shall set mc eternally free, 
Will but strengthen and rivet the chain 

Which binds me, my Saviour, to thee. 



LXVIII. 



LIGHT SHINING OUT OF 
DARKNESS. 



God moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to perform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill. 
He treasures up his bright designs. 

And works his sovereign will. ■ 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, 
The clouds ye so much dread 

Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
But trust him for his grace : 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast. 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err,* 
And scan his work in vain : 

God is his own interpreter. 
And he will make it plain. 
* John xjii. 7. 



BRIEF ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION, 

AND or 
THE MYSTIC WRITERS. 



The mystic writers, though the object of 
so much public attention in France, towards 
the close of the seventeenth century, have 
never attracted much notice in this country, 
and are known rather as a matter of histori- 
cal fact than of personal interest. It is to 
Cowjier that we are indebted for the transla- 
tion of the Hymns of Jladaine Guion, the 
founder, or rather reviver, of the Mystics: for 
it is evident from ecclesiastical history, that 
they existed so early as in the third and fourth 
centuries, and that the habits of profound con- 



templation and retirement from the world, in 
which they indulj^ed, led to the monastic se- 
clusion of which St. Anthony was the most 
eminent example. Dionysius the Areopagite 
is, however, generally considered to be the 
founder of this sect in the fourth century. Ma- 
carius and Ililarion are also included among 
its supporters. The celebrated Thomas u 
Keni])is, in the fifteenth century, adopted a 
kind (if purified mysticism. Molino, a Sp.nn- 
ish priest, though resident at Rome, still fur- 
ther extended these views; till at len^jtli 



686 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Madame Guion, in the reign of Louis XIV., 

embodied tliem in tlieir present form, wliieli 
is known in France under the name of Qui- 
etism, from tlie calm repose and indifference 
to external objects which is characteristic of 
these principles. 

The Mystics professed to elevate the soul 
.above all sensible and terrestrial objects, and 
to unite it to the Deity in an inctTirble man- 
ner ; to inculcate a pure and absolutely dis- 
interested love of God, for his own s.ake, and 
on .account of his adorable perfections : to 
maintain a close and intimate communion 
with him by mortifying all tlie senses, by a 
profound submission to his will, even under 
the consciousness of perdition, .and by an in- 
ternal sanctity of heart, strengthened by a 
holy and sublime contemplation. We shall 
shortly examine this system, and inquire how 
tar this inditfercnce to salviition, from a sup- 
posed conformity to the will of God, is found- 
ed either on reason or Scripture; and whether 
the pure love of God, independent of his love 
to us, and of our personal interest in the 
blessings of redemption, is a st.ate of mind to 
be generally attained. 

But we shall first advert to the manner in 
which Madame Guion was led to embrace 
these views, and illustrate them by a refer- 
ence to her own writings. After endeavor- 
ing, by unceasing efforts, and many .acts of 
external piety, to raise her mind to a high 
tone of religious perfection, without being 
able to attain it, she meets with an ecclesias- 
tic of the order of St. Francis, and requests 
him to explain the cause of this failure. His 
reply, and tlie renuirU.able consequences by 
whicli it was followed, is thus recorded by 
herself in the narrative of her own life. 
'■/( is, madam, because you seek without 
what you hare within. Accustom yourself to 
seek Gnd in your heart, and you u-ill there 
find Mm." 

'■■ Having said these words, he left me. 
They were to me like the stroke of a dart, 
which penetrated throngh my heart. I felt 
at this instant a very deep « ouiid, a wound 
so delightful th.at 1 desired not to be cured. 
These words brought into my heart what I 
had been seelcing so many years ; or rather, 
they discovered to me vvh.at was there, and 
which I hiid not enjoyed for want of knowing 
it. Oh ray Lord ! thou wast in my heart, 
and demandedst only a simple turning of my 
mind inward, to make me perceive thy pres- 
ence. Oh infinite Goodness! How was I 
running hither and thither to seek thee ; my 
life was a burden tome, though my happiness 
was in myself I was poor in the midst of 
riches, and ready to perish with hunger, near 
a t.able plentifully spread, and a continual 
feast. Oh Beauty, ancient and new ! Why 
liave I known tliee so late! Alas! I sought 
thee where thou wast not, and did not seek 



thee where thou wast. It was for want of 
understanding these words of thy gospel, 
'Tlie kingdom of God cometh not with ob- 
servation : neither shall they say, Lo here, or 
Lo there. For behold the kingdom of God 
is within you.' This I experienced; for thou 
becamest my king, and my heart thy king- 
dom, \\herein thou didst reign supreme, and 
perform all thy sacred will." 

Hours, she observes, now passed away like 
moments, and she could hardly do anything 
else but pray. She enters at the same time 
upon a strict course of pefiances, deprives 
herself of the most innocent indulgences, and 
succeeds so far that she could scarcely prefer 
one thing to another. Her senses are severe- 
ly mortified, and kept under uniform restraint. 
She .aims at nothing less than the death of 
the senses, and the utter extinction of self. 
" It is only by a total death to self," she re- 
marks, "that we can be lost in God." 

At length these continual efforts become 
painful to her, .and she is far from realizing 
either inward peace or the grace of true holi- 
ness. In describing her state of mind, she 
observes : 

" I began to experience an insupport.able 
weight, in that very piety which had formerly 
been so easy and delightful to me ; not that I 
did not love it extremely, but I found my.self 
defective in that noble practice of it to which 
I as])ired. The more I loved it, the more I 
labored to acquire wliat I saw I failed in. 
But alas ! I seemed continually to be overcome 
by th.at which was contrary to it. My heart, 
indeed, was detached from all sensual plea- 
sures. For these several years past it has 
seemed to me that my mind is so detached and 
absent from the body, that I do things as if I 
did them not. If I eat or refresh myself, it 
is done with such an absence, or separation, 
as I wonder at, and with an entire mortifica- 
tion of the keenness of sensation in all the 
natural functions." 

In .addition to this diss.atisfaction with her- 
.self, it is her lot to be married to a man who 
is strongly opposed to her views and prin- 
ciples. Her domestic trials aggravate her 
wretchedness, and she enjoys peace neither 
in herself, in others, nor in God. 

"I could now no longer pray as formerlv. 
Heaven seemed shut to me, and I thought 
justly too. I could get no consolation, nor 
make any complaint thereupon : nor had I any 
creature on earth to apply to, or to whom I 
might imp.art my condition. I found myself 
banished from all beings, withoirt finding a 
support or refuge in anything. I could no 
more practice any virtue with facility. Such 
as had formerly been familiar to me seemed 
now to have left me. 'Alas!' said I, 'is it 
possible tliat tliis heart, formerly all on fire, 
should now become like ice?' L.aden with a 
weight of past sins, .and a multitude of new 



ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 



687 



ones, I could not think God would ever par- 
don mc, but looked on myself as a victim of 
hell. Whatever I tried for a remedy, seemed 
only to increase tlu' malady. I may say tliat 
tears were my drink, and sorrow my food. I 
had within myself aij e.\eculioner who tor- 
tured me without respite." 

We believe the case of Madame Guion to 
be by no means singular. Many aim at hij,di 
attainments in religion, with the utmost sin- 
cerity of intention, but, being ignorant of the 
true way of peace, to which a more scriptural 
view would infallibly lead them, they load the 
conscience with heavy burdens, till it sinks 
under the weight of the oppression. Peace 
of mind is not to be found in self-inHicted 
austerities, in overstrained efforts, nor even in 
the way of internal holiness. This is seeking 
the living among the dead. We first find God, 
not by what we try to do for ourselves, but 
in a firm reliance on what Christ the Lord has 
done for us. '• He was wounded for our 
transgressions, he was bruised for our iniqui- 
ties; the chastisement of our peace was upon 
him ; and witli his stripes we are healed." 
This is the only true ground of acceptance. 
This is the foundation laid in Zion. '• He is 
our peace." Holiness follows, but does not 
go before ; it is the effect, but not the cause. 
Mysticism inverts tlie order, and seems to give 
more honor to the sanctifying Spirit than to 
a crucified Saviour and Redeemer. 

However specious, therefore the counsel 
given by the priest might seem to be, and 
powerfully as she was impressed by it for a 
season, yet it failed in imparting the whole 
truth. He led her to derive peace from con- 
templating Christ ickhin ; but true peace can 
flow oidy from contemplating Christ u-ilhuut. 
The " water" and the " blood" are emblemat- 
ical of a double operation. Each is neces- 
.s;iry, Christ in the heart for sanctification, 
Christ on the cross for justification and pardon 
of sin. To neglect the latter, and to fi.\ our 
inmost thoughts on the former only, what is it 
but to make a Saviour of sanctification, and to 
render tlie cross of none etVect '. 

In the midst of her internal disquietude, 
the husband of Madame Guion dies. " At 
last," she writes, "after having passed twelve 
years and four months in the crosses of mar- 
riage, as great as possible, e.vcept poverty, 
which 1 never knew, though I had much de- 
sired it, God drew me out of that state to 
give me still stronger crosses to bear, and 
of such a nature as I had never met with be- 
fore." 

Her life from this period was a continual 
scene of trials and persecutions, to which her 
views and principles uniformly exposed her. 

Relieved now from all e.vternal restraint, 
this devoted woman dedicates her.self to the 
Lord by a solemn surrender, which she calls 
a marriage contract, and engages to live 



wholly to him and to his glory for the remain- 
der of her days. 

Her state of mind, and the joy and happi- 
ness which it led to, are thus expressed. 

"At tliis time I found that I liad the yipr/ert 
chastity of love to God, mine being without 
any reserve, division, or view of interest ; — 
jKrfecl povcrti/, by the total privation of every- 
thing that was mine both inwardly and out- 
wardly ; — perfect oliedieiKe to the. will of God, 
submission to the church, and honor to Jesus 
Christ in loving him.self only." 

" The joy which such a soul possesses in its 
God is so great, that it experiences the truth 
of those words of the royal prophet, 'AH 
they who are in thee, O Lord, are like persons 
ravished with joy.' To such a soul the words 
of our Lord seem to be addressed, ' Your joy 
no man shall take from you.' John xvi. i'l. 
It is as it were plunged in a river of peace ; 
its prayer is continual- nothing can hinder it 
from praying to God, or from loving him. It 
amply verifies these words in the Canticles, 
' I sleep, but my heart waketh :' for it finds 
that even sleep itself does not hinder it from 
praying. Oh, unutterable happiness! Who 
could ever h.ave thought thai a soul, which 
seemed to be in the utmost misery, shouUl 
ever find aliappiness equal to this? Oh happy 
puvertij, happy loss, happy jiothingness, which 
gives no less than God himself in his own 
immensity, no more circumscribed to the 
limited manner of the creature, but always 
drawing it out of that to plunge it wliolly into 
his own divine essence. 

" What then renders this soul so perfectly 
content? It neither knows nor wants to 
know anything but what God calls it to. 
Herein it enjoys divine content, after a man- 
ner vast, immense, independent of exterior 
events ; more satisfied in its humiliation, and 
in the opposition of all creatures, by the or- 
der of Providence, than on the throne of its 
own choice. 

" It is here that the apostolic life begins. 
But is every one called to that state ? Very 
few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend ; and 
of the few that are called to it, fewer still 
walk in true purity." 

This entire surrender of the soul to God, 
or self-abandoinnent, she thus describes. 

"Abandonment is a matter of the greatest 
importance in our process; it is the key to 
tlie inner court ; so that whosoever knoweth 
truly how to abandon himself, soon becomes 
perfect. We must, therefore, confinino sted- 
fast and immoveable therein, nor listen to the 
voice of natural reason. Great faith produces 
great abaiiiloument ; we must confide in God, 
'hoping against hope.' (Rom. iv. 18.) 

" Abandonment is the casting otTall .selfish 
care, that we may be altogether at the Divine 
disposal. All Christians are exhorted to this 
resignation ; for it is said to all, ' Take no 



688 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



thought saying-, What shall we eat? or what 
shall we drink ? or, wherewithal shall we be 
clothed ! for your heavenly Father knowetli 
that yo have need of all these things.' (Matt, 
vi. 31, .32.) 'In all thy ways acknowledge 
him, and he sh.ill direct thy paths.' (Prov. iii. 
6.) ' Commit thy ways unto the Lord, and 
thy thoughts shall be established.' (Prov. 
.\vi. 3.) ' Commit thy way unto the Lord ; 
trust also in him, and he shall bring itto p.ass.' 
(Psalm .\xxvii. 5.) 

" Our ab.indonment then should be as fully 
applied to our e.xternal as internal things, 
giving up all our concerns into the hands of 
God, forgetting ourselves, and thinking only 
of him ; by which the heart will remain al- 
ways diseng.aged, free, and at peace. It is 
practised by continually losing our own will 
in the will of God ; by renouncing every par- 
ticular inclination as soon as it arises, how- 
ever good it may appear, that we may stand 
in inditferenee with respect to ourselves, and 
only will that which God from eternity had 
willed ; by being resigned in all things, 
whether for soul or body, whetlier for time or 
eternity ; by leaving what is past in oblivion, 
what is to come to Providence, and devoting 
the present moment to God, whicli brings 
with itself God's eternal order, and it is as in- 
fallible a declaration to us of his will, as it is 
inevitable and common to all ; by attributing 
nothing that befalls us to the creature, but 
regarding all things in God, and looking upon 
all, excepting only our sins, as infeUibly pro- 
ceeding from him. Surrender yourselves, 
then, to be led and disposed of just as God 
pleaseth, with respect both to your outward 
and inward state." 

There is also another term, of frequent oc- 
currence in Madame Guion's writings, called 
the annihilation of the powers or senses, (anc- 
antissement des puissances,) by which she 
means that all the senses and p.assions are to 
be completely mortified, and suppressed, in 
order that the soul, freed from the heavy in- 
cumbrance, may aspire to full and unre- 
strained communion with God. 

Such is the outline of mysticism, which we 
have endeavored to illustrate in her own 
words. Indiscriminate censure would be no 
less opposed to the real truth than indis- 
criminate praise. 

The proselytes made to this doctrine in 
France were numerous, consisting of names 
distinguished by their piety and rank. Among 
these, she h.nd the honor of including the 
great F'enelon, who, though he !iad too much 
taste and judgment to adopt the e.xtremes of 
her system, listened with delight when she 
descanted before him, at the Hotel de Beau- 
villiers, on the pure and disinterested love of 
God.* 

It was in vain that the celebrated Bishop 

• Life of Ftntlon. 



of Meaux* exposed her doctrines with all the 
powers of his wit, aided by the splendor of 
his eloquence. Her persecutions awakened 
new interest. She was sent to the castle of 
Vincennes, as if she had been a prisoner of 
state. 

There she employed her lonely hours in 
pouring out the effusions of her heart, in 
hymns expressive of her love to God, and of 
the fervor of her devotion. Some of these 
compositions, written under circumstances so 
interesting, we shall present to the reader. 
They are indebted for their English dress to 
the poet Cowper, and to the suggestion of the 
Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport Piigncll, who con- 
ceived that the spirit which they breathe could 
not fail to be congenial to a mind like his. 

We shall now venture to offer a few re- 
marks on this system. 

Wliat we admire in Madame Guion is, the 
purity of her heart, its incessant aspirations 
after holiness, its secret and close communion 
with God. These are qualifications in which 
there is reason to believe that the great bulk 
of professing Christians are greatly deficient. 
Religion, even among reflecting minds, par- 
takes more of a philosophical than a spiritual 
character. The fire is in the intellect, the ice 
is in the heart. In the social circle, the essay, 
or review, how often is spiritual religion 
branded with the title of enthusiasm, and the 
wings of devotion clipped, lest she should 
soar with too lofty an elevation, and pass 
beyond the limits which a cold and calculat- 
ing policy would prescribe. 

Among others again, who are the professed 
followers of Christ, how far do all fall short 
in the sublime and devotional feeling of love 
to God ! The higher attainments of Chris- 
tian piety, the inward fervency of spirit, and 
the entire surrender of the soul, are not suf- 
ficiently realized. Men do not rise to the 
eleviition of Bible Christianity. Religion is 
considered too much in the light of ;\ struggle 
and a warfare, and too little as a state of in- 
ward repose and joy unspeakable and full of 
glory. 

It is in this respect that we think the de- 
votional spirit of Madame Guion may be con- 
templated with profit, if by a wise discrimi- 
nation we can adopt what is excellent, and 
reject what is overstrained, legal, and vis- 
ionary. 

There is, however, a familiarity in her ad- 
dresses to tlie Deity incompatible with the 
reverence due to a sense of his m.njesty and 
greatness. In exposing this objectionable 
part of her writings, Bossuet beautifully apos- 
trophizes the seraphs, and entreats them to 
bring burning coals from the altar to purify 
his lips, lest they should h.tve been defiled by 
the impurities which he had been obliged to 
record.! 

* Bossuet. t See BuUer'a Life of Ftnelon. 



ACCOUNT OF MADAME GUION. 



689 



With respect to tlie distingiiishinif feature 
of mysticism, tlie pure and disinterested love 
of tiod, for liis own sako, and without any 
consideration of. self, that the mind may, at 
particular seasons, rise to this degree of holy 
contemplation we believe to be possible; but 
we are persuaded that such a state of feeling 
canniit be habitually sustained, and that it is 
beyond the general standard and capacities 
of human nature. God's love to us is re- 
corded in the Scripture as the foundation of 
our love to him : — " We love him, because 
he tirst loved us." Even glorified spirits, 
whose devotion we may justly suppose to 
have attained its highest degree of perfection, 
are represented as making their own salvation 
the theme of adoring gratitude and praise. 
" For thou hast redeemed us to God by thy 
blood, and hast made us unto our God kings 
and priests." Besides, it is in the great work 
of redemption that the divine attributes are 
so gloriously displayed ; that the most affect- 
ing appeals are made to our fears and hopes ; 
and the most animating motives held forth 
for our obedience. Plan's personal interest 
is therefore so interwoven with the display 
of the dinne perfections, that the former 
can never be excluded without obscuring the 
glory of the very attributes which mysticism 
requires us to adore. 

Again, the doctrine of the Mystics proposes 
the utter suppression of the passions of hope 
arul fear ; the annihilation, as it is called, of 
all our natural feelings, and an entire ab- 
straction from the world. 

Tlie annihilation of our natural feelings, 
that the heart may be wholly filled with the 
love and contemplation of the Deity, is not 
possible, nor, if it were possible, would it be 
desirable, :vs we should cease, in that case, 
to be men, without acquiring the nature of 
angels. It is not the su|)pression, but the 
due control and consecration of our feelings 
to the purest ends that the Bible proposes; 
not the exclusion of what is human, but the 
admixture of what is divine. The apostles, 
though gifted with tlu' Holy Ghost from 
heaven, were still " men of like passions with 
ourselves," and the Saviour who was trans- 
figured on Mount Tabor, thirsted at the well 
of Sychar, and wept at the grave of Lazarus. 

Nor is it abstraction from the world, but 
from its spirit, that the Bible enjoins as a 
duty on the Christian. " Let us open this 
wonderful book," observes an elegant writer, 
" where we may, we meet no mystical abstrac- 
tion. We feel our whole mind to be ad- 
dressed at once ; no faculty, active or passive, 
being left without its provision. Human 
nature is everywhere made to furnish the 
machinery, which may work most effectually 
on itself To withdraw the mind from sensi- 
ble ideas while reading the Bible, is abso- 
lutely impos.sible. It places real life before 



us, in all its most interesting and most im- 
pressive forms ; and obliges us to converse 
with ' men of like passions with ourselves,' 
even while it is teaching us the way of God 
most perfectly. 

" Instead of abstracting us from the world, 
it makes it a school of wisdom to us ; and 
teaches us, by example as well as precept, to 
proceed in making it so daily to ourselves. 
We discover that while it is the scene of the 
devil's tempt;itions, it is also the scene of 
(lod's providence ; and that, as on the former 
account we must be ever vigilant against its 
seductions, so, on the latter account, we can- 
not but be deeply interested in its various 
movements, past, present, and future. To 
be regardless of these would be to overlook 
the volume of prophecy, as well as that king- 
dom of the Messiah upon earth, of whoso 
gradual advancement the prophetic oracles 
chiefly treat, and in whose final triumph all 
their brightest rays concentre. It is not, 
therefore, a mystical escape from the world 
to which the Christian is called. His voca- 
tion is much more glorious; he is to keep him- 
self ' unspotted from the world ;' but he is to 
remain in it, that he may maintain, as far as 
in him lies, his Lord's right to it, and pro- 
mote his interest in it. He is taught this by 
the Redeemer's last prayer for his followers : 
' I pray not that thou shouldest take them 
out of the world, but that thou shouldest 
keep them from the evil.' And he is still 
more fully instructed by our Lord's own 
example; who made every walk of human 
life the scene of his beneficence, and turned 
every object and occurrence into a means of 
tlie most interesting and deepest instruction."* 

There is one more feature in mysticism 
entitled to be considered, because it was 
subsequently adopted Ijy Fenclon, viz., the 
possibility of the soul acquiescing in its own 
destruction, if such were the will of God, 
from a profound submission to his will and 
a desire to promote his glory. But this sup- 
position involves a manifest absurdity, be- 
cause a profound submission to the will of 
God is a gracious principle, and how can the 
soul, which is under gracious impressions, 
ever be the object of perdition, or God be 
glorified in its destruction? The case of 
Moses, who prayed to be blotted out of the 
book which God had written, if the Israelites 
might be spared,f or that of St. Paul, who 
wished that ho might be accursed, for the 
sake of his brethren, according to the tlesh,| 
— these passages might be quoted ; but they 
are to be considered as referring to the pres- 
ent and not to the future life, in reference 

• See " Remains of Alexonder Knox. Esq." vol i. pp. 
303, 304. t Kxodus xxxii. 3i. 

X Hcott find Ifonry l)otlin^reointlii3 intcrprcUition, viz,, 
a willingncps to bn trcatinl as an amttlK-iniu and lo be cut 
oIT from all cliurcli communion and privilujes, but not 
to be eternally lost. • 

44 



690 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



to the latter of which they would be ob- 
viously rcpuijnant to tlic justice and good- 
ness of God. 

It is evident from wliat has been said, thiit 
tlie religious views of Madame Guion, excel- 
lent as they were in their principle, in so far 
as tliey inculcated the supreme love of God, 
pnifound submission to his will, tlie calm 
retirement of the soul, and dcadness to the 
spirit of tlie world, were nevertheless too 
overstrained to be suited to the character 
and constitution of human nature. Wesley 
translated her life, and observes, " Such an- 
otlier Life as that of Madame Guion, I doubt 
whether the world ever saw. It contains an 
.abundance of excellent things, uncommonly 
excellent; several things which are utterly 
folse and unscriptur.al ; nay, such as arc dan- 
gerously false. As to Madame Guion her- 
self, I believe she was not only a good wo- 
man, but good in an eminent degree ; deeply 
devoted to God, and often favored with un- 
common communications of liis Spirit." 

The persecutions in wliich she was thus 
involved were unremitting and painful. Her 
doctrines underwent a solemn inquiry at Issy, 
before three commissioners appointed by 
Louis XIV. for tliat purpose : viz. the Bishop, 
of Meaux, the Bishop of Chartres, (afterwards 
Cardinal de Noailles,) and JI. Tronson, the 
Superior of tlie Congregation of St. Sulpiee. 
After a discussion which lasted six months, 
her writings received a formal condemnation, 
in which F<iu'/lon refused to concur. By this 
apparent sanction of her principles, and still 
more by his celebrated " JIaxims of tlie 
Saints,"" in which he ineorpor.ated the more 
spiritual part of her system, he exposed him- 
self to a series of painful reverses. He was 
banished the court by Louis XIV., who prob- 
ably never re.ad his book, nor comprehended 
his principles, but who never forgave the 
author of Tclemachus. By the same author- 
ity he was removed from the office of pre- 
ceptor to the Dukes of Burgundy, Aiijou, 
and Berri ; and commanded to retire to Cam- 
bray, which he embellished with his exalted 
virtues. But a furthei- scene of liumiliation 
awaited him. His powerful opponent, the 
celebrated Bossuet, not content with .attack- 
ing his writings, endeavored to procure their 
condemn.ation at the Court of Rome, which 
led to a bon-mnl of the I'ope, that " Finelon 
was in fault for too great love to God, and 
his enemies equ.ally in tault for too little love 
of their neighbor." The Brief was at length 
obtained, though not without considerable 
delay and reluctance. Fintlon received this 
act of censure with calm serenity, and in 
obedience to papal authority, ascended his 
pulpit at Cambray with his Maxims in one 
Land and the Brief in the other. He then 
re.ad the condemnation of liis own book, 
amidst the tears and admiration of his congre- 



gation; thus evincing a magnanimity which 
rendered him greater in his defeat than his 
enemies .appeared in their triumph. 

Madame Guion spent ten years in prison, 
during which she composed many hymns, 
with poems on various spiritual subjects, fill- 
ing no less than five oct.avo volumes. Speak- 
ing of the period of her imprisonment at 
Vincennes, she observes, " I passed my time 
in great peace, content to spend the rest of 
my life there, if such were the will of God. 
I sang songs of joy, which the maid who 
served me learned by heart, as fast as I made 
them : and we sang together thy praises, O 
my God ! The stones of ray prison looked 
in my eyes like rubies. I esteemed them 
more than all the g.audy brilliancies of a vain 
world." We cannot state this fiict without 
doing homage to the virtues of Madame 
Guion. The piety th.at could convert a pris- 
on into a sanctuary, and transform suffer- 
ings into an occasion for joy and thanksgiv- 
ing, must haye been elev.ated and sincere, 
however mingled with enthusiasm. Her doe- 
trine of profound submission, under circum- 
stances the most adverse, was no speculative 
thesis : it was evidently carried into the life 
and practice. 

Who is not reminded by this act of what 
is recorded in the apostolical times ? " And 
at midnight Paul and Silas pr.ayed, and 
sang praises unto God." The rigor of her 
persecutions, in our opinion, conveys a strong 
censure against her zealous but misguided 
opponents. But the case is by no means 
solit.ary. The world is always indulgent to 
the errors of our practice, but severe to tlie 
errors of our creed. True policy and human- 
ity would have suggested a difterent course. 
Extravagances, wiien left to themselves, 
generally work their own cure : but, when 
visited with persecution, acquire dignity and 
importance, and never fail to a\\'aken sym- 
pathy for the sull'erers. 

After her long imprisonment, Madame 
Guion lived a retired life for more than seven 
ye.ars at Blois, where she died .Tune 9, 1717, 
in the seventieth year of her .nge, celebrated 
for her misfortunes and devotion, though her 
principles, which once convulsed France, and 
awakened the thunders of the Vatican, are 
now nearly forgotten. 

The following selection from her poems, 
executed by Cowper, is highly devotional, and 
may be read with interest and edification. It 
exhibits a happy specimen of her religious 
views in their best form ; and Cowiier has 
given to them the charms of versification, 
united with a taste and discrimination that 
ensure their popularity. The poem on the 
Nativity is a sublime and bold composition, 
and proves that the piety which warms the 
heart, seldom fails to enlarge and invigorate 
the faculties of the mind. 



TRANSLATIONS 



THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA MOTHE GUION. 



THE NATIVITY. 

'Tis folly all — let mc no more be tolJ 
Of Parian porticos, ami roots of gold ; 
Dclii^htful views of nature, ilrcss'd by art, 
Encnant no lonircr this imliflerent heart; 
The Lord of all things, in iiis humble birth, 
Makes mean the proud magnificence of earth ; 
The straw, the manner, and the mouldering wall, 
Eclipse its lustre ; and I scorn it all. 

Canals, and fountains, and delicious vales. 
Green slopes and plains, whose plenty never 

fails ; 
Deep-rooted groves, whose heads sublimely rise. 
Earth-born, and yet ambitious of the skies ; 
The abundant foliage of whose gloomy shades, 
Vainly the sun in all its power invades ; 
Where warbled airs of sprightly birds resound. 
Whose verdure lives while Winter scowls arounti ; 
Rocks, lofty mountains, caverns dark and deep, 
And torrents raving down the rugged steep ; 
Smooth downs, whose fragrant licrbs the spirits 

cheer; 
Meads crown 'd with flowers j streams musical 

and clear. 
Whose silver waters and whose murmurs, join 
Their artless charms to make the scene divine ; 
The fruitlul vineyard, and the furrowd plain, 
That seems a rolling sea of golden grain : 
All- all have lost the charms they once possess'd ; 
An infant God reigns sovereign in my breast ; 
From Bethlehem's bosom I no more will rove ; 
There dwells the Saviour, and there rests my love. 
Vc mightier rivers, that, with sounding force, 
Urge down the valleys your impetuous course ! 
Winds, clouds, and lightnings ! and, ye waves, 

whose heads, 
Curl'd into monstrous forms, the seaman dreads ! 
Horrid abyss, where all experience fails, [sails; 
Spread with the wreck ot' planks and shallerd 
On whose broad back grim Death triumphant 

rides. 
While havoc floats on all thy swelling tides. 
Thy shores a scene of ruin strew'd around 
With vessels bulged, and bovlies of the drown'd! 
Yc fish, that sport beneath the boundless 

waves, 
And rest, secure from man, in rocky caves: 
Swill-darting sharks, and whales of hideous size, 
Whom all the aquatic norhl with terror eyes! 
Had I but faith immoveable and true, 
I might defy the fiercest storm, like you : 
The world, a more disturb'd and boisterous sea, 
When Jesus shows a smile, afl'rigbts not me ; 



He hides me, and in vain the billows roar, 
Break haradess at my feet, and leave the shore. 

Thou a/.urc vault, where, through the gloom of 
night, [light ! 

Thick sown, we see such countless worlds of 
Thou moon, whose car, encompassing the skies, 
Restores lost nature to our wondering eyes; 
Aijain retiring, when the brighter sun 
Betrins the course he seems in haste to run I 
Behold him where he shines ! His rapid rays. 
Themselves unmeasured, measure all our days ; 
Xothing impedes the race he would jiursue, 
Nothing escapes his penetrating view, 
A thousand lands confess his quickening heat, 
.ind all he cheers are fruitful, lair, and sweet. 

Far from enjoying what these scenes disclose, 
I feel the thorn, alas ! but miss the rose : 
Too well I know this aching heart requires 
More solid gold to fill its vast desires; 
In vain they represent his matchless might, 
Whocall'd them out of deep primeval night; 
Their form and beauty but augment my woe, 
I seek the Giver of those charms they show : 
Nor, Him beside, throughout the world he made, 
Lives there in whom I trust tor cure or aid. 

Infinite God, thou great unrivall'd one! 
Whose glor)' makes a blot of yonder sun ; 
Conipar'J with thine, how dim his beauty seems, 
How queneh'd the radiance of his golden beams ! 
Thou art my bliss, the liglit by which I move; 
In thee alone dwells all that I can love. 
All darkness flies when thou art pleased to appear, 
A sudden spring renews the fading year ; 
Where'er I turn I sec thy power and grace 
The watchful guardians of our heedless race; 
Thy various creatures in one strain agree, 
All, in all times and places, speak of thee ; 
E'en I, with trembling heart and stammering 

tongue. 
Attempt thy praise, and join the general song. 

Almighty Former of this wondrous plan. 
Faintly reflected in thine image, man — 
Holy and just — the greatness of whose name 
Fills and supports tliis universal frame, 
Difl'uscd throughout the infinitude of space, 
Who art thyself thine own vast dwelling place; 
Soul of our soul, whom yet no smse of ours 
Discerns eluiling our most active powers ; 
Encircling shades altenil thine awful throne, 
That veil thy face, and keep thee still unknown ; 
Unknown, though dwelling in our inmost part. 
Lord ofthe thouglits, and Sovereign of the heart! 

Repeat the charming truth that never tires, 
No God is like the GoJ my soul desires | 



692 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



He at whose voice heaven trembles, even He, 
Great as he is. knows how to stoop to me — 
Lo ! there he lies — that smiling infant said, 
" Heaven, earth, and sea, exist !" and they obey'd. 
E'en he, whose being swells beyond the skies, 
Is born of woman, lives, and mourns, and dies ; 
Eternal and immortal, seems to cast 
That glory from his brows, and breathes his last. 
Trivial and vain the works that man has 

wrought. 
How do they shrink and vanish at the thought ! 

Sweet solitude, and scene of my repose ! 
This rustic sight assuages all iny woes — 
Tliat crib contains the Lord, whom I adore ; 
And earth's a shade that I pursue no more. 
He is my firm support, my rock, my tower, 
I dwell secure beneath his sheltcrinn; power. 
And hold this mean retreat forever dear, 
For all I love, my soul's deUght is here. 
I see the Almighty swathed in infant bands, 
Tied helpless down the thunder-bearer's hands! 
And, in this shed, that mystery discern. 
Which faith and love, and they alone, can learn. 

Ye tempests, spare the slumbers of your Lord [ 
Ye zephyrs, all your whisper'd sweets afTord ! 
Confess the God that guides the rolling year ; 
Heaven, do him homage ; and thou, earth, revere ! 
Ye shepherds, monarchs, sages, hither bring 
Your hearts an offering, and adore your King! 
Pure be those hearts, and rich in faith and 

love; 
Join, in his praise, the harmonious world above ; 
To Bethlehem haste, rejoice in his repose. 
And praise him there for all that he IJestows ! 

Man, busy man, alas! can ill afford 
To obey the summons, and attend the Lord ; 
Perverted reason revels and runs wild. 
By glittering shows of pomp and wealth beguiled ; 
And, blind to genuine excellence and grace, 
Finds not her author in so mean a place. 
Ye unbelieving ! learn a wiser part, 
Distrust your erring sense, and search your heart ; 
There soon ye shall perceive a kindling flame 
Glow for that infont God, from whom it came ; 
Resist not, quench not, that divine desire. 
Melt all your adamant in heavenly fire ! 

Not so will I requite thee, ijentle love! 
Yielding and soft this heart snail ever prove ; 
And every heart beneath thy power should fall, 
Glad to submit, could mine contain them all. 
But I am poor, oblation I have none. 
None for a Saviour, but himself alone : 
Whate'cr I render thee, from thee it came : 
And, if i give my body to the flame. 
My patience, love, and energy divine 
Of heart, and soul, and spirit, all are thine. 
Ah, vain attempt to expunge the mighty score! 
The more I pay, I owe thee still the more. 

Upon my meanness, poverty, and guilt. 
The trophy of thy glory shall be built; 
My self-disdain shall be the unshaken base. 
And my delbrmity its fairest grace ; 
For destitute of good, and rich in ill. 
Must be my state and my description still. 

And do I grieve at such an humbling lot? 
Nay, but I cherish and enjoy the thought — 
Vain pageantry and pomp of earth, adieu ! 
I have no wish, no memory for you ; 
The more I feel my misery, I adore 
The sacred inmate of my soul the more ; 
Rich in his love, I feel my noblest pride 
Spring from the sense of having nought beside. 



In thee I find wealth, comfort, virtue, might ; 
My wanderings prove thy wisdom infinite; 
All that I have I give thee ; and then see 
All contrarieties unite in thee ; 
For thou hast join'd tlrem, taking up our woe, 
And pouring out thy bliss on worms below, 
By filling with thy grace and love divine 
A gulf ot" evil in this heart of mine. 
This is, indeed, to bid the valleys rise. 
And the hills sink — 'tis matching earth and skies ; 
I feel my weakness, thank thee, and deplore 
An aching heart, that throbs to thank thee more ; 
The more I love thee, I the more reprove 
A soul so lifeless, and so slow to love ; 
Till, on a deluge of thy mercy toss'd, 
I plunge into that sea, and there am lost. 



GOD NEITHER KNOWN NOR LOVED 
BY THE WORLD. 

Ye linnets, let us try beneath this grove. 
Which shall be loudest in our Maker's praise ! 
In quest of some Ibrlnrn retreat I rove, [ways. 
For all the world is blind, and wanders from nis 

That God alone should prop the sinking soul. 
Fills them with rage against his empire now : 
I traverse earth in vain from pole to pole. 
To seek one simple heart, set free from all below. 

They speak of love, yet little feel its sway, 
While ni their bosoms many an idol lurks ; 
TJieir base desires, well satisfied, obey, [works. 
Leave their Creator's hand, and lean upon his 

'Tis therefore I can dwell with man no more ; 
Your fellowship, ye warlders ! suits me best : 
Pure love has lost its price, though prized of yore, 
Profaned by modern tongues, and slighted as a 
jest. 

My God. who form'd you for his praise alone. 
Beholds his purpose well fulfill'd in you ; 
Come, let us join the choir betbrc his throne. 
Partaking in his praise with spirits just and true. 

Yes, I will always love ; and, as I ought, 
Tunc to the praise of love my ceaseless voice ; 
Preferring love too vast tor hunnn thouglit. 
In spite of erring men, who cavil at my choice. 

Why have I not a thousand thousand hearts. 
Lord of my soul ! that they might all be thine 1 
If thou approve — the zeal thy smile imparts, 
How should it ever fail ! can such a fire decline 1 

Love, pure and holy, is a deathless fire ; 
Its object heavenly, it must ever blaze : 
Eternal love a God must needs mspire, [praise. 
When once he wins the heart, and fits it tor his 

Self-love dismiss'd — 'tis then we live indeed — 
In her embrace, death, only death is found : 
Come, then, one noble effort, and succeed. 
Cast off the chain of self with which thy soul 
is bound ! 

Oh ! I could cry, that all the world might hear. 
Ye selt'-tormentors, love your God alone ; 
Let his uncquall'd excellence be dear, [own. 
Dear to vour inmost souls, and make him all your 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



693 



They lienr me not — alas ! how fond to rove 
In endless chase of folly's specious lure ! 
'Tis here alone, beneath this shady grove, 
I taste the sweets of truth — here only am secure. 



THE SWALLOW. . 

I AM fond of the swallow — I learn from her flight, 
Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of love ; 
How seldom on earth do we see her alight ! 
She dwells in the skies, she is ever above. 

It is on the wing that she takes her repose. 
Suspended and jmised in the regions of air, 
'Tis not in our fields that her sustenance grows, 
It is wing'd Uke herself, 'tis ethereal fare. 

She comes in the spring, all the summer she stays, 
And, dreading the cold, still follows the sun — 
So, true to our love, we shoulil covet his rays. 
And the place where he shines not immediately 
shun. 

Our light should be love, and our nourishment 

prayjr; 
It is dangerous food that wc find upon earth ; 
The fruit of this world is beset with a sn;ire. 
In itself it is hurtful, as vile in its birth. 

'Tis rarely if ever she settles below, 
And only when building a nest for her young; 
Were it not for her brood, she would never bestow 
A thought upon anything filthy as dung. 

Let us leave it ourselves, ('tis a mortal abode,) 
To bask every moment in infinite love ; 
Let us fly the dark winter, and follow the road 
That leads to the day-spring appearing above. 



THE TRIUMPH OF HE.WENLY LOVE 
DESIRED. 

Ah ! reign, wherever man is found. 
My spouse, beloved and divine ! 

Then I am rich, and I abound. 
When every human heart is thine. 

A thousand sorrows pierce my soul. 
To think that all are not thine own : 

Ah ! be adored from pole to pole ; 

Where is thy zeal ? arise ; be known ! 

All hearts arc cold, in every place. 
Yet earthly good with warmth pursue ; 

Dissolve them with a flash of grace, 
Thaw these of ice, and give us new ! 



A FIGURATIVE DESCRIPTION OF THE 
PROCEDURE OF DIVINE LOVE. 

IN BRINGING A SOUL TO THE POINT Or SELP-RE- 
NUNCIATION AND ABSOLUTE ACftOIESCENCE. 

'TwAS my purpose, on a day, 

To embark, and sail away. 

As I elimbd the vessel's side, 

Love was sporting in the tide ; 

"Come," he said, — •' ascend — make haste. 

Launch into the boundless waste." 



Many marinere were there. 
Having each his separate care ; 
They thut row'd us held their eyes 
Fix'd upon the starry skies j 
Others steer'd, or turn'd the sails 
To receive the shirting gales. 

Love, with jiower divine supplied, 
Suddenly my courage tried; 
In a moment it was night, 
Ship and skies were out of sight; 
On the briny wave I lay. 
Floating rushes all my stay. 

Did I with resentment burn 

Xl this unexpected turn'! 

Did I wish myself on shore. 

Never to forsake it more 1 

No — '■ My soul," I cried, "be still; 

If I must be lost, I will." 

Next he hasten'd to convey 
Both my frail supports away ; 
Seized my rushes ; bade the waves 
Yawn into a thousand graves: 
Down I went, and sunk as lead, 
Ocean closing o'er my head. 

Still, however, hfe was safe ; 

And I saw him turn and laugh : 

" Friend," he cried, " adieu ! lie low, 

While the wintry storms shall blow ; 

When the sj)ring has ealm'd the main, 

Vou shidl rise and float again." 

Soon I saw him, with dismay. 
Spread his plumes, and soar away; 
Now I mark his rapid flight ; 
Now he leaves my aching sight ; 
He is gone whom I adore, 
'Tis in vain to seek him more. 

How I trembled then and fear'd, 
\Vhen my love had disappcar'd I 
" Wilt thou leave me thus," I cried, 
" Whelm'd beneath the roUingtidel" 
Vain attempt to reach his ear! 
Love was gone, and would not hear. 

.■Vh ! return, and love me still, 

See me subject to thy will ; 

Frown with wrath, or smile with grace, 

Only let me see thy face ! 

Evil I have none to fear. 

All is good, if thou art near. 

Yet he leaves »ne — cruel fate ! 
Leaves me in my lost estate — 
Have I sinnd ! Oh say wherein ; 
Tell me, and forgive my sin ! 
King, and Lord, whom I adore, 
Shall I see thy face no more f 

I?e not angry ; I resign. 

Henceforth, all my will to thine : 

I consent that thou depart. 

Though thine absence breaks my heart ; 

Go then, and forever too : 

All is right that thou wilt do. 

This was just what Love intended. 
He was now no more offended ; 
Soon as 1 became a child, 
Love return'd to mc and sndled : 
Never strife shall more betide 
'Twixt tlic bridegroom and his bride. 



694 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A CHILD OF GOD LONGING TO SEE 
HIM BELOVED. 

There's not an echo round me, 

But I am glad should learn, 
How pure a fire has found me, 

The love with which I burn. 
For none attends with pleasure 

To what I would reveal ; 
They slight me out of measure, 

And laugh at all I feel. 

The rocks receive less proudly 

The story of my flame : 
When I approach, they loudly 

Reverberate his name. 
I speak to them of sadness, 

And comforts at a stand; 
They bid me look for gladness, 

And better days at hand. 

Far from all habitation, 

1 heard a happy sound ; 
Big with the consolation, 

That I have otlen found. 
I said, '• My lot is .sorrow. 

My grief has no alloy ;" 
The rocks replied — • To-morrow, 

To-morrow brings thee joy." 

These sweet and sacred tidings, 

What bliss it is to hear ! 
For, spite of all my chidings. 

My weakness and my fear, 
No sooner I receive them. 

Than I forget my pain. 
And, happy to believe them, 

I love as much again. 

I fly to scenes romantic. 

Where never men resort ; 
For in an age so frantic 

Impiety is sport. 
For not and confusion 

They barter things above ; 
Condemning as delusion. 

The joy of perfect love. 

In this sequester'd corner. 

None hears what I express ; 
Deliver'd from the scorner. 

What peace do I possess ! 
Beneath the boughs reclining. 

Or roving o'er the wild, 
I live as undesigning 

And harmless as a child. 

No troubles here surprise me, 

I innocently play, 
While Providence supplies me. 

And guards mo all the day : 
My dear and kind defender 

Preserves me safely here, 
From men of pomp and splendor, 

Who fill a child with fear. 



ASPIRATIONS OF THE SOUL AFTER 
GOD. 

My Spouse ! in whose presence I live. 

Sole object of all my desires. 
Who know'st what a flame I conceive. 

And canst easily double its fires I 



How pleasant is all that I meet I 
From fear of adversity free ! 

I find even sorrow made sweet ; 
Because 'tis assign 'd me by thee. 

Transported I see thee display 

Thy riches and glory divine ; 
I have only my Ufe to repay. 

Take what I would gladly resign. 
Thy will is the treasure I seek, 

For thou art as faithful as strong; 
There let me, obedient and meek. 

Repose myself all the day long. 

My spirit and faculties fail ; 

Oh finish what love has begun ! 
Destroy what is sinful and frail. 

And dwell in the soul thou hast won! 
Dear theme of my wonder and praise, 

I cry. Who is worthy as thou 1 
I can only be silent and gaze ! 

'Tis all that is left to me now. 

Oh glory in which I am lost, 

Too deep for the plummet of thought; 
On an ocean of Deity toss'd, 

I am swallow'd, I sink into nought. 
Yet, lost and absorb'd as I seem, 

I chant to the praise of my King ; 
And, though overwhelm'd by the theme, 

Am happy whenever I sing. 



GRATITUDE AND LOVE TO GOD, 

All are indebted much to thee. 

But I tar more than all, 
From many a deadly snare set free. 

And raised from many a fall. 
Overwhelm me, from above, 
Daily, with thy boundless love. 

What bonds of gratitude I feel 

No language can declare ; 
Beneath the oppressive weight I reel, 

'Tis more than I can bear : 
When shall I that blessing prove. 
To return thee love for love 1 

Spirit of charity, dispense 

Thy grace to every heart ; 
Expel all other spirits thence. 

Drive self from cverjr part ; 
Charity divine, draw nigh. 
Break the chains in which we he ! 

All selfish souls, whate'er they feign, 

Have still a slavish lot; 
They boast of liberty in vain. 

Of love, and feel it not, 
■ He whose bosom glows with thee. 
He, and he alone, is free. 

Oh blessedness, all bliss above. 
When thy pure fires prevail ! 

Love only teaches what is love 
All other lessons tail : 

We learn its name, but not its powers. 

Experience only makes it ours. 



HAPPY SOLITUDE— UNHAPPY MEN. 

My heart is easy, and my burden light ; 

I smile, though sad, when thou art in my sight; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



695 



The more my woes in secret I deplore, 

I taste thy goodness, and I love tnee more. 

There, while a solemn stillness reigns around. 
Faith, love, and hope within my soul abound ; 
And, while the world suppose me lost in care, 
The joys of angels, unperccived, I share. 

Thy creatures wrong thee, O thou sovereign good ! 
Thou art not loved, because not understood ; 
This grieves me most that vain pursuits beguile 
Ungrateful men, regardless of thy smile. 

Frail beauty and false honor are adored ; 
While thee they scorn, and tritle with thy word ; 
Pass, unconcern'd, a Saviour's sorrow by; 
And hunt their ruin with a zeal to die. 



LIVING WATER. 

The fountain in its source, 
No drought of summer fears; 

The farther it pursues its course, 
The nobler it appears. 

But shallow cisterns yield 

A scanty short supply ; 
The morning sees them amply fill'd, 

At evening they are dry. 



TRUTH AND DIVINE LOVE REJECTED 
BY THE WORLD. 

O LOVE of pure and heavenly birth ! 
simple truth, scarce known on earth ! 
Whom men resist with stubborn will ; 
And. more perverse and daring still. 
Smother, and quench with reasonings vain, 
W^hile error and deception reign. 

Whence comes it. that, your power tke same 
As his on high, from whence you came, 
Ye rarely find a listening car. 
Or heart that makes you welcome here 1 — 
Because ye bring reproach and pain. 
Where'er ye visit, in your train. 

The world is proud, and cannot bear 
The scorn and calumny y(^ share ; 
The praise of men the mark they mean, 
They fly the place where ye are seen ; 
Pure love, with scandal in the rear, 
Suits not the vain ; it costs too dear. 

Then, let the price be what it may. 
Though poor, I am prepared to pay ; 
Come shame, come sorrow ; spite of tears. 
Weakness, and heart-oppressing fears ; 
One soul, at least, shall not repine, 
To give you room ; come, reign in mine ! 



DIVINE JUSTICE AMIABLE. 

Thou hast no lightnings, O thou Just ! 

Or I their force should know ; 
.•Vnd, if thou strike me into dust, 

My soul approves the blow. 

The heart, that values less its ease 
Than it adores thy ways, 



In thine avenging anger sees 
A subject of his praise. 

Pleased I could He, conceal'J and lost, 
In shades of central night ; 

Not to avoid thy wrath thou know'st. 
But lest I grieve thy sight. 

Smile me, O thou, whom I provoke! 

And I will love thee still : 
The well-ileserved and righteous stroke 

Shall please me, thougn it kill. 

Am I not worthy to sustain 
The worst thou canst devise ; 

And dare I seek thy throne again, 
And meet thy sacred eyes 1 

Far from alHicting, thou art kind ; 

And, in my saddest hours, 
An unction of thy grace I find. 

Pervading all my powers. 

Alas I thou sparest me yet again ; 

And, when thy wrath should move, 
Too gentle to endure my pain. 

Thou soothest me with thy love. 

I have no punishment to fear; 

But, ah ! that smile from thee 
Imparts a pang far more severe 

Than woe itself would be. 



THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS 
HIM EVERYWHERE. 

Oh thou, by long experience tried, 
Near whom no grief can long abide ; 
My love ! how full of sweet content 
I pass my years of banishment ! 

All scenes alike engaging prove 
To souls impress'd with sacred love ! 
Where'er they dwell, they dwell in thee ; 
In heaven, in earth, or on the sea. 

To me remains nor place nor time; 
My country is in every clime ; 
I can be calm and free from care 
On any shore, since God is there. 

While place we seek, or place we shun. 
The soul finds happiness in tione ; 
But, with a God to guide our way, 
'Tis equal joy to go or stay. 

Could I be cast where thou art not. 
That were indeed a dreadful lot ; 
But regions none remote I call. 
Secure of finding God in all. 

My country. Lord, art thou alone ; 
Nor other can I claim or own ; 
The point where all my wishes meet ; 
My law, my love, life's only sweet I 

I hold by nothing here below ; 

Appoint my journey and I go ; 

Though pierced by scorn, opprcss'd by pride, 

I feci thee good — feel nought beside. 

No frowns of men can hurtful prove 
To souls on fire with heavenly love ; 
Though men and devils both condemn, 
No gloomy days arise from them. 



696 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Ah then ! to his embrace repair ; 
My soul, thou art no stranger there ; 
There love divine shall be thy guard, 
And peace and safely thy reward. 



THE TESTIMONY OF DIVINE ADOP- 
TION. 

How happy are the new-born race, 
Partakers of adopting orace ; 

How pure the bhss they share ! 
Hid from the world and all its eyes, 
Within their heart the blessing hes, 

And conscience feels it there. 

The moment we believe, 'tis ours; 
And if we love with all our powers 

The God from whom it came ; 
And if we serve with hearts sincere, 
'Tis still discernible and clear, 

An undisputed claim. 

But, ah ! if foul and wilful sin 
Stain and dishonor us within, 

Farewell the joy we knew ; 
Again the slaves of nature's sway. 
In labyrinths of our own we stray. 

Without a guide or clue. 

The chaste and pure, who fear to grieve 
The gracious .Spirit they receive, 

His work distinctly trace ; 
And, strong in undissembUng love. 
Boldly assert and clearly prove 

Their hearts his dwelling place. 

Oh messenger of dear delight, 
Whose voice dispels the deepest night. 

Sweet peace-proclaiming Dove ! 
With thee at hand, to sootne our pains, 
No wish unsatisfied remains, 

No task but that of love. 

'Tis love unites what sin divides ; 
The centre, where all bUss resides ; 

To which the soul once brought. 
Reclining on the first great cause. 
From his abounding sweetness draws 

Peace passing human thought. 

Sorrow foregoes its nature there. 
And life assumes a tranquil air. 

Divested of its woes ; 
There sovereign goodness soothes the breast. 
Till then incapable of rest, 

In sacred sure repose. 



DIVINE LOVE ENDURES NO RIVAL. 

Love is the Lord whom I obey. 
Whose will transported I perform ; 
The centre of my rest, my stay. 
Love's all in all to me, myself a worm. 

For uncreated charms I burn, 

Oppress'd by slavish fear no more. 

For one in whom I may discern, 

E'en when he frowns, a sweetness I adore. 

He little loves him who complains. 
And finds him rigorous and severe ; 



His heart is sordid, and he feigns. 
Though loud in boasting of a soul sincere. 

Love causes grief, but 'tis to move 
And stimulate the slumbering mind ; 
And he has never tasted love, 
Who shuns a pang so graciously design'd. 

Sweet is the cross, above all sweets. 
To souls enamor'd with thy smiles ; 
The keenest woe hfe ever meets. 
Love strips of all its terrors, and beguiles. 

'Tis just that God should not be dear 
Where self engrosses all the thought. 
And groans and murmurs make it clear, 
Whatever else is loved, the Lord is not. 

The love of thee flows just as much 
As that of ebbing self subsides ; 
Our hearts, their scantiness is such, 
Bear not the conflict of two rival tides. 

Both cannot govern in one soul ; 

Then let self-love be dispossess'd ; 

The love of God deserves the whole. 

And will not dwell with so despised a guest. 



SELF-DIFFIDENCE. 

Source of love, and light of day, 
Tear me from myself away ; 
Every view and thought of mine 
Cast into the mould of thine ; 
Teach, O teach this faithless heart 
A consistent constant part ; 
Or, if it must live to grow 
More rebellious, break it now I 

Is it thus that I requite 
Grace and goodness infinite'! 
Every trace of every boon 
Cancell'd and erased so soon ! 
Can I grieve thee whom I love ; 
Thee in whom I live and move 1 
If my sorrow touch thee still, 
Save me from so great an ill ! 

Oh ! the oppressive, irksome weight, 
Felt in an uncertain state ; 
Comfort, peace, and rest, adieu, 
Should I prove at last untrue ! 
Still I choose thee, follow still 
Every notice of thy will ; 
But unstable, strangely weak. 
Still let slip the good I seek. 

Self-confiding wretch, I thought 
I could serve thee as I ought. 
Win thee, and deserve to feel 
All the love thou canst reveal ; 
Trusting self a bruised reed. 
Is to be deceived indeed : 
Save me from this harm and loss. 
Lest my gold turn all to dross 7 

Self is earthly — faith alone 
Makes an unseen world our own ; 
Faith relinquish'd, how we roam. 
Feel our way, and leave our home ! 
Spurious gems our hopes entice. 
While we scorn the pearl of price ; 
And, preferring servants' pay. 
Cast the children's bread away. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



697 



THE ACQUIESCENCE OP PURE LOVE. 

Love ! if thy destincil sacrifice am I, 
Come, slay thy victim, and prepare thy fires ; 
PluniJed in thy deptlis ot' mercy, let me die 
The death wliich every soul that lives desires! 

I watch my hours and see them fleet away ; 
The time is long that I have languish'd here ; 
Yet all my thoughts thy purposes obey. 
With no reluctance, cheerful and sincere. 

To me 'tis equal, whether love ordain 
My hfe or death, appoint me pain or ease ; 
My soul perceives no real ill in pain ; 
In ease or health no real good she sees. 

One good she covets, and that good alone. 
To choose thy will, from selfish bias free ; 
And to prefer a cottage to a throne, 
And grief to comfort, if it pleases thee. 

That we should bear the cross is thy command, 
Die to the world, and live to self no more ; 
Sufler, unmoved, beneath the rudest hand, 
As pleased when shipwreck'd as when safe on 
shore. 



REPOSE IN GOD. 

Blest ! who, far from all mankind, 
This world's shadows left behind. 
Hears from heaven a tjentle strain 
Whispering love, and loves again. 

Blest ! who, free from self-esteem, 
Dives into the great Supreme, 
All desire beside discards, 
Joys inferior none regards. 

Blest ! who in thy bosom seeks 
Rest that nothing earthly breaks, 
Dead to self and worldly things, 
Lost in thee thou King of kings ! 

Ye that know my secret fire, 
Softly speak and soon retire ; 
Favor my divine repose, 
Spare the sleep a God bestows. 



GLORY TO GOD ALONE. 

Oh loved ! but not enough — though dearer far 
Than self and its most loved enjoyments are ; 
None duly loves thee, but who, nobly free 
From sensual objects, finds his all in thee. 

Glory of God ! thou stranger here below, 
Whom man nor knows, nor feels a wish to know ; 
Our faith and reason are both shock'd to find 
Man in the post of honor— Thee behind. 

Reason exclaims—" Let every creature fall. 
Ashamed, abased, before the Lord of all ;" 
And faith, o'erwhelm'd with such a dazzUng 

blaze. 
Feebly describes the beauty she surveys. 

Yet man, dim-sighted man, and rash as blind. 
Deaf to the dictates of his better mind. 
In frantic competition dares the skies. 
And claims precedence of the Only- wise. 



Oh lost in vanity, till once self-known ! 
Nothing is great, or good, but God alone ; 
When tnou shall stand before his awful face. 
Then, at the last, thy pride shall know his place. 

Glorious, Alaiighty, First, and without end ! 
When wilt thou melt the mountains and descend ? 
When wilt thou shoot abroad thy conquering 
rays, [praise ! 

And teach these atoms, thou hast made, thy 

Thy glory is the sweetest heaven I feel ; 
And if 1 seek it with too fierce a zeal. 
Thy love, triumphant o'er a selfish will. 
Taught me the passion, and inspires it still. 

My reason, all my faculties, unite. 
To make thy glory their supreme delight; 
Forbid it, fountain of my brightest days, 
That I should rob thee, and usurp thy praise ! 

My soul ! rest happy in thy low estate, 
Nor hope, nor wish, to be esteem'd or great ; 
To take the impression of a will divine, 
Be that thy glory, and those riches thine. 

Confess him righteous in his just decrees, 
Love what he loves, and let his pleasure please ; 
Die daily ; from the touch of sin recede ; [deed. 
Then thou hast crown'd him, and he reigns in- 



SELF-LOVE AND TRUTH INCOM- 
PATIBLE. 

Fro.m thorny wilds a monster came, 
That fill'd my soul with fear and shame 
Tlie liirds, forgetful of their mirth ; 
Droop'd at the sight, and fell to earth ; 
When thus a sage address'd mine car, 
Himself unconscious of a fear : 

" Whence all this terror and surprise. 
Distracted looks and streaming eyes 1 
Far from the world and its aflairs, 
The joy it boasts, the pain it shares, 
Surrender, without guile or art, 
To God an undivided heart ; 
The savage form, so fear'd before, 
Shall scare your trembling soul no more ; 
For, loathsome as the sight may be, 
'Tis but the love of self you see. 
Fix all your love on God alone, 
Choose but his will, and hate your own ; 
No fear shall in your path be found. 
The dreary waste shall bloom around, 
And you, through all your happy days. 
Shall bless his name, and sing nis praise." 

Oh lovely solitude, how sweet 
The silence of this cahn retreat ! 
Here Truth, the fair whom I pursue. 
Gives all her beauty to my view ; 
The simple, unadorn'd display 
Charms every pain and fear away, 
O Truth, whom millions proudly sUght ; 
O Truth, my treasure and dcbght; 
Accept this tribute to thy name. 
And this poor heart from which it came I 



THE LOVE OF GOD, THE END OF LIFE 

Since life in sorrow must be spent, 
So be it— I am well content, 



698 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



And meekly wait my last remove, 
Seeking only growtii in love. 

No bliss I seek, but to fulfil 
In lite, in death, thy lovely will ; 
No succors in my woes I want, 
Save what thou art pleased to grant. 

Our days are number'd, let us spare 
Our anxious hearts a needless care : 
'Tis thine to number out our days ; 
Ours to give thejn to thy praise. 

Love is our only business here. 
Love, simple, constant, and sincere ; 
O blessed days thy servants see. 
Spent, Lord ! in pleasing thee 1 



LOVE FAITHFUL IN THE ABSENCE OF 
THE BELOVED. 

In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys, 
Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise ; 
Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow. 
Breathed forth in happier days, are irksome now ; 
Denied that smile 'twas once my heaven to see. 
Such scenes, such pleasures, are all past with me. 

In vain he leaves me, I shall love him still ; 
And though I mourn, not murmur at his will ; 
I have no cause —an object all divine. 
Might well grow weary of a soul like mine ; 
Yet pity me great God ! forlorn, alone, 
Heartless and hopeless, life and love all gone. 



LOVE PURE AND FERVENT. 

Jealods, and with love o'erflowmg, 
God demands a fervent heart ; 

Grace and bounty still bestowing. 
Calls us to a grateful jiart. 

Oh, then, with supreme affection 

His paternal will regard ! 
If it cost us some dejection, 

Every sigh has its reward. 

Perfect love has power to soften 
Cares that might our peace destroy, 

Nay, does more — transforms them often, 
Changing sorrow into joy. 

Sovereign love appoints the measure, 
And the number of our pains ; 

And is pleased when we find pleasure 
In the trials he ordains. 



THE ENTIRE SURRENDER. 

Peace has unveil'd her smiling face, 
And wooes thy soul to her embrace, 
Enjoy'd with ease, if thou refrain 
From earthly love, else sought in vain ; 
She dwells with all who truth prefer. 
But seeks not them who seek not her. 

Yield to the Lord with simple heart. 
All that thou hast, and all thou art ; 



Renounce all strength but strength divine ; 
And peace shall be Ibrever thine : 
Behold the path which I have trod, 
My path, till I go home to God. 



THE PERFECT SACRIFICE. 

I PLACE an offering at thy shrine, 
From taint and blemish clear, 

Simple and pure in its design. 
Of all that I hold dear. 

I yield thee back thy gills again, 
Thy gifts which most 1 prize ; 

Desirous only to retain 
The notice of thine eyes. 

But if by thine adored decree, 

That blessing be denied ; 
Resign'd, and unreluctant, see 

My every wLsh subside. 

Thy will in all things I approve, 

Exalted or cast down ; 
Thy will in every state I love, 

And even in thy frown. 



GOD HIDES HIS PEOPLE. 

To lay the soul that loves him low. 

Becomes the Only-wise ; 
To hide beneath a veil of woe. 

The children of the skies. 

Man, though a worm, would yet be great ; 

Though feeble, would seem strong; 
Assumes an independent state. 

By sacrilege and wrong. 

Strange the reverse, which, once abased. 
The haughty creature proves ! 

He feels his soul a barren waste, 
Nor dares affirm he loves. 

Scorn 'd by the thoughtless and the vain, 

To God he presses near ; 
Superior to the world's disdain. 

And happy in its sneer. 

Oh welcome, in his heart he says,- 

Humility and shame ! 
Farewell the wish for huuian praise, 

The music of a name ! 

But will not scandal mar the good 

That I might else perform 1 
And can God work it, if he would, 

By so despised a worm t 

Ah, vainly anxious! — leave the Lord 

To rule thee, and dispose ; 
Sweet is the mandate of his word, 

And gracious all he does. 

He draws from human littleness 

His grandeur and renown ; 
And generous hearts with joy confess 

The triumph all his own. 

Down then with sclf^exalting thoughts; 
Thy faith and hope employ. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



699 



To welcome nil that he allots, 
And sulTer shame with joy. 

No longer, then, thou wilt encroach 

On his eternal right; 
And he shall smile at thy approach, 

And make thee his delight. 



THE SECRETS OF DIVINE LOVE ARE 
TO BE KEPT. 

Sun! stay thy course, this moment stay — 

Suspend the o'crflowing tide of day, 

Divulge not such a love as mine. 

Ah ! hide the mystery divine ; 

Lest man, who deems my glory shame. 

Should learn the secret of my flame. 

O niglu ! propitious to my views, 
Thy sable awning wide diffuse ; 
Conceal alike my joy and pain. 
Nor draw thy curtain back again, 
Though morning, by the tears she shows, 
Seems to participate my woes. 

Ye stars ! whose faint and feeble fires 

Express my languishing desires, 

Whose slender beams per\'ade the skies, 

As silent as my secret sighs, 

Those emanations of a soul, 

That darts her fires beyond the Pole ; 

Your rays, that scarce assist the sight, 
That pierce, but not displace the night. 
That shine indeed, but nothing show 
Of all those various scenes below, 
Bring no disturbance, rather prove 
Incentives to a sacred love. 

Thou moon ! whose never-failing course 

Bespeaks a providential force. 

Go. tell the tidings of my flame 

To Him who calls the stars by name ; 

Whose absence kills, whose presence cheers ; 

Who blots, or brightens, all my years. 

While, in the blue abyss of space, 
Thine orb performs its rapid race ; 
Still whisper in his listening ears 
The language of my sighs and tears; 
Tell him, I seek him, far below, 
Lost in a wilderness of woe. 

Ye thought-composing, silent hours, 
Diffusing peace o'er all mv powers ; 
Friends of the pensive, who conceal, 
In darkest shades, the flames I feel; 
To you I trust, and safely may. 
The love that wastes my strength away. 

In sylvan scenes and caverns rude, 
I taste the sweets of solitude ; 
Retired indeed, but not alone, 
I share them with a spouse unknown, 
Who hides me here from envious eyes. 
From all intrusion and surprise. 

Imbowering shades and dens profound ! 
\Vh're echo rolls the voice around ; 
mountains ! whose elevated heads 
A moist and misty veil o'crspreads ; 
Disclose a solitary bride 
To liim I love — to none beside. 



Ye rills, that, murmuring all the way. 
Among the polish'd pebbles stray ; 
Creep silently along the ground, 
Lest, drawn by that harmonious sound. 
Some wanderer, whom I would not meet. 
Should stumble on my loved retreat. 

Ennmell'd meads, and hillocks green. 
And streams that water all the scene, 
Ye torrents, loud in distant cars, 
Ye fountains, that receive my tears. 
Ah ! still conceal, with caution due, 
A charge I trust to none but you ! 

If, when my pain and grief increase 
I seem to enjoy the sweetest peace, 
It is because I find so fair 
The charming object of my care, 
That I can sport ami pleasure make 
Of torment sufler'd for his sake. 

Ye meads and groves, unconscious things ! 
Ye know not whence my pleasure springs ; 
Ye know not, and ye cannot know. 
The source from which my sorrows flow : 
The dear sole cause of all I feel, — 
He knows, and understands them well. 

Ye deserts, where the wild beasts rove, 
Scenes sacred to my hours of love ; 
Ye forests, in whose shades I stray, 
Benighted under burning day ; 
Ah ! whisper not how blest am I, 
Nor while I live, nor when I die. 

Ye lambs, who sport liencath these shades, 

And bound along the mossy glades; 

Be taught a salutary fear, 

And cease to bleat when I am near ; 

The wolf may hear your harmless cry. 

Whom ye should dread as much as I. 

How calm, amid these scenes, my mind ! 

How perfect is the peace I find ! 

Oh hush, be still, my every part, 

Jly tongue, my pulse, my beating heart ! 

That love, aspiring to its cause. 

May suffer not a moment's pause. 

Ye swifVfinn'd nations, that abide 
In seas, as fathomless as wide ; 
And, unsuspicious of a snare. 
Pursue at large your pleasures there ; 
Poor sportive fools ! how soon does man 
Your heedless ignorance trepan. 

Away! dive deep into the brine. 
Where never yet sunk plummet line; 
Trust me, the vast leviathan 
Is merciful compared with man ; 
Avoid his arts, forsake the beach, 
And never play within his reach. 

My soul her bondage ill endures 

I punt for liberty like yours ; 

I long for that immense profound. 

That knows no bottom and no bound ; 

Lost in infinity, to prove 

The incompreliensible of love. 

Ye birds, that lessen as ye fly. 
And vanish in the distant sky ; 
To whom yon airy waste belongs. 
Resounding with your cheerful songs; 
Haste to escape from human sight ; 
Fear less the vulture and the kite. 



700 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



How blest and how secure am I, 
When quitting earth, I soar on high ; 
When lost like you I disappear, 
And float in a suBlimer sphere ; 
Whence falling, within human view, 
I am ensnared, and caught Uke you ! 

Omniscient God, whose notice deigns 
To try the heart and search the reins, 
Compassionate the numerous woes, 
I dare not, e'en to thee, disclose ; 
Oh save me from the cruel hands 
Of men, who fear not thy commands ! 

Love, all-subduing and divine. 
Care for a creature truely thine; 
Reign in a heart, disposed to own 
No sovereign but thyself alone ; 
Cherish a bride who cannot rove, 
Nor quit thee for a meaner love ! 



THE VICISSITUDES EXPERIENCED IN 
THE CHRISTIAN LIFE. 

I SOFFEU fruitless anguish day by day. 
Each moment, as it passes, marks my pain ; 
Scarce knowing whither, doubtfully I stray. 
And see no end of all that I sustain. 

The more I strive the more I am withstood ; 
Anxiety increasing every hour. 
My spirit finds no rest, performs no good, 
And nought remains of all my former power. 

My peace of heart is fled, I know not where ; 
My happy hours, like shadows, pass'd away ; 
Their sweet remembrance doubles all my care, 
Night darker seems, succeeding such a day. 

Dear faded joys and impotent regret, 
What profit is there in incessant tears 1 
Oh thou, whom, once beheld, we ne'er forget 
Reveal thy love, and banish all my fears ! 

Alas he flies me — treats me as his foe. 
Views not my sorrows, hears not when I plead ; 
Woe such as mine, despised, neglected woe. 
Unless it shortens life, is vain indeed. 

Pierced with a thousand wounds, I yet survive ; 
My pangs are keen, but no complaint transpires ; 
And whde in terrors of thy wrath I five, 
Hell seems to loose its less tremendous fires. 

Has hell a pain I would not gladly bear. 
So thy severe displeasure might subside 1 
Hopeless of ease, I seem already there. 
My life extinguish'd, and yet death denied. 

Is this the joy so promised — tliis the love. 
The unchanging love, so sworn in better days 1 
Ah ! dangerous glories ! shown me, but to prove 
How lovely thou, and I how rash to gaze. 

Why did I see them1 had I still remain'd 
Untaught, still ignorant how fair thou art, 
My huaibler wishes I had still obtain'd. 
Nor known the torments of a doubting heart. 

Deprived of all, yet feeling no desires, 
Whence then, I cry, the pangs that I sustain 1 
Dubious and unintbrm'd, my soul inquires. 
Ought she to cherish or shake off her pain 1 



Suffering, I suffer not — sincerely love. 
Yet feel no touch of that enlivening flame ; 
As chance inclines me, unconccrn'd I move. 
All times, and all events, to me the same. 

I search my heart, and not a wish is there 
But burns with zeal that hated self may fall ; 
Such is the sad disquietude I share, 
A sea of doubts, and self the source of all. 

I ask not life, nor do I wish to die ; 
And, if thine hand accomplish not my cure, 
I would not purchase with a single sigh 
A free discharge from all that I endure. 

I groan in chains, yet want not a release; 
Am sick, and know not the distemper'd part; 
Am just as void of purpose as of peace ; 
Have neither plan, nor fear, nor hope, nor heart. 

My clahn to life, though sought with earnest care, 
No light within me, or without me, shows ; 
Once I had faith, but now in self-despair 
Find my chief cordial and my best repose. 

My soul is a forgotten thing ; she sinks. 
Sinks and is lost, without a wish to rise ; 
Feels an indifference she abhors, and thinks 
Her name erased forever from the skies. 

Language affords not my distress a name, — 
Yet It is real and no sickly dream ; 
'Tis love inflicts it ; though to feel that flame 
Is all I know of happiness supreme. 

When love departs, a chaos wide and vast. 
And dark as hell, is open'd in the soul ; 
When love returns, the gloomy scene is past, 
No tempests shake her, and no fears control. 

Then tell me why these ages of delay 'i 
Oh love, all excellent, once more appear : 
Disperse the shades, and snatch Tiie into day. 
From this abyss of night, these floods of fear ! 

No — love is angry, will not now endure 
A sigh of mine, or suffer a complaint ; [cure ; 
He smites me, wounds me, and withholds the 
Exhausts my powers, and leaves me sick and 
faint. 

He wounds, and hides the hand that gave the 

blow ; 
He flies, he re-appears, and wounds again — 
Was ever heart that loved thee treated so 1 
Yet I adore thee, though it seem in vain. 

And wilt thou leave me, whom, when lost and 

blind. 
Thou didst distinguish and vouchsafe to choose. 
Before thy laws were written in my mind. 
While yet the world had all my thoughts and 

views 1 

Now leave me, when, cnamor'd of thy laws, 
I make thy glory my supreme delight ! 
Now blot me from thy register, and cause 
A faithful soul to perish from thy sight 1 

What can have caused the change which I de- 
Is it to prove me, if my heart be true 1 [plorc 1 
Permit me then, while prostrate I adore, 
To draw, and place its picture in thy view. 

'Tis thine without reserve, most simply thine ; 
So given to thee, that it is not my own ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



701 



A wiilini;; captive of thy j^racc divine ; 

And loves, and seeks thee, Ibr thyselt' alone. 

Pain cannot move it, danger cannot scare ; 
Pleasure and wealth, in its esteem, are dust ; 
It loves thee, e'en when least inclined to spare 
Its tendurest tcelinjxs, and avows thee just. 

'Tis all thine own ; my spirit is so too, 
An undivided ollerinj; at thy shrine ; 
It seeks thy glory with no double view, 
Thy glory with no secret bent to mine. 

Love, holy love ! and art thou not severe, 
To slight me, thus devoted, and thus fix'd 1 
Mine is an everlasting ardor, clear 
From all self-bias, generous and unmii'd. 

But I am silent, seeing what I sec — 
And fear with cause, that I am self-deceived; 
Not e'en my faith is from suspicion free, 
And that I love seems not to be believed. 

Live thou, and reign forever, glorious Lord ! 
My last, lea.sl ollVring I present thee now — 
Renounce me, leave me, and be still adored ! 
Slay me, my God, an<l I applaud the blow. 



VV.\TCUING UNTO GOD IN THE NIGHT 

SEASON, 

Sleep at last has fled these eyes. 
Nor do I regret his flight. 
More alert my spirits rise, 
And my heart is free and light. 

Nature silent all around, 
Not a single witness near; 
God as soon as sought is found , 
And the flame of love burns clear. 

Interruption, all day long, 
Checks the current of my joys ; 
Creatures press me with a throng, 
And perplex me with their noise. 

Undisturb'd I muse all night. 
On the first Eternal Fair ; 
Nothiijg there obstructs delight, 
Love is renovated there. 

Life, with its perpetual stir, 
Proves a foe to love and me ; 
Fresh entanglements occur — 
Comes the night and sets me free. 

Never more, sweet sleep, suspend 
My enjoyments, always new : 
Leave me to possess my friend ; 
Other eyes and hearts subdue. 

Hush the world that I may wake 
To the taste of pure delights ; 
Oh the pleasures I partake — 
God, the partner of my nights I 

David, for the selfsame cause, 
Night preferr'd to busy day; 
Hearts whom heavenly beauty draws. 
Wish the glaring sun away. 

Sleep, self-lovers is for you — 
Souls that love celestial know 
Fairer scenes by night can view 
Than the sun could ever show^ 



ON THE SAME. 

SEA.SON of my purest pleasure, 

Sealer of oh.serving eyes ! 
When, in larger, freer measure, 

I can commune with the skies; 
While, beneath thy shade extended. 

Weary man forgets his woes, 
I, my daily trouble ended, 

Find, in watching, my repose. 

Silence all around prevailing. 

Nature hush'd in slumber sweet. 
No rude noise mine ears assailing, 

Now my God and I can meet: 
Universal nature slumbers, 

And my soul partakes the calm. 
Breathes her ardor out in numbers. 

Plaintive song or lofty psalm. 

Now my passion, pure and holy. 

Shines and burns without restraint: 
Which the day's fatigue and folly 

Cause to languish, dim and taint : 
Charming hours of relaxation ! 

How I dread the a.scending sun! 
Surely, idle conversation 

Is an evil match'd by none. 

Worldly prate and babble hurt me ; 

Unintelligible prove ; 
Neither teach me nor divert me ; 

I have ears for none but love. 
Me they rude esti'cm, and foolish, 

Hearing my absurd replies ; 
I have neither art's fine polish, 

Nor the knowledge of the wise. 

Simple souls and unpolluted 

By conversing with the groat, 
Have a mind and taste ill suited 

To their dignity and state ; 
All their talking, reading, writing. 

Are but talents misapplied ; 
Infants' prattle I tielight in. 

Nothing human choose beside. 

'Tis the secret fear of sinning 

Checks my tongue, or I should say. 
When I see the night beginning, 

I am glad of parting day : 
Love this gentle admonition 

Whispers soft within my breast : 
" Choice befits not thy condition, 

Acquiescence suits thee best." 

Henceforth, the repose and pleasure 

Night aflbrds me 1 resign ; 
And thy will shall be the measure, 

Wisilom infinite ! of mine; 
Wishing is but inclination 

(Quarrelling with thy decrees; 
Wavward nature finds the occasion — 

'Tis her folly and disease. 

Night, with its sublime enjoyments, 

Now no longer will I choose ; 
Nor the day, with its employments, 

Irksouie as they seem, refuse; 
Lessons of a God's inspiring 

Neither time nor jilace impedes ; 
From our wishing and desinng 

0\ir unhappiness proceeds. 



702 COWPER' 


S WORKS. 


ON THE SAME. 


My rapid hours pursue the course 




Prescribed them by love's sweetest force, 


Night ! how I love thy silent shades, 


And I thy sovereign will. 


My spirits they compose ; 


Without a wish to escape my doom; 
Though still a sufferer from the womb, 


The bliss of heaven my soul pervades, 


In spite of all my woes. 


And doom'd to suffer still. 


While sleep instils her poppy dews 


By thy command, where'er I stray. 


In every slumbering eye. 


Sorrow attends me all my way. 


I watch to meditate and muse, 


A never-faiUng friend ; 


In blest tranquillity. 


And, if my sufferings may augment 




Thy praise, behold me well content — 


And when I feel a God immense 


Let sorrow still attend ! 


Familiarly impart, 




With every proof he can dispense 


It cost me no regret, that she, 


His tavor to my heart. 


Who follow'd Christ, should follow me, 




And though, where'er she goes. 


My native meanness I lament, 


Thorns spring spontaneous at her feet, 


Though most divinely fill'd 


I love her, and extract a sweet 


With all the ineffable content 


From all my bitter woes. 


That Deity can yield. 


Adieu ! ye vain delights of earth. 


His purpose and his course he keeps ; 


Insipid sports, and childish mirth, 


Treads all my reasonings down ; 


I taste no sweets in you ; 


Commands me out of nature's deeps, 


Unknown delights are in the cross. 


And hides me in his own. 


All joy beside to me is dross ; 




And Jesus thought so too. 


When in the du.st, its proper place, 
Our pride of heart we lay : 


The cross ! Oh ravishment and bliss — 


'Tis then a deluge of his grace 


How grateful e'en its anguish is; 


Bears all our sins away. 


Its bitterness how sweet ! 


There every sense, and all the mind, 


Thou whom I serve, and whose I am, 


In all her faculties refined. 


Whose influence from on high 


Tastes happiness complete. 


Refines, and still refines my flame, 
And makes my fetters fly. 


Souls once enabled to disdain 
Base sublunary joys, maintain 


How wretched is the creature's state 


Their dignity secure ; 


Who thwarts thy gracious power ; 
Crush'd under sin's enormous weight. 
Increasing every hour ! 


Tlie fever of desire is pass'd. 
And love has all its genuine taste, 
Is delicate and pure. 


The night, when pass'd entire with thee. 
How luminous and clear ! 


Self-love no grace in sorrow sees. 

Consults her own peculiar ease ; 

'Tis all the bliss she knows ; 


Then sleep has no delights for me, 
Lest thou shouldst disappear. 


But nobler aiins true Love employ ; 
In selt'-denial is her joy. 


My Saviour ! occupy me still 


In sufl'ering her repose. 


In this secure recess ; 


Sorrow and love go side by side ; 


Let reason slumber if she will. 


Nor height nor depth can e'er divide 


My joy shall not be less. 


Their heaven-appointed bands ; 




Those dear associates still are one, 


Let reason slumber out the night ; 


Nor till the race of life is run 


But if thou deign to make 
My soul the abode of truth and Ught, 


Disjoin their wedded hands. 


Ah, keep my heart awake ! 


Jesus, avenger of our fall, 




Thou faithful lover, above all 




The cross has ever borne 1 






Oh tell me,— life is in thy voice — 


THE JOY OF THE CROSS. 


How much alilictions were thy choice. 


Long plunged in sorrow, I resign 


And sloth and ease thy scorn ! 


My soul to that dear hand of tSine, 


Thy choice and mine shall be the same 


Without reserve or fear ; 


Inspirer of that holy flame, 


That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes; 


Which must Ibrever blaze ! 


Or into smiles of glad surprise 


To take the cross and follow thee. 


Transform the falling tear. 


Where love and duty load, shall be 


My sole possession is thy love ; 


My portion and my praise. 


In earth beneath, or heaven above, 




I have no other store; 
And, though with fervent suit I pray. 


JOY IN MARTYRDOM. 


And importune thee night and day. 


Sweet tenants of this grove 1 


I ask thee nothing more. 


Who sing without design, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GUION. 



703 



A sontT of artless love, 

In unison with mine : 
These echoing shades return 

Full many a note ot' ours, 
That wise ones cannot learn, 

With all Ihcir boasted powers. 

O thou ! whose sacred charms 

These hearts so seldom love, 
Although thy beauty waruis 

And blesses all al)Ove ; 
How slow are human things. 

To clioose their happiest lot ! 
All-glorious King of kings, 

Say why we love ihec not 1 

This heart, that cannot rest. 

Shall thine forever prove ; 
Though bleeding and distrcss'd. 

Yet joyful in thy love: 
'Tis happy though it breaks 

Beneath thy chastening hand; 
And speechless, yet it speaks, 

What thou canst understand. 



SIMPLE TRUST. 

Stilt,, still, without ceasing, 

I feel it increasing. 
This fervor of holy desire ; 

And often exclaim. 

Let me die in the flame 
Of a love that can never expire I 

Had I words to explain 

What she must sustain 
Who dies to the world and its ways; 

How joy and afl'right. 

Distress and ilehght. 
Alternately chequer her days : 

Thou, sweetly severe ! 

I would make thee appear, 
In all thou art pleased to award, 

Not more in the sweet 

Than the bitter I meet 
My tender and niercit'ul Lord. 

This faith, in the dark, 

Pursuing its mark. 
Through many sharp trials of love, 

Is the sorrowful waste 

That is to be pass'd 
On the way to tlie Canaan above. 



THE NECESSITY OF SELF-ABASEMENT. 

Source of love, my brighter sun, 
Thou alone my comfort art ; 
•Sec, my race is almost run : 
Hast thou left this trembling heart 1 

In my youth thy charming eyes 
Urcw me from ilie ways of men ; 
Then I drank unmingled joys ; 
Frown of thine saw never then. 

Spouse of Christ was then my name ; 
And, devoted all to thee. 
Strangely jealous I became. 
Jealous of this self ia me. 



Thee to love, and none beside. 
Was my darling, sole en)ploy ; 
While alternately I died. 
Now of grief, and now of joy. 

Through the dark and silent night 
On thy radiant sniilcs I dwelt ; 
And to see the dawning light 
Was the keenest pain 1 telt. 

Thou my gracious teacher wert; 
And thine eye. so close applied. 
While it wateh'd thy jiupil s heart, 
Scem'd to look at none beside. 

Conscious of no evil drift. 
This, I cried, is love indeed — 
'Tis the giver, not the gift. 
Whence the joys I feel proceed. 

But. soon humbled and laid low, 
Stript of all thou hadst conferr'd. 
Nothing left but sin and woo, 
I perceived how I had err'd. 

Oh, the vain conceit of man. 
Dreaming of a good his own. 
Arrogating all he can, 
Though the Lord is good alone ! 

He the graces thou hast wrought 
Makes subservient to his pride ; 
Ignorant that one such thought 
Passes all his sin beside. 

Such liis folly — proved, at last 
By the loss of that repose. 
Self-complacence cannot taste. 
Only love divine bestows. 

'Tis by this reproof severe. 
And by this reproof alone. 
His defects at last appear, 
Man is to himself made known. 

Learn, all earth ! that feeble man, 
Sprung from this terrestrial clod. 
Nothing is, and nothing can ; 
Life and power are all in God. 



LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING. 

"I i.nvE the Lord." is still the strain ' 

This heart delights to sing : 
But I reply — your thoughts are vain. 

Perhaps 'tis no such thing. 

Before the power of love divine 

Creation fades away ; 
Till only God is seen to shine 

In all that we survey. 

In gulfs of awful night we find 

The God of our desires ; 
'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind. 

And doubles all its fires. 

Flames of encircling love invest. 

And pierce it sweetly through ; 
'Tis fdled with sacred joy, yet press'd 

With sacred sorrow too. 

Ah love ! ray heart is in the right — 
Aaiidst a thousand woes, 



704 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



To thee, its ever new delight, 
And all its peace it owes. 

Fresh causes of distress occur 

Where'er I look or move ; 
The comforts I to all prefer 

Are solitude and love. 

Nor exile I nor prison fear ; 

Love makes my courage great ; 
I find a Saviour everywhere, 

His grace in every state. 

Nor castle walls, nor dungeons deep. 
Exclude his quickening beams ; 

There I can sit, and sing, and weep. 
And dwell on heavenly themes. 

There sorrow, for his sake, is found 

A joy beyond compare ; 
There no presumptuous thoughts abound, 

No pride can enter there. 

A Saviour doubles all my joys, 

And sweetens all my pains, 
His strength in my defence employs, 

Consoles me and sustains. 

I fear no ill, resent no wrong ; 

Nor feel a passion move, 
When malice whets her slanderous tongue ; 

Such patience is in love. 



SCENES FAVORABLE TO MEDITATION. 

Wii.D.s horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees. 

Rocks that ivy and briers infold. 
Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees. 

But I with a pleasure untold j 

Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude, 
I am chann'd with the peace ye afford ; 

Your shades are a temple where none will intrude. 
The abode of my lover and Lord. 

I am sick of thy splendor, O fountain of day, 
And here I am hid from its beams, 

Here safely contemplate a brighter display 
Of the noblest and holiest of themes. 

Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose, 
Where stillness and soUtude reign. 

To you I securely and boldly disclose 
The dear anguish of which I complain. 



Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot 
By the world and its turbulent throng. 

The birds and the streams lend me many a note 
That aids meditation and song. 

Here, wandering in scenes that are sacred to night, 
Love wears me and wastes me away. 

And often the sun has spent much of his light 
Ere yet I perceive it is day. 

While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere 

My sorrows are sadly rehearsed. 
To me the dark hours are all equally dear, 

And the last is as sweet as the first. 

Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree, 
Mankind are the wolves that I fear. 

They grudge me my natural right to be free, 
But nobody questions it here. 

Though little is found in this dreary abode 

That appetite wishes to find, 
My spirit is soothed by the presence of God, 

And appetite wholly resign'd. 

Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude led. 

My hfe I in praises employ, [shed 

And scarce know the source of the tears that I 
Proceed they from sorrow or joy. 

There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern, 

I feel out my way in the dark, 
Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn, 

Yet hardly distinguish the spark. 

I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead, 

Such a riddle is not to be found, 
I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed, 

I have nothing, and yet I abound. 

Oh love ! who in darkness art pleased to abide. 

Though dimly, yet surely I see 
That these contrarieties only reside 

In the soul that is cho.sen of thee. 

Ah ! send me not back to the race of mankind. 

Perversely by folly beguiled. 
For where, in the crowds I have left, shall I find 

The spirit and heart of a child 1 

Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free ; 

A little one whom they despise. 
Though lost to the world, if in union with thee. 

Shall be holy, and happy, and wise. 



TRANSLATIONS 



LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON. 



TO CHARLES DEODATI. 

At length, my friend, the far-sent letters come, 
Chargcil with thy kindness, to their destined 

home ; 
They come, at length, from Deva's Western side, 
Where prone she seeiis the salt Vcrgivian tide. 
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, 
Thougli horn of Ibreign race, yet born for me. 
And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam, 
Must seek agam so soon iiis wonted home, 
I well conleht, where Thames with influent tide 
My native city laves, meantime reside. 
Nor zeal nor duly now my steps impel 
To reeily Cam. and my forbidden cell. 
Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, 
That to the musing bard all shade deny. 
'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain. 
.■\nd tlv from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. 
If peacel'ul days, in lettcr'd leisure spent 
Beneath my father's roof be banishment. 
Then call mc banish'd, I will ne'er refuse 
A name expressive of the lot I choose. 
I would that, exiled to the Pontic shore, 
Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more. 
He then had equall'd even Homers lays, 
Ami. Virgil ! thou hadst won but second praise : 
For here 1 woo the muse, with no control, 
And here my books — my life — absorb mc whole. 
Here too I visit, or to smile or weep. 
The winding theatre's majestic sweep ; 
The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits 
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits; 
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir, 
Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there. 
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause, 
Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws. 
The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire, 
.And. artful, speeds the enamor'd son's desire. 
There, virgins oil, unconscious what they prove, 
What love is know not yet, unknowing, love. 
Or, if impassion'd tragedy wiehl high 
The blooily sceptre, give her locks to fly. 
Wild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye, 
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief. 
At times, e'en hitler tears yield sweet relief, 
As, when froTn bliss untastcd torn away. 
Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day; 
Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below, 
Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe; 



When Troy, or .4rgos, the dire scene affords, 
Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. 
Nor always citv-pent, or pent at home, 
I dwell ; but, wlhen spring calls me forth to roam, 
F,xpatiate in our proud suburban shades 
Of branching elm that never sun pervades. 
Here many a virgin troop I may descry. 
Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. 
Oh forms divine ' oh looks that might inspire 
F.'cn Jove himself grown old. with young desire, 
Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes, 
Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies ; 
Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestowd 
By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road ! [low, 

Bright locks, love's golden snare ! these falling 
Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow ! 
Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after 

shower 
.Vdonis turn'il to Flora's favorite flower ! 
■^'ield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the 

embrace 
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place I 
Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast! 
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast I 
Submit, ye nymphs of Greece ! ye, once the 

bloom 
Of Ilion ! and all ye, of haughty Rome, 
Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains 
Redundant, and ,still live in classic strahis ! 
To British ilamsels beauty's palm is due ; 
Aliens ! to follow them is fame for you. 
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands, 
Whose towering front the circling realm com- 

mands, 
Too blest abode ! no loveliness we see 
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee. 
The virgin multitude that daily meets. 
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, 
Outnumbers all her train of starry fires 
With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. 
Fame says that, wafted hither by her doves, 
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, 
Venus, nrelerring Paphian scenes no more, 
Has fix d her empire on thy nobler shore. 
But, lest the sightless boy enforce ray stay. 
I leave these happy walls while yet I may. 
Immortal Jloly shall secure my heart 
From all the sorcery of Circiean art. 
And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools. 
To face once more the warfare of the schools. 
]\Ieantime accept this trifle ! rhymes though few. 
Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true ! 
45 



706 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ELEGY M. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY 
BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE. 

Thf.e, whose refulgent staff and summons clear 
Minerva's flock long time ^vas wont to obey, 

Although thyself a herald, famous here. 

The last of heralds, death, has snatch'd away. 

He calls on all alike, nor even deigns 

To spare the otBce that himself sustains. 

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd 
By Leda's paramour in ancient time ; 

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd, 
Or, -Eson-like, to know a second prime, 

Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won 

New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son. 

Commission'd to convene with hasty call [stand ! 

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou 
So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, 

Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command ! 
And so Eurybates, when he address'd 
To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest. 

Dread queen of sepulchres ! whose rigorous laws 
And watchful eyes run through the realms 

Oh, oft too adverse to Minerva's cause ! [below, 
Too often to the muse not less a toe ! 

Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim 

Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its 
shame ! 

Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye, 
All ye disciples of the muses, weep ! 

Assembling all in robes of sable dye. 

Around his bier lament his endless sleep! 

And let complaining Elegy rehearse 

In every school her sweetest, saddest verse. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OP 
WINCHESTER. 

Silent I sat, dejected and alone, 

Making, in thought, the public woes my own, 

When first arose the image in my breast 

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the pest ! 

How Death, his funeral torch and scythe in 

hand, 
Entering the lordliest mansions of the land. 
Has laid the gem-illumined palace low. 
And levell'd tribes of nobles at a blow. 
I next deplored the tamed paternal pair, 
Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air! 
The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies. 
All Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs; 
But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most. 
Winton's chief shepherd, and her worthiest 

boast ! 
Pour d out in tears I thus complaining said : 
'■Death, next in power to Him who rules the 

dead ! 
Is it not enough that all the woodlands yield 
To thy fell force, and every verdant field ; 
That lilies, at one noi^oaie blast of thine. 
And e'en the Cyprian queen's own roses pine; 
That oaks themselves, although the running rill 
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will ; 
That all the winged nations, even those 
Whose heaven-directed flight the future shows. 



And all the beasts that in dark forests stray, 
And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey. 
Ah envious ! arm'd with powers so unconfined ! 
Why stain thy hands with blood of human kind ! 
Why take delight, with darts that never roam, 
To chase a heaven-born spirit from her h&me ?" 
While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening 
stood, 
Now newly risen above the western flood, 
And Phcebus from his morning goal again 
Had reach'd the gulfs of the Iberian main. 
I wish'd repose, and. on my couch reclined. 
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd : 
When — oh for words to paint what I beheld ! 
I seem'd to wander in a spacious field, 
Where all the champaio-n glow'd with purple 

Like that ot sunrise on the mountain height ; 
Flowers over all the field, of every hue 
That ever Iris wore. luxuriant grew. 
Nor Chloris, with whom amorous Zephyrs play, 
E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. 
A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'd 
O'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold ; 
With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers, 
With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers. 
Such, poet's feign, irradiated all o'er 
The sun's abode on India's utmost shore. 

While I that splendor, and the mingled shade 
Of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey'd. 
At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, 
The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
His snowy vesture's hem descending low, 
His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow 
New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow. 
Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound 
Of gladness shook the flowery scene around : 
Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings; 
Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast, 
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest: 
" Ascend, ray son ! thy Father's kingdom share ! 
My son ! hencetbrth be freed from every care!" 

So spake the voice, and at its tender close 
With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose ; 
Then night retired, and, chased by dawning 

The visionary bliss pass'd all away. 

I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern ; 

Frequent to me may dreams like this return ! 



ELEGY IV. 

TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG, 

CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT 
HAMBURGH. 

Hence, my epistle — skim the deep — fly o'er 
Yon smooth expanse to the Tuetonic shore ! 
Haste — lest a friend should grieve for thy delay — 
And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy 

way ! 
I will myself invoke the king who binds 
In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds, 
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng 
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along. 
But rather, to ensure thy happier haste, 
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou mayst; 
Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore 
Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



707 



Tlie sands that line the Gennan coast descried, 

To opulent Haniburj;a turn aside ! 

So cail'd, if Icm'nilary t'umc be true. 

l-'roiii llama, whom a eluli-arm'd Cimbrian slew ! 

There lives deep Icarn'd and primitively just, 

A faithful steward of his Christian trust, 

My t'riend. and favorite inmate of my heart, 

That now is forceil to want its better part ! 

What mountains now, and seas, alas ! how wide I 

From me this other, dearer self divide, 

Dear as the sape rcnown'd for moral truth 

To the prime spirit of the Attic youth ! 

Dear as the Stairyrite to Amnion's son, 

His pupil, who disdain'd tlic world lie won ! 

Nor so did Chiron, or so Phfcni-V siiinc 

In young AchilLs' eyes, as he in mine. 

First led by him tlirough sweet Aonian shade, 

Each sacred haunt of Pindus I surveyed ; 

And, lavor'd by the muse, whom I implored, 

Thriee on my lip the hallow'd stream I pour'd. 

But thriee the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd 

To Aries, has new tinged his fleece with gold. 

And Chloris twice has dre.ss'd the meadows 

.\nd twice has summer parch d their bloom away, 
J*linee last delighted on his looks I hung 
Or my ear drank the music of his tongue : 
Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed; 
Aware thyself that there is urgent need ! 
Him. entering, thou shalt haply seated see 
Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee; 
Or turning, page by page, with studious look, 
Some bulky I'ather. or (Jotl's holy book ; 
Or ministering (which is his weightiest care) 
To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare. 
Give him, whatever his employment be. 
Such gratulation as he claims from me! 
And, with a downcast eye. and carririgc meek, 
Addressing him, forget not thus to speak : 

"Ifcompass'd round with arms thou canst at- 
tend 
To verse, verse greets thee from a distant Iriend. 
Long due, and late, I left the English shore; 
But make me welcome for that cause the more ! 
Such from Ulysses, his chaste wite to cheer. 
The slow epistle came, though late sincere. 
But wherefore this 1 why palliate I the deed 
For which the culprit's self could hardly plead ? 
Seli-charged. and self-condemned, his proper part 
He I'eels neglected, with an aching heart ; 
But thou forgive — delinquents, who confess, 
And ]iray forgiveness, merit anger less ; 
Froai timid foes the lion turns away. 
Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey. 
E'en pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare. 
Won by soft influence of a suppliant prayer; 
And heaven's dread thunderbolt arrested stands 
By a cheap victim anil uphlled hands 
Long hiid he wished to write, but was withheld. 
And writes at last, by love alone compell'd. 
For fame, too otlen tru ', when she alarms. 
Reports thy neigtiboring fields a scene of arms ; 
Thc^ city against fierce besiegers barr'd, 
And all the Sa.xon chiefs for fight prepared. 
Enyo wastes thy country wide around, 
.^nd salui Ills with blood the tainted ground; 
Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more. 
But goads his steeds to fields of German gore, 
The ever verdant olive fades and dies, 
And Peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies. 
Flies from that earth which justice long had leil, 
And leaves the world of its last guard bereft." 



Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime 
alone 
Thou dvvell'st, and helpless, in a soil unknown ; 
Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand 
The aid dt.-nied thee in thy native land. 
Oh. ruthless country, and unfeeling more 
Than thy own liillow-bcatcn chalky shore ! 
Leavest tiiou to Ibreign care the worthies given 
By Providence to guide thy steps to heaven"? 
His ministers, commissioned to proclaim 
Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name ! 
.\h then most worthy, with a soul unfed, 
In Stygian night to lie t'orcvcr dead ! 
So once the venerable Tishbite stray 'd 
An exiled fugitive from sliade to sliade, 
When, flying .\hab and his fury wife, 
In lone Arabian wilds he shelter'd lije ; 
.So from Philippa wander'd forth forlorn, 
Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn; 
And Christ hiaiself, so left, and trod no more 
The thankless Gergesene's t'orbidden shore. 

But thou take courage ! strive against despair ! 
Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care ! 
Griin war indeed on every side appears, 
.\nil thou art menaced by a thousand spears; 
Vet none shall drink thy blood, or shall ofl'end 
E'en the del'enceless bosom of my friend. 
For thee the .'Egis of thy God shall hide, 
Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side. 
The same who vanquish'd under Sion's towers 
At silent midnight all .Assyria's powers. 
The same who overthrew in ages past 
Damascus' sons that laid Samaria waste! 
Their king he liU'd and them with fatal fears, 
By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears. 
Of hoois, and wheels, and neighings from afar, 
Ot' clashing armor, and the din of war. 

Thou, therelbre, (as the most afflicted may), 
.Still hope, and triumph o'er thy evil day ! 
Look forth, expecting happier times to come, 
And to enjoy, once more, thy native home ! 



ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Time, never wandering l"rom his annual round. 
Bids zephyr breathe tile spring and thaw the 

ground ; 
Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, 
Aiu] earth assumes her transient youth ai»ain. 
Dream I, or also to the spring befonir 
Increase of genius, and new powers of sonir 1 
Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it 

seems. 
Impels me now to some harmonious themes. 
Castaha's Ibuntain and the forked hill 
By day, by night, my raptured fancy fill; 
My bosom l>urns and heaves, I hear within 
A sacred sound that prompfs me to begin, 
Lo ! Phcebus comes, with his bright hair he 

blends 
The r^vliant laurel wreath ; Phoebus descends ! 
I mount, and undepress'd by cumbrous clay, 
Through cloudy regions win mv easy way; 
Rapt through po'tic shadowy' haunts I fly : 
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye. 
My spirit searches all the realms of light. 
And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight. 
But this ecstatic trance — this glorious storm 
Of inspiration — what will it perlbrm? 



708 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Spring claims the verse that with his influence 

glows, 
And shall be paiJ with what himself bestows. 

Thou, veil'd with opening tbliags, lead'st the 
throng 
Of feather'd minstrels. Philomel ! in song ; 
Let us, in concert, to the season sing, 
Civic and sylvan heralds of the spring ! 

With notes triumphant spring s approach de- 
clare ! 
To spring, ye muses, annual tribute bear! 
The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains. 
The sun now northward turns his golden reins ; 
Night creeps not now ; yet rules with gentle 

sway, 
And drives her dusky horrors swift away ; 
Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain 
Bootes follows his celestial wain ; 
And now the radiant sentinels above, 
Less numerous, watch around the courts of Jove, 
For with the night, force, ambush, slaughter 

And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. 
Now, haply says some shepherd, while he views, 
Recumbent on a rock, the reddening dews. 
This night, this, surely, Phoebus mi.«s'd the fair, 
Who stops his chariot by her amorous care. 
Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow. 
Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow; 
Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear, 
Blesses his aid, who shortens her career. 
Come — Phcebus cries — Aurora come — too late 
Thou lingerest, slumbering, with thy wither'd 

mate ; 
Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair ! 
Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. 
The goddess with a blush her love betrays, 
But mounts, and, driving rapidly, obeys. 
Earth now desires thee, Phoebus ! and, to engage 
Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age ; 
Desires thee, and deserves ; for who so sweet 
When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat 1 
Her breath imparts to every breeze that blows 
Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose. 
Her lofty front she diadems around 
With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd 
Her dewy locks with various flowers new blown 
She interweaves, various, and all her own ; 
For Proserpine, in such a wreath attired, 
Tffinarian Dis himself with love inspired. 
Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse ! 
Herself, with all her sighing zephyrs, sues ; 
Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing, 
And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. 
Nor, uncndow'd and indigent, aspires 
The amorous Earth to engage thy warm desires. 
But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim, 
Divine Physician ! to that glorious name. 
If splendid recompense, if gifts, can move 
Desire in tbee, (gifts otien purchase love,) 
She offers all the wealth her mountains hide. 
And all that rests beneath the boundless tide. 
How oft, when headlong from the heavenly 

steep 
She sees thee playing in the western deep, ' 
How oft she cries — " Ah Phoebus, why repair 
Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there 1 
Can Tethys win thee t wherefore shouldst thou 

lave 
A face so fair in her unpleasant wave 1 
Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose 
To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews. 



The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest ; 
Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast. 
And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose, 
Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose ! 
No fears I feel like Semele to die. 
Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh, 
For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest, 
And lay thy evening glories on my breast !" 
Thus breathes the wanton Earth her amorous 

flame. 
And all her countless oflTspring feel the same ; 
For Ci-pid now through every region strays. 
Brightening his faded fires with solar rays ; 
His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier 

sound. 
And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound ; 
Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried. 
Nor even Vesta at her altar-side ; 
His mother too repairs her beauty's wane, 
And seems sprung newly from the deep again. 
Exulting youths the hymeneal sing. 
With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys 

ring ; 
He, new-attired, ami by the season drest. 
Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest. 
Now many a golden-cinctured virgin roves 
To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, 
All wish, and each alike, some favorite youth 
Hers, in the bonds of hymeneal truth. 
Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again, 
Nor Phillis wants a song that suits the strain ; 
With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere, 
And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear ; 
Jove feels himself the season, sports again 
With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train. 
Now too the satyrs, in the dusk of eve. 
Their mazy dance through flowery meadows 

weave. 
And, neither god nor goat, but both in kind, 
Silvanus, wreathed with cypress, skips behind. 
The dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells 
To roam the banks and solitary dells ; 
Pan riots now ; and from his amorous chafe 
Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe. 
And Faunus, all on tire to reach the prize, 
In chase of some enticing oread flies; 
She bounds bef'ore, but fears too swill a bound. 
And hidden lies, but wishes to be found. 
Our shades entice the immortals from above, 
.4nd some kind power presides o'er every grove ; 
And long, ye powers, o'er every grove preside, 
For all is saf'e, and blest, where ye abide ! 
Return, O Jove! the age of gold restore — 
Why choose to dwell where storms and thunder 

roar ? 
At least thou, Phoebus I moderate thy speed ! 
Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed. 
Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole 
Too soon to night's encroaching, long control ! 



ELEGY VI. 

TO CHARLES DEODATI, 

Wlio, while he spent his Christmas in the couutr>', sent 
the Aulhor a poetical epistle, in which he requested 
that his verses, if not so good as usual, iuif,'ht bo ex- 
cused on accotmt of the many feasts to which his friends 
invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to 
Huish them as he wished. 

With no rich viands overcharged, I send [friend. 
Health, which perchance you want, my panipcr'd 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



709 



But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away 
From what slie loves, from ilurkness into day ? 
Art tliou desirous to be told Iiow well 
I love thee, and in verse I verse cannot tell. 
For verse has bounds, and must in measure 

move ; 
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love. 
How pleasant, in thy lines described, appear 
December's harmless sports and rural eheer! 
French spirits kindling with cerulean (ires, 
And all such gambols as the time inspires ! 

Think not that wine against good verse offends, 
The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends ; 
Nor Phcebus blushes sometimes to be found 
With i\y, rather than with laurel, crown'd. 
The Nine themselves otllimes have join'd the 

song 
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng ; 
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air [there. 
Sing sweetly — why? — no vine would flourish 
What in brief numbers sung .Vnacrcon's muse 1 
Wine, and the rose that sparkling wine bedews. 
Pindar with Bacchus glows — his every line 
Breathes the rich iraCTancc of inspiring wine, 
While, with loud crash oerturned, tiie chariot lies, 
And brown with dust the tiery courser flies. 
The Roman lyrist steep il in wine his lays 
So sweet in Glyccra's and Chloe's praise. 
Now too the plenteous feast and mantling bowl 
Nourish the vigor of thy sprightly soul ; 
The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow, 
And casks not wine alone l)ut verse bestow. 
Thus Phcebus favors, and the arts attend, 
Whom Bacchus anil whom Ceres both befriend. 
What wonder, then, thy verses are so sweet. 
In which these triple powers so kindly meet ! 
The lute now also sounds with gold inwrought, 
And. touch'd with flying fingers nicely t.iugnt. 
In tapestried halls, high roof "d, the sprightly lyre 
Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. 
If dull repletion fright the muse away. 
Sights gay as these may more invite her stay j 
And, trust me, while the ivory keys resound. 
Fair damsels sport, and perfume steam around, 
Apollo's influence, like ethereal flame, 
.Shall aniaiate, at once, thy glowing frame. 
And all the muse shall rush into thy breast, 
By love and music's blended powers possest. 
For numerous powers light Fjlegy befriend, 
Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend ; 
Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve, 
And, with his blushing mother, aonllr. Love. 
Hence to such bards we grant the copious use 
Of banquets and the vine's delicious juice. 
But they who demigods and heroes praise. 
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful days, 
^\ ho now the counsels of high heaven explore. 
Now shades that echo the Cerbercan roar, 
Simply let these, like him of Samos. live, 
Lf:t licrbs to them a !)loodless banquet give; 
In beechcn goblets let their beverage shine, 
Cool from tile crystal spring, tiieir sober wine ! 
Their youth should pass in innocence secure 
From stain licentious, and in nmnners pure. 
Pure as the priest, when robed in whiti? he stands. 
The fresh lustration ready in his hanils. 
Thus Linus lived, and thus, as poets write, 
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight ; 
Thus exiled Chalcas thus the Bard of Thrace, 
Melodious tamer of the savage race; 
Thus train'd by temperance. Homer led, of yore, 
His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore, 



Through magic Circe's monster-peopled reign. 
And shoals insidious with the syren train ; 
And through the realms where grizzly spectres 

dwell. 
Whose tribes he fctter'd in a gory spell ; 
For these are sacred bands, and from above 
Drink large mfusions from the mind of Jove. 

Wouldst thou, (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine 
ear,) 
Wouldst thou be told my occupation here ? 
The promised King of Peace employs my pen, 
The eternal covenant made for guilty men. 
The new-born Deity with infant cries 
Filling the sordid hovel where he lies ; 
The hymning angels, and the herald star, 
That led the wise, who sought him from afar, 
And idols on their own unhallow'd shore 
Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more, 

This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse : 
The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse; 
Verse that, reserved in secret, shall attend 
Thy candid voice, my critic and my friend ! 



ELEGY VII. 

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires 

That .4mathusia's smiling queen inspires, 

Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts. 

And scorn'tl his claim to rule all human hearts. 

'• Go, child," I said, " transfix the timorous dove ! 

.■\n easy conquest suits an intant love ; 

Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be 

Suflicient triumph to a chief like thee ! 

Why aim thy idle arms at human kiml 1 

Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind." 

The Cyprian heard, and, kindling info ire, 
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire. 

It was the spring, and newly risen day 
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the first of May; 
My eyes, too tender for the blaze of light, 
Still sought the shelter of retiring night. 
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes 

array'd. 
The insidious god his rattling darts betray'd, 
Nor less his int'ant I'eatures, and the sly, 
.Swcft intiniations of his threatening eye. 

Sui-ii (he .Sigrian boy is seen above, , 

Filling Hie goblet for imperial Jove ; [charms, 
Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow'd t'lieir 
Hylas, who perish'd in a naiad's arms. 
Angry he seem'd. yet graceful in his ire. 
And added threats not destitute of fire. 
'' My power," he said, " by others' pain alone, 
Twere best to learn ; now learn it by tby own ! 
\Vitli those that feel my power, that power attest, 
.And in thy anguish be my sway contest ! 
I vani|uisird Phoebus though returning vain 
From his new triumph o'er the Python slain, 
And, wh( n he thinks on Daphne, even he 
Will yield the prize of archery to me. 
A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped. 
Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled: 
Li'ss true the expert Cydonian, and less true 
The youth whose shaft his latent Procris slew. 
Vanijuish'd by me see huge Orion bend, 
By me .\lcidcs, and Alcides' friend. 
At me shoulil Jove himself a bolt design. 
His bosom first should bleed, transfix'd by mine. 
But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain. 
Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain. 



710 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Thy muse, vain youth ! shall not thy peace en- 
sure, 
Nor Phffibus' serpcnl yield thy wound a cure." 

He spoke, and, waving a bright shall in air, 
SoULj'ht tlie warm bosom of the Cyprian fair. 

That thus a child should bluster in my ear, 
Provoked my laughter more than moved my fear. 
I shunn'd not, therefore, pubhc haunts, but 

stray'd 
Careless in city or suburban shade, 
And, passing and repassing nymphs, that moved 
With grace tlivine. beheld where'er I roved. 
Bright shone the vernal day with double blaze 
As beauty gave new force to Phoebus' rays. 
By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed 
The dangerous show, rash youth my only guide, 
And many a look of many a lair unknown 
Met full, unable to control my own. 
But one I mark'd, (then peace forsook my breast,) 
One— Oh how far superior to the rest ! 
What lovely features ! Such the Cyprian queen 
Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien. 
The very nymph was she, whom, when I dared 
His arrows, Love had even then prepared ! 
Nor was liimself remote, nor unsupplied 
With torch well trimm'd and quiver at his side j 
Now to her lips he clung, her eyelids now. 
Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow ; 
And with a thousand wounds from every part 
Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart. 
A fever, new to me, of fierce desire 
Now seized my soul, and I was all on i^re ; 
But she, the while, whom only I adore. 
Was gone, and vanish'd, to appear no more. 
In silent sadness 1 pursue my way ; 
I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay. 
And while I follow her in thought, bemoan 
With tears my soul's delight so quickly flown. 
When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast, 
So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost. 
And so fficiides, sinking into night, 
From the deep gulf looked up to distant light. 

Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain. 
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain 1 
O could I once, once more, behold the fair, 
Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear; 
Perhaps she is not adamant ; would show. 
Perhaps, some pity at my tale of woe. 
Oh inauspicious flame — 'tis mine to prove 
A matchless instance of disastrous love. 
Ah, spare me, gentle power ! — If such thou be, 
Let not thy deeds and nature disagree. 
Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine 
With vow and sacrifice, save only thine. 
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts ; 
Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. 
Remove ! no — grant me still this raging woe I 
Sweet is the wretchedness that lovers know : 
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see 
One destined mine) at once both her and me. 
Such were the trophies that, in earlier days, 
By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise ; 
Studious, yet indolent, and urged by youth, 
That worst of teachers, from the ways of truth ; 
Till Learning taught me in his shady bower 
To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his power. 
Then, on a sudden the fierce flame supprest, 
A frost continual settled on my breast. 
Whence Cupid fears his flame e.xtinct to see, 
And Venus dreads a Diomede in me. 



EPIGRAMS. 

ON THE INVENTOR OP GUNS. 

Pralse in old time the sage Prometheus won, 
Who stole etherial radiance from the sun ; 
But greater he, whose bold invention strove 
To ejnulate the liery bolts of Jove. 

[The poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason 
I h.ive not translated, both because the matter of them is 
unpleasant, and because they are written with an asper- 
ity, which, however it might be warranted in Millun's 
day, would be extremely unseasonable now.] 



TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME.* 

Another Leonora once inspired 
Tasso with fatal love, to frenzy fired ; 
But how much happier, lived he now, were he, 
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of thee ! 
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine. 
With Adriana's lute of sound divine, 
Fiercer than Pentheus' though his eye might roll. 
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul. 
You still, with medicinal sounds might cheer 
His senses wandering in a blind career ; 
And, sweetly breathing through his wounded 
breast, [rest. 

Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to 

TO THE SAME. 

Naples, too credulous, ah ! boast no more 

The sweet-voiced syren buried on thy shore. 

That, when Parthenope deceased, she gave 

Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave. 

For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse 

Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course. 

Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains 

Of magic song both gods and men detains. 



THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. 



A PEASANT to his lord paid yearly court, 
Presenting pippins of so rich a sort. 
That he, displeased to have a part alone, 
Removed the tree, that all might be his own. 
The tree, too old to travel, though before 
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. 
The 'squire, perceiving all his laiior void, 
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly etnploy'd, 
And, " Oh," he cried, ■■ that I had lived content 
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant! 
My avarice has expensive proved to me, 
Has cost me both ray pippins and my tree." 



TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, 
WITH CROMWELL'S PICTURE. 

Christina, maiden of heroic mien! 
Star of the North ! of northern stars the queen ! 
Behold what wrinkles I have earn'd, and how 
The iron casque still chafes my veteran brow, 

* I have translated only two of the three poetical com- 
pliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me 
fur superior to what I have omitted. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



711 



While following Fate's dark footsteps, I fulfil 
The (liotati's ol' a hardy people's will. 
But sortrn'd in thy sight my looks appear, 
Not to all queens or kings alike severe. 



ON THE DE.iTH OF THE VICE-CHAN- 
CELLOR, A PHYSICIAN. 

Lkahx, ye nations of the earth. 
The condition of your birth, 
Now be taught your feeble state ! 
Know, that all must yield to fate 1 

If the mournful rover, Death, 

Say but once, — " Resiun your breath !" 

Vainly of escape you uream, 

You must pass the Stygian stream. 

Could the stoutest overcome 
Death's assault, and bafile doom, 
Hercules had both withstood, 
Undiseased by Nessus' blood. 

Nc er had Hector press'd the plain 
By a trick of Pallas slain, 
Nor the chief to Jove allied 
By .Vchilles' phantom died. 

Could enchantments life prolong, 
Circe, saved by magic song. 
Still had lived, and equal skill 
Had preserved Medea still. 

Dwelt in herbs and drugs a power 
To avert man's destined hour, 
Learn'd Machaon should have known 
Doubtless to avert his own : 

Chiron had survived the smart 
Of the hydra-tainted dart, 
And Jove's bolt iiad been, with ease, 
Foil'd by Asclepiadcs, 

Thou too, sage ! of whom forlorn 
Helicon and Cirrha mourn, 
Still hadst fiU'd thy princely place, 
Regent of the gowned race: 

Hadst advanced to higher fame 
Still thy much cnnobleil name, 
Nor in Charon's skiff explored 
The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd. 

But resentful Pro,^erpine, 
Jealous of thy skill divine, 
Snapping short thy vital thread. 
Thee too number'd with the dead. 

Wise and good ' untroubled be 
The green turf that covers thee ! 
Thence, in gay profusion grow 
All the sweetest flowers that blow ! 

Pluto's consort bid thee rest ! 
;Kaeus pronounce thee blest ! 
To her home thy shade consign ! 
Slake Elysium ever thine ! 



ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF 
ELY. 

My lids with grief were tumid yet, 
And still my sullied check was wet 
With briny dews profusely shed 
For venerable Winton dead : 



When fame, whose tales of saddest sound, 

Alas! are ever truest found. 

The news Ihrougli all our cities spread 

Of yet another mitred head 

By ruthless fate to death consign'd, 

Ely, the honor of his kind ! 

.4t once a storm of passion heaved 
My boiling bosom, much I grieved ; 
But more I raged, at every breath 
Devoting Death himself to death. 
With less revenge did Naso teem 
When hated Ibis was his theme ; 
With less Archilochus denied 
The lovely Greek his promised bride. 

But lo ! while thus I execrate, 
Incensed, the minister of fate. 
Wondrous accents, soil, yet clear, 
Wafli.'d on the gale 1 hear. 

" Ah, much deluded ! lay aside 
Thy threats and anger misapplied '. 
Art not afraid with sounds like these 
To offend, where thou canst not appease *? 
Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus 1 ) 
The son of Night and Erebus: 
Nor was of fell Erynnis born 
On gulfs where (?haos rules forlorn ; 
But sent from God, his presence leaves, 
To gather home his ripen'd sheaves. 
To call encumber'd souls away 
From fleshy bonds to boundless day, 
(Ah when the winged hours excite, 
.\n(i summon forth the morning light,) 
And each to convoy to her place 
Before the Eternal Father's face. 
But not the wicked — them, severe 
Yet just, from all their pleasures here 
He hurries to the realms below. 
Terrific realms of pen:il woe ! 
Myself no sooner neard his call. 
Than, 'scaping through my pri.son wall, 
I bade adieu to bolts and bars, * 
And soared, with angels, to the stars, 
Like him of old, to whom 'twas given 
To mount on fiery wheels to heaven. 
Bootes' wagon, slow with cold, 
Appall'd me not; nor to behold 
The sword that vast Orion draws. 
Or e'en the Scorpion's horrid claws. 
Beyond the sun's bright orb I fly, 
And far beneath my feet descry 
Nii^ht's dread goddess, seen with awe, 
Whom her winged dragons draw. 
Thus, ever wondering at my speed, 
Augmented still as I proceed, 
I pass the planetary sphere. 
The milky way — and now appear 
Heaven's crystal battlements, her door 
Of massy pearl, and emerald floor, 

" But here I cease. For never can 
The tongue of once a mortal man 
In suitable description trace 
The pleasures of that happy place ; 
Suffice it, that those joys divine 
Are all, and all forever, mine !" 



NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME. 

An, how the human mind wearies herself 
With her own wanderings, and, involved in 

gloom 
Impenetrable, speculates amiss ,' 



712 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Measuring in her folly things divine 
By human ; laws inscribed on adamant 
By laws of nian's device ; and counsels fix'd 
Forever, by the hours that pass and die. 

How "? — shall the face of nature then he 
plough 'd 
Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 
On the great parent fix a sterile curse 1 
Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 
And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows'? 
Shall tbul antiquity with rust, and drought. 
And famine, vex the radiant worlds above 1 
Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulf 
The very heavens, that regulate his flight'? 
And was the sire of all able to fence 
His works, and to uphold tbe circling worlds, 
But, through improvident and heedless haste 
Let slip the occasion 1 — so then — all is lost — 
And in some future evil hour, yon arch [poles 
Shall crumble, and come thundering down, the 
Jar in collision, the Olympian king, 
Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth 
The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain, 
Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd 
Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven. 
Thou also, with precipitated wheels, 
Phcebus ! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, 
With hideous ruin sbalt impress the deep 
Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, 
At the extinction of the lamp of day. 
Then too shall Ha?mus, cloven to his base, 
Be shatter'd, and the huge Ceraunian hills. 
Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed 
In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. 

No. The Almighty Father surer laid 
His deep foundations, and providing well 
For the event of all, the scales of fate 
Suspended in just equipoise, and bade 
His universal works, from age to age, 
One tenor hcjld, perpetual, undisturb'd. 

Hence the prime mover wheels itself about 
Continual, day by day, and with it bears 
In social measure swift, the heavens around. 
Not tardier now is Saturn than of old. 
Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. 
Phcebus, his vigor ununpair'd, still shows 
The efl'ulgence of his youth, nor needs the god 
A downward course, that he may warm the vales ; 
But, ever rich in influence, runs his road. 
Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. 
Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star 
From odoriferous Ind, whose office is 
To gather home betimes the ethereal flock, 
To pour them o'er the skies again at eve. 
And to discriaiinate the night and dav. 
Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes 
Alternate, and with arms extended still 
She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. 
Nor have the elements deserted yet 
Their functions ; thunder with as loud a stroke 
As erst smites through the rocks and scatters 

them. 
The east still howls ; still the relentless north 
Invades the shuddering .Scythian, still he breathes 
The winter, and still rolls the storms along. 
The king of ocean, with his wonted force. 
Beats on Pelorus ; o'er the deep is heard 
The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell; 
Nor swim the monsters of the ^Egean sea 
In shallows, or beneath diminished waves. 
Thou too, thy ancient veretative power 
Enjoy'st, Earth I Narcissus still is sweet ; 



And Phcebus I still thy favorite, and still 
Thy favorite Cytherea ! both retain 
1'heir beauty ; nor their mountains, ore-enrich'd 
For punishment of man, with purer gold 
Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the deep. 

Thus in unbroken series all proceeds ; 
And shall, till wide involving either pole, 
And the immensity of yonder heaven. 
The final flames of destiny absorb 
The world, consumed in one enormous pyre ! 



ON THE PLATONIC IDEA AS IT 'WAS 
UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE. 

Ye sister powers, who o'er the sacred groves 
Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, 
Mnemosyne ! and thou who, in thy grot 
Immense, recUned at leisure, hast in charge 
The archives and the ordinances of Jove, 
And dost record the festivals of heaven. 
Eternity ! — inform us who is He, 
That great original, by nature chosen 
To be the archetype of human kind, 
Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles 
Themselves coeval, one. yet everywhere. 
An image of the God who gave him being 1 
Twin-brother of the goddess born from Jove, 
He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though 
Of common nature with ourselves, exists 
Apart, and occupies a local home — 
Whether companion of the stars, he spend 
Eternal ages, roaming at his will [dwell 

From sphere to sphere, the tentbld heavens, or 
On the moon's side that nearest neighbors earth. 
Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit 
Among the multitude of souls ordain'd 
To flesh and blood ; or whether (as may chance) 
That vast and giant model of our kind 
In some tar distant region of this globe 
Sequester'd stalk with lifted head on high 
O'ertovvering Atlas, on whose shoulders rest 
The stars, terrific even to the gods. 
Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved 
His best illumination, him beheld 
In secret vision ; never him the son 
Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night 
Descending to the prophet choir reveal'd ; 
Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet 
The ancestry of Ninus' chronicles, 
And Belus, and Osiris, far renown'd ; 
Nor even thrice great Hermes, altliough skill'd 
So deep in mystery, to the worshippers 
Of Isis show'd a prodigy like him. 

And thou, who hast immortalized the shades 
Of Academus, if the schools received 
This monster of the fancy first from thee. 
Either recall at once thy banish'd bards 
To thy republic, or thyssif, evinced 
A wilder fabulist, go also Ibrth. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

Oil that Pieria's spring would through my breast 
Pour its inspiring influence, and rusn 
No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ; 
That, for my venerable father's sake [wings 

All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on 
Of duty borne, might reach a loltier strain I 
For thee, my father ! howsoe'er it please, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM MILTON. 



713 



She frames this slender work ; nor know I aught 
That may thy gifts more suitably requite : 
Thoujih to rc<iuitc them suital)ly wouKl ask 
Relurns much nobler, anil surpassing far 
Tlic meagre stores of verbal CTatitude : 
But. such as I possess, I sent! thcc all. 
This page presents thee in their full amount 
With thy son's treasures, anil the sum is nought ; 
Nought, save the riches that from airy dream 
In secret grottoes and in laurel bowers, 
I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. 

Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
Verse therctbre, which evinces (nothing more) 
Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still 
Some scintillations of Promethean fire, 
Bespeaks him animated from above. 
The gods love verse ; the infernal powers them- 
selves 
Confess the influence of verse, which stirs 
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
Of adamant both Pluto and the shades. 
In vcr.^c the Delphic i)riestess and the pale 
Tremulous sybil make the future known ; 
And he who sacrifices, on the shrine 
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening 

bull 
And when he spreads his recking entrails wide 
To scrutinize the fates enveloped there. 
We too. ourselves, what time we seek again 
Our native skies, and one eternal now 
Shall be the only measure of our being, 
Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre 
Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, 
And make the starry firmament resound. 
And, even now, the ficrj- spirit pure 
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs himself 
Their mazy dance with melody of verse 
Unutterable, immortal, hearing which 
Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress'd ; 
Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade, 
And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. 
Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet 
Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf 
Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere 
LyiEUS deluged yet the temperate board. 
Then sat the bard a customary guest 
To share the banquet, and, his length of locks 
With becchcn honors bound, proposed in verse 
The characters of heroes and their deeds. 
To imitation ; sang of chaos old. 
Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search 
Of acorns fallen, and of the thunderbolt 
Not yet produced from .Ktna's liery cave. 
And what avails, at last, tune without voice. 
Devoid of matter ! Such may suit perhaps 
The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song 
Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear. 
And the oaks follow'tl. Not by chords alone 
Well touch'd, but by resistless accents more, 
To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves 
He moved ; these praises to his verse he owes. 

Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight 
The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain 
And useless powers, by whom inspired, thyself 
Art skilful to associate verse with airs 
Harmonious, and to give the huaian voice 
A thousand modulations, heir by right 
Indisputable of Prion's lauie. 
Now say. what wonder is it, if a son 
Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd 
In close allinily, we sympathize 
In social arts and kindred studies sweet 1 



Such distribution of himself to us 
Was Phoebus' choice ; thou hast thy gift, and I 
Mine also, and between us we receive, 
Father and son, the whole inspiring God. 

No ! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume 
Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle muse. 
My father ! for thou never badcst me tread 
The beaten path, and broad, that leads right on 
To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son 
To the insipid clamors of tile bar. 
To laws voluminous, anvl ill observed ; 
But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill 
My mind with treasure, ledd'st me far away 
From city din to deep retreats, to banks 
And streams .Vonian, and, with free consent, 
Didst place me happy at .\polIo's side. 
I speak not now, on more important themes 
Intent, of common benefits, and such 
As nature bids, but of thy larger gilts, 
My father ! who, when 1 had open'il once 
The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd 
The full-ton'd language of the eloquent Greeks, 
Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove, 
Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers 
That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the 

smooth 
Italian his degenerate speech adorns. 
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth ; 
And Palestine's prophetic songs divine. 
To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains, 
The earth beneath it. and the air between, 
The rivers and the restless deep, may all 
Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish 
Concurring with thy will; science herself 
."Vll cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, 
.\nd ofl'ers me the lip, if dull of heart. 
1 shrink not. and decbne her gracious boon. 

Go now. and gather dross, ye sordid minds 
That covet it ; what could my father more 1 
What more could Jove himself unless he gave 
His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns'? 
Jlore eligible gifts than these were not 
Apollo's to his son, hail they been safe 
As they were insecure, who made the boy 
The world's vice luminary, bade him rule 
The radiant chariot of the day, and bind 
To his young brows bis own all-dazzling wreath. 
I therctbre, although last and least, my place 
Among the learned in the laurel grove 
Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, 
Henceforth exempt from the unletter'd throng 
Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 
Away then, sleepless care, complaint, away. 
And envy, with thy 'jealous leer malign !" 
Nor let the monster calumny shoot fortn 
Her venom d tongue at me. Detested foes I 
Ve all are impotent against my peace, 
For I am privileged, and bear my breast 
Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. 

But thou, my father since to render thanks 
F.quivalent. and to re(|uite by deeds 
Thy liberality, exceeds my power, 
Surtice it, that I thus record thy gifts, 
And bear them treasured in a grateful mind! 
Ye, to) the lavorite pastime of my youth. 
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
To hope lonnevity, and to survive 
Your masters tuneral. not soon absorb'd 
In the oldivious Letlraan gulf, 
Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
This theme, anil by these nraiscs of my sire 
Improve the fathers of a distant age ! 



714 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



TO SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, MUCH 
INDISPOSED. 

The orif,nnal is written in a measure called Scazon, 
which signifies limping, and the measure is so denomi- 
iialed, because, though in other respects Iambic, it ter- 
minates with a Spondee, and has, consequently, a more 
tai'dy movement. 

The reader will immediately see that this property of 
the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English. 

My hnlting muse, that dragg'st fey choice along 
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, 
And likest that pace, expressive of thy cares, 
Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, [tread 
When in the dance she heats with measured 
Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed ; 
Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine 
Prefers, witli partial love, such lays as mine. 
Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafled o'er 
From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore, 
Where Eurus. liercest of the .Eolian band, 
Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land, 
Of late to more serene Ausonia came 
To view her cities of illustrious name. 
To prove himself a "witness of the truth. 
How wise her elders, and how learn 'd her youth. 
Much good, Salsillus ! and a body free 
From ail disease, that Milton asks for thee, 
Who now endurcst the languor and the pains 
That bile indicts, diffused through all thy veins; 
Relentless malady ! not moved to spare 
By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air! 

Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, 
And thou, Apollo whom all sickness flies, 
Pythius, or Pa?an, or what name divine 
So'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine ! 
Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt 
With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt! 
If aught salubrious in your confines grow. 
Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, 
That, render'd to the muse, he loves, again 
He may enchant the meadow with his straift. 
Numa, reclined in everlasting ease 
Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, 
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire 
His loved .Egeria, shall that strain admire : 
So soothed, the tumid Tiber shall revere 
The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year, 
Shall curb his waters with a friendly reign. 
And guide them harmless, till they meet the main. 



TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO, 

MAUaUIS OF VILLA. 

Milton's acoount of manso. 
Giovanni Rattista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian 
nobleman of the hJLrhest estimation among his country- 
men, for genius, lilt-raturf, and military acomplishments. 
To him Torquato Tiisso addressed his Dialogues on 
Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who 
has also celebrated him among the other prmces of his 
countiT, in his poem entitled, Gerusalemme Conquis- 
tata, book xx. 

Fra cavalier magnauimi, e cortesi, 

Risplende il Manso. 
During the author's stay at Kaples, he received at the 
hands of the marquis a thousand kind offices and civil- 
ities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him 
this poem a short time before his depaiture from that 
city. 

These verses also to thy praise, the Nine. 
O Manso ! hnppy in that theme, design, 



For, Gallus and Miecenas gone, they see 
None such besides, or whom they love as thee ; 
And if my verse may give the meed of fame, 
Thine too shall prove an everlasting name. 
Already such, it shines in Tasso's page 
(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age, 
And, next, the muse consign 'd (not unaware 
How high the charge) Marino to thy care, 
Who, singing to the nymphs Adonis' praise, 
Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. 
To thee alone the poet would entrust 
His latest vows, to thee alone his dust; 
And thou with punctual piety hast paid, 
In labord brass, thy tribute to his shade. 
Nor this contented thee — but lest the grave 
Should aught absorb of theirs which thou couldst 

save, 
All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach 
The life, lot, genius, character of each. 
Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true 
To his great theme, the life of Homer drew. 
I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who 
come [home, 

Chiird by rude blasts that freeze my northern 
Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim. 
And thine, for Phoebus' sake, a deathless name. 
Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye 
A muse scarce reiir'd beneath our sullen sky, 
Who fears not. indiscreet as she is young, 
To seek in Latin hearers of her song. 
We too, where Thames with its unsullied waves 
The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves, 
Hear oil by night, or, slumbering, seem to hear 
O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling 

clear ; 
And we could boast a Tityrus of yore 
Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. 
Yes — dreary as we own our northern clime, 
E'en we to Phcebus raise the polish'd rhyme, 
We too serve Phoebus ; Phoebus has received 
(If legends old may claim to be believed) 
No sordid gills from us, the golden ear, 
The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year, 
The fragrant crocus, and. to grace his fane, 
Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train ; 
Druids, our native bards in ancient time, 
W^'ho gods and heroes praised in hallow 'd rhyme! 
Hence, often as th6 maids of Greece surround 
Apollo's shrine with hymns of festive sound, 
Tney named the virgins who arrived of yore 
With British offerings on the Delian shore, 
Loxo, from giant Corincus sprung, 
Upis, on whose blest lips the future hung. 
And Hacacrffe, with the golden hau-, 
All dcck'd with Pictish hues, and all with bo- 
soms bare. 
Thou, therefore, happy sage, whatever clime 
Shall rina with Tasso s ])raise in after time. 
Or with Marino's, shall be known their friend, 
And with an equal flight to fame ascend. 
The world shall hear how Phcebus and the Nine 
Were inmates once, and willing guests of thine. 
Vet Phcebus, when of old constrain'd to roam 
The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, 
Entcr'd. no willing guest, Admetus' door, 
Though Hercules had ventured there before. 
But gentle Chiron's cave was near, a scene 
Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green. 
And thither, oft as respite he required, 
From rustic clamors loud, the god retired. 
There, many a time, on Peneus' bank reclined 
At some oak's root, with ivy thick entwined, 



Won by his hospitiible frii'nd's desire, 

He sootlu'd iiis pains of exile with the lyre. 

Then sliook the hills, then trembled Peneus' 

shore. 
Nor OCt'A It-It his load of forest more ; 
The U])hind rlais descended to the plain, 
And solUn'il lynxi's wonder'd at that strain. 
Well may wc think. Oh, dear to all above ! 
Thy birth distinijiiish'd by the smile of Jove, 
And that .Vpollo slird his kindliest ))0wcr, 
And M.iia'sson. on th.il propitious hour. 
Since only minds so born can comprehend 
A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. 
Hence on thy yet unfuded cheek appears 
The lingering freshness of thy greener years; 
Hence in thy tront and features we admire 
Nature unwither'd and a mind entire. 

might so true a triend to me belong, 
So skill'd to gr.ice the votaries of song, 
•Should I recall hereafter into rhyme 
The kin"s and heroes of my native clime, 
.-Vrtiuir the chief, who even now prepares, 
In subterraneous being future wars, 
With all his martial knights to be restored 
Kach to his seat around the federal board ; 
And oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse 

Our Saxon plunderers in triumph verse! 
Then, after all, when, with the past content, 
A life I finish, not in silence spent ; 
Should he, kind mourner, o'er my deatlibed bend, 

1 shall but neeil to say " Be yet my friend !'' 
He too, perhaps shall bid the marble breathe 
To honor me, and with the gr.iceful wreath 
Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle 

Shall bind my brows— but I shall rest the while. 
Then also, if the fruits of f tith endure. 
And virtue's promised recompense be sure. 
Born to those seats to which the blest aspire 
By purity of soul and virtuous fire. 
These rites, as fate permits, I shall survey 
With eyes illumined by celestial day. 
And, every cloud from my pure spirit driven, 
Joy in the bright beatitude of heaven I 



ON THE DEATH OF DAMON. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Thyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbors, had al- 
ways pursued the same studies, and had, from their 
earliest days, been united in the closi'sl friendship. 
Thyrsis. wiiile travelling for improvement, received 
intflhgence of the death of Damon, and, after a time, 
returoiu? and Siidiiiu; it true, deplores llimself and his 
sotitiu-y condition, in this poem. 

By Damon is to ho understood Charles DeodatI, con- 
nected with the Italian city of I.ncca l>y liis father's 
side, in other respects an Knclishman ; a youth of im- 
common genius, erudition, and virtue. 

Ye Nymphs of Himera, (for ye have shed 

Erewhile for Duphnis. and for Hyhas dead, 

And over Bion's long-lamented bier. 

The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear,) 

Now throu'jh the villas laved by Thames rehearse 

The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse, 

What sighs he heaved, and how with groans 

profound 
He made the woods and hollow rocks resound 
Young Damon dead ; nor even ceased to pour 
His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. 

The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear. 
And golden harvest twice cnrich'd the yeur, 



Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital air. 
The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there ; 
Por he, enamoured of the muse, remain'd 
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'ii. 
But. stored at length witti ail he wish'd to learn, 
For his flock's sake, now hasted to return ; 
And when the shepherd had resumed his seat 
At the elm's root, within his oltl retreat, 
Then 'twas his lot then all his loss to know, 
.\nd from his Imrden'd heart he vented thus his 

woe : 
' Go seek your home, my Iambs; my thoughts 

are duo 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what deities shall I suppose 
In heaven, or earth, concerned for human woes, 
Since, oh my Damon ! their severe decree 
So soon condemns me to regret of thee ! 
Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid 
With fame and honor, like a vulgar shade ! 
Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls, 
.■\nd separates sordid from illustrious souls, 
Drive I'ar the ral)l)Ie, and to thee assign 
A hapjiiir lot with spirits worthy thine! 
" Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance 
The wolf first give me a ibrbidding glance. 
Thou shalt not moulder undeplored. but long 
Thy praise shall dwell on every shepherd's tongue. 
To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay, 
.■ind, after him, to thee the votive lay, 
While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love, 
Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove ; 
.\t least, if ancient piety and trutii. 
With all the learned labors of thy youth. 
May serve thee aught, or to have left behind 
A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind. 
" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Who now my pains and perils shall divide. 
As thou wast wont, for ever at my side. 
Both when the rugged Irost annoy d our feet, 
.4nd when the herbage all was parch'd with heat; 
Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent, 
Or the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went; 
^Vhose converse now shall calm my stormy day, 
With charming song who now beguile my way 7 
'■ Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
In whom shall I confide 1 Whose counsel find 
A balmy medicine for my troubled mind t 
Or whose discourse with innocent delight 
Shall fill me now, and cheat the wintry night, 
While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear. 
And blackening chestnuts stall and crackle there. 
While storms abroad the dreary meadows whchu, 
And the wind thunders through the neighboring 

elm 1 
'• Go seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Or who, when summer suns their sumjnit reach, 
.And Pan sleeps hidden by the sheltering beech, 
When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the 

sedge, 
-•\nil the slretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge, 
Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein 
Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again ^ 



716 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



" Go, seek your home, my Iambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Where glens and vales are tliickest overgrown 
With tangled boughs, I wander now alone. 
Till night descend, while blustering wind and 

shower 
Beat on my temples through the shatter'd bower. 
" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what rampant weeds now shame my fields, 
And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields ; 
My rambling vines unwcdded to the trees, 
Bear shrivell'd grapes ; my myrtles fail to please ; 
Nor please me more my flocks ; they, slighted 

turn 
Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. 
'■ Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
JEgon invites me to the hazel grove, 
Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove, 
And young Alphesiboeus to a seat 
Where branching elms exclude the mid-day heat. 
' Here fountains spring — here mossy hillocks 

rise; 
Here zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.' — ■ 
Thus each persuades, but, deaf to every call, 
I gain the thickets, and escape them all. 

" Go, seek your home, my Iambs ; my thoughts 

are due 
To other cares than those of feeding you. 
Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well 
The voice of birds, and what the stars foretell. 
For he by chance iiad noticed my return,) 
' What means thy sullen mood, this deep con- 
cern ? 
Ah, Thyrsis, thou art either crazed with love, 
Or some sinister influence from above ; 
Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rue ; 
His leaden shall obhque has pierc'd thee through.' 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are, 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
The nymphs, amazed, my melancholy see, 
And, 'Thyrsis!' cry — 'what will become of thee? 
What wouldst thou, Thyrsis ? such should not 

appear 
The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe ; 
Brisk youth should laugh and love — ah, shun the 

fate [late !' 

Of those, twice wretched mopes ! who love too 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
jEgle witli Hyas came, to soothe my pain, 
And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain. 
Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat 
Known far and near, and for her self-conceit ; 
Chloris too came, whose cottage on tile lands 
That skirt the Idumanian current stands ; 
But all in vain they came, and but to see 
Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. 

"Go, go, my Iambs, unpastured as ye arej 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Ah blest indifference of the playful herd. 
None by his fellow chosen, or preferr'd ! 
No bonds of amity the flocks inthral. 
But each associates, and is pleased with all ; 
So graze the dappled deer in numerous droves, 
And all his kind alike the zebra loves ; 
That same law governs, where the billows roar, 
And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore ; 



The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race, 

His fit companion finds in every place, 

With whom he picks the grain that suits him 

best. 
Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest, 
And whom, if chance the falcon makes his prey, 
Or hedgcr with his well aim'd arrow slay. 
For no such loss the gay survivor grieves. 
New love he seeks, and new delight receives. 
We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice, 
Scorning all others, in a single choice. 
We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind, 
And if the long-sought good at last we find. 
When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals, 
And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals. 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastured as ye are; 
My thoughts arc all now due to other care. 
Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks, 
To traverse Alpine snows and rugged rocks! 
Wliat need so great had I to visit Rome, 
Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb 1 
Or had slie flourish'd still, as when of old, 
For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold. 
What need so great had I to incur a pause 
Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause, 
For such a cause to place the roaring sea, 
Rocks, mountains, woods, betweeii my friend 

and rael 
Else had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, composed 
Thy decent limljs, thy drooping eyelids closed. 
And, at the last, had said — ■ Farewell — ascend — 
Nor even in the skies forget thy friend !' 

" Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Although well pleased, ye tuneful Tuscan swains! 
My mind the memory of your worth retains. 
Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn 
My Damon lost. — He too was Tuscan born, 
Born in your Lucca, city of renown! 
And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own. 
Oh how elate was I. when, stretch'd beside 
The murmuring course of Arno's breezy tide, 
Beneath the poplar grove I pass'd my hours. 
Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flowers, 
And hearing, as I lay at ease along, 
"i'our swains contending for the prize of song I 
I also dared attempt (and, as it seems. 
Not much ciispleased attempting) various themes 
For even I can presents boast from you, 
The shepherd's pipe and ozier basket too, 
And Dati and Francini both have made 
My name familiar to the beeclien shade. 
And they are learn'd, and each in every place 
Renown'd for song, and both of Lydian race. 

" Go, go, my lauibs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
While bright the dewy grass with moonbeams 

shone. 
And I stood hurdling in my kids alone. 
How often have I said (but thou hadst found 
Ere then thy dark cold lodgaient underground) 
Now Daaion sings, or springes sets for hares, • 
Or wickerwork for various use prepares ! 
How oft, indulging fancy, have I planii'd 
New scenes of pleasure that I hopeil at hand, 
Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried — 
' What, hoa ! my friend — come lay thy task 

aside ; 
Haste, let us forth together, and beguile 
The heat beneath yon whispering shades awhile 
Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood. 
Or where Cassibelan's grey tun'ets stood ! 



TRANSLATIONS PROM MILTON. 



717 



Thero thou shalt cull inc simples, and shalt teach 

Tliy iViciiil the jianie and lieulinjr powers ol'each. 

From the, tall liluebell to the dwarfish weed, 

What the dry land, and what the marshes breed. 

For all their kinds alike to llico arc known, 

And the whole art of Galen is thy own.' 

Ah, jierish Gal -n's art, and wither'd be 

The useless herbs that gave not hi'alth to thee ! 

Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream, 

I meditatinjT sat some statelier theme. 

The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip. though nevi^. 

And uncssay'd before, than wide they flew, 

Burstinff their waxen bands, nor could sustain 

The deep-toned music ol'the solemn strain ; 

And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell 

How proud a thomc I chose — yc groves, farewell. 

" Go, go. my lambs, untendod homeward fare; 
Mv thoughts arc all now due to other care. 
Ot' Brutus Dardan chief, my song shall be. 
How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, 
First from Kutupia's towering headland seen, 
.•\nil of his consort's reign, fair Imogen ; 
Of Brcnnus and Belinus brothers bold, 
And of .Arviragus. and how of old 
Our hardy sires the Annorican controll'd. 
And of the wife of Gorlois, who, surprised 
By Uther, in her husband's forai disguised, 
(Such was the force of Merlin's art,) became 
Pregnant with .Arthur of heroic fame. 
These themes I now revolve — and Oh — if Fate 
Proportion to these themes my lengthen'd date. 
Adieu my shepherd's reed — yon pine tree bough 
Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou 
Forgotten and disused, unless ere long 
Thou change thy Latin for a British song: 
A British 1 — even so — the powers of man 
Are bounded ; little is the most he can ; 
And it shall well sufTice me, and shall be 
Fame and proud recompense enough for me, 
If Xlsa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, 
If Alain bending o'er his crystal urn, 
SwifX-whirling Abra, Trent's o'crshadow'd 

stream, 
Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, 
Tamar's ore-tinctured flood, and, after these, 
The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades. 

" Go. go. my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
All this I kept in leaves of laurel rind 
F,n folded safe, and for thy view dcsign'd. 
This — and a gift from Manso's hand beside, 
(Manso, not least his native city's pride,) 
Two cups that radiant as their giver shown, 
Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. 
The spring was graven there; here slowly wind 
The Red sea shores with groves of spices lined ; 
Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs 
The sacreil. solitary phosnix shows. 
And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head 
To see Aurora leave her watery bed. 
— In other part the expansive vault above, 
And there too, even there, the god of love; 
With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays 
A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze. 
Around his bright and (lery eyes he rolls. 
Nor aims at vulgar mimls or little souls, 
Nor deigns one look below, but, aiming high, 
.Sends every arrow to tile lolly sky ; 
Hence forms divine, and mimls immortal, learn 
The power of Cupid, and enauiour'd burn. 

'■ Thou, also, Damon, (neither need I fear 
That hope delusive,) thou art also there; 



For^vhither should simplicity like thine 
Retire, where else should spotless virtue shine 1 
Thou dwcll'st not (thought profane) in shades 

below. 
Nor tears suit tliee — cease then, my tears, to 

flow. 
Away with grief; on Damon ill bestow'd ! 
Who, pure himself has found a pure abode. 
Has pass'd the showery arch, henceforth resides 
With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides 
Quaffs copious immortality and joy 
With hallow'd lips !— Oh ! blest without alloy, 
And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim. 
Look down, entreated by whatever name. 
If Damon please thee most (that rural sound 
Shall ofi with echoes fill the groves around) 
Or if Deodatus. by which alone 
In those ethereal mansions thou art known. 
Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste 
Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste. 
The honors, therefore, by divine decree' 
The lot of virgin worth, are given to thee : 
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band. 
And the green palm branch waving in thy hand, 
Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice. 
And join with seraphs thy according voice. 
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre 
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire." 



AN ODE ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN 
ROUSE, 

LIBRARIAN- OP THE U.S'IVERSITY OP OXFORD, 

On a lost A'olume of my Poems, which he desired me to 
replace, thiit ho mii^ht add tliem to my other Works 
deposited in Ihe Library. 

This ode is rendered without rhyme, that it might 
mere adequately represent the ori^'inal, which, as Milton 
himself informs u.s, is of no certain Measure. It may 
possibly for this reason disappoint the rea'.ler, tlumi,'h it 
cost the writer more labor than the translation of any 
other piece in the whole collection. 

STROPHE. 

My twofold book ! single in show 

But double in contents. 
Neat but not curiously adorn'd. 

Which, in his early youth, 
A poet gave, no lolly one in truth. 
Although an earnest wooer of the muse — 
Say, while in cool .Ausonian shades 

Or British wilds he roam'd. 
Striking by turns his native lyre, 

By turns the Daunian lute. 

And stepp'd almost in air — 

ANTI.STROPHE. 

Say, little book, what furtive hand 
Thee from thy fidlow books convcy'd. 
What time, at the repeated suit 
Of my most learned frienil, 
I sent thee forth an honor'd traveller. 
From our great city to the source of Thames, 

Ca;rulean sire ! 
Where rise the fountains and the raptures ring, 
Of the Aonian choir. 
Durable as yonder spheres. 
.\nd through the endless lapse of years 
Secure to be admired 1 



718 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



STROPHE II. • 

Now what god. or demi-wod, 
For Britain's ancient genius moved, 

(If our afflicted land 
Have expiated at length the guilty sloth 
Of her degenerate sons) 
Shall terminate our impious feuds, 
And discipline with hallow 'd voice recall? 
Recall the muses too, 
Driven from their ancient seats 
In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, 
And, with keen Phcebean shafts 
Piercing the unseemly birds, 
Whose talons menace us. 
Shall drive the Harpy race from Hehcon afar ? 

ANTI.STROPHE. 

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, 
\Vhether by treachery lost, 
Or indolent neglect thy bearer's fault, 
From all thy kindred books, 
To some dark cell or cave forlorn, 

Where thou endurest, perhaps. 
The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, 
Be comtbrted — 
For lo ! again the splendid hope appears 

That thou mayst yet escape 
The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings 
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove ! 

STROPHE III. 

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains 
That, though by promise his. 
Thou yet appear'st not in thy place 
Among the literary noble stores 

Given to his care. 
But, absent, Icavest his numbers incomplete. 
He, therefore, guardian vigilant 
Of that unperishing wealth, 
Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge, 
Where he intends a richer treasure far 
That Ion kept (liin, Erectheus' son 
Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born) 
In the resplendent temple of liis god. 
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine. 

.INTISTKOPHE. 

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves. 
The muses' favorite haunt ; 
Resume thy station in .Apollo's dome, 

Dearer to him 
Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill ! 

Exulting go. 
Since now a splendid lot is also thine. 
And thou art sought by my propitious friend ; 
For there thou shall be read 
With authors of exalted note, 
The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. 



Ye, then, my works no longer vain, 

And worthless deem'd by me ! 
Whate'er this sterile genius has produced. 
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent. 
An unmolested happy home, 
Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend. 
Where never flippant tongue profane 
Shall entrance find, 



And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude 

Shall babble far remote. 
Perhaps some future distant age. 
Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, 

Shall furnish minds of power 

To judge more equally. 
Then, malice silenced in the tomb, 

Cooler heads and sounder hearts, 

Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise 
I merit, shall with candor weigh the claim. 



TRANSLATIONS OF THE ITALIAN POEMS. 



SONNET. 

Fair Lady ! whose harmonious name the Rhine, 
Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, 
Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear 

To love a spirit elegant as thine. 

That manifests a sweetness all divine. 

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare. 
And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, 

Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. 

When gracefully thou speak'st. or singest gay 
Such strains as might the senseless forest move. 

Ah then — turn each his eyes and ears away, 
Who feels himself unworthy of thy love ! 

Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart 

Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart. 



SONNET. 

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day 

Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair 
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care. 
Borne from its native genial airs away. 
That scarcely can its tender bud display, 

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare. 
Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. 
While thus, sweetly scornful ! I essay 

Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown. 
Arid Thames exchange for .irno's fair domain ; 
.So love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has 

shown. 
That what he wills, he never wills in vain — 
Oh that this hard ami sterile breast might be 
To Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free I 



CANZONE. 

They mock my toil — the nymphs and amorous 

swains — 
And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, 
Love-songs in language that thou little know'st 1 
How darcst thou risk to sing these foreign 

strains 1 
Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd. 
And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die? 
Then with pretence of admiration high — 
Tliee other shores expect, and other tides, 
Rivers, on whose grassy sides 
Her deathless laurel leaf with which to bind 
Thv flowing locks already Fame provides; 
Wliy then this burden, better far declin'd ? 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 



719 



Speak, muse! forme — the fair one said, who 
guides 
My willintT Iieart, and all my fancy's fiiirhts, 
'■ This is the lansuaite in which Love delifthts." 



SONNET, TO CHARLES DEODATI. 

Charles — and I say it wondering— thou must 
know 
That I. who once assumed a scornful air 
And scoli'd at Love, am lallcn in his snare, 
(Full many an upright man has fallen so:) 
Yet think ine not thus dazzled by the flow 
Of golden locks, or damask clicik ; inore rare 
The heartfelt beauties of my liireign fair ; 
A mien m.ijcstic, with dark hrows that show 
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind ; 
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, 
.\iid .^ong whose fascinating power might bind, 
.tajj from her sphere draw down the laboring 

moon ; 
With such fire-darting eyes that, should I fill 
BIy ears with wax, she would enchant me still. 



SONNET. 

Lady ! It cannot be but that thine eyes 

Must be my sun. such radiance they display. 
And strike me e'en as Phoebus him whose way 

Through horrid Libya's sandy desert lies. 

Meantime, on that side steamy vapors rise 
^Vhere most I sutler. Of what kind are they. 
New as to me they are, I cannot say, 

But deem them, in the lover's language — sighs. 

Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, 

Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend 

To sottcn thine, thy coldness soon congeals. 

^Vhil3 others to my tearful eyes ascend. 

Whence my sad nights in showers are ever 
drown'd. 

Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound. 



SONNET. 

E.VAMOR'n, artless, young, on foreign ground, 

Uncertain whither from myself to (ly ; 

To thee, dear Lady with an humble sigh 
Let me devote my heart, which 1 have found 
By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, sound. 

Good, and addicted to conceptions high : [skv. 

When tempests shake the world, and fire the 
It rests in adamant self wrapt around. 
As .sale from envy as from outrage rude. 
From hopes and fears that vulgar minds abuse, 
As fond of genius, and fix'd fortitude. 
Of the resounding lyre anil every muse. 
Weak you will find it in one only part. 
Now pierced by love's immedicable dart. 



SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST. 

' So when, from mountain tops, the dusky clouds 
Ascending,' £tc. 

QUALEs aerii montis de vertice nubes 

Cum surgunt, ct jam Borca; tumida ora quierunt. 

Caelum hilares abdit. sjiissa caligine. vdtus : 

Turn, si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore, 

Et croceo niontes et pascua luminc tingat, 

Gaudcnt omnia, aves mulcent coneentibus agros 

Balatuquc oviuiu colics vallcsque resultant. 



TRANSLATION OF DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM 
ON MILTON. 

Tres tria, sed longii distantia, sscula vatcs 
Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. 

GrfEcia sublimem, cum majestate discrtum 
Roma tulit. felix Anglia utrique parem. 

Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coactaest, 
Tcrtius ut ficrct, consociare duos. 

July, 1780. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 



I. THE GLOWWORM. 

Beneath the hedge, or near the stream, 

A worm is known to stray. 
That shows by niglit a lucid beam 

Which disappears by day. 

Disputes have been, and still prevail, 
From whence his rays proceed ; 

Some give that honor to his tail. 
And others to his head. 

But this is sure — the hand of night 

That kindles up the skies. 
Gives him a modicum of light 

Proportion'd to his size. 

Perhaps indulgent Nature meant. 
By such a lamp bestow'd, 



To bid the traveller, as he went, 
Be careful where he trod : 

Nor crush a worm, whose useful light 

Might serve, however small. 
To show a stumbling stone by night, 
And save him Irom a fall. 

Whate'er she meant, this truth divine 

Is legible and plain 
'Tis power almighty bids him shine. 

Nor bids him shine in vain. 

Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme 
Tc.ach humbler thoughts to you, 

Since such a reptile has its gem, 
And boasts its splendor too. 



720 COWPER' 


S WORKS. 


II. THE JACKDAW. 


Neither night nor dawn of day 




Puts a period to thy play : 


There is a bird who, by his coat 


Sing, then — and extend thy span 


And by the hoarseness of his note, 


Far beyond the date of man. 


Might be supposed a crow ; 


Wretched man, whose years are spent 


A great frequenter of the church, 


In repining discontent, 


Where, bishop-lilie, he finds a perch, 


Lives not. aged though he be. 


And dormitory too. 


Haifa span, compared with thee. 


Above the steeple shines a plate. 
That turns and turns, to indicate 






From what point blows the weather. 


IV. THE PARROT. 


Look up — your brains begin to swim, 




'Tis in the clouds — that pleases him. 


In painted plumes superbly dress'd, 


He chooses it the rather. 


A native of the TOrgeous east. 
By many a billow toss'd ; 




Fond of the speculative height. 


Poll gains at length the British shore, 


Thither he wings his airy flight, 


Part of the captain's precious store. 


And thence securely sees 


A present to his toast. 


The bustle and the rareeshow, 




That occupy mankind below, 
Secure and at his ease. 


Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd, ^^^ 

To teach him now then a word, ^V 

As Poll can master it ; ^^ 




You think, no doubt, he sits and muses 


But 'tis her own important charge, 


On future broken bones and bruises. 


To qualify him more at large. 


If he should chance to fall. 


And make him quite a wit. 


No ; not a single thought like that 




Employs his philosophic pate. 


Sweet Poll ! his doting mistress cries, 


Or troubles it at all. 


Sweet Poll ! the mimic bird replies. 




And calls aloud for sack. 


He sees that this great roundabout, 


She next instructs him in the kiss ; 


The world, with all its motley rout, 


'Tis now a little one, like Miss, 


Church, army, physic, law, 


And now a hearty smack. ^ 


Its customs and its businesses. 




Is no concern at all of his, 


At first he aims at what he hears; 


And says — what says he 1 — Caw. 


And, listening close with both his ears, 


Just catches at the sound ; 


Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen 


But soon articulates aloud, 


Much of the vanities of men ; 


Much to the amusement of the crowd. 


And, sick of having seen 'em. 


And stuns the neighbors round. 


Would cheerfully these liinbs resign 




For such a pair of wings as thine 
And such a head between 'em. 


A querulous old woman's voice 


His humorous talent next employs. 




He scolds, and gives the lie. 




And now he sings, and now is sick, 
Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, 




III. THE CRICKET. 


Poor Poll is like to die 1 


Little inmate, full of mirth. 


Bchnda and her bird ! 'lis rare 


Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Whercsoe'er be thine abode, 


To meet with such a well match'd pair, 


The language and the tone. 


Always harbinger of good, 
Pay me lor thy warm retreat 


Each character in every part 
Sustain 'd with so much grace and art. 


With a song more soft and sweet ; 


And both in unison. 


In return thou shall receive 


When children first bc^in to spell. 


Such a strain as I can give. 


And stammer out a syllahle, 


ml .t ' 1111 41 


We think them tedious creatures ; 


Thus thy praise shall be express'd, 


But difiiculties soon abate. 


InoHensive. welcome guest ! 
While the rat is on the scout. 
And the mouse with curious snout, 


When birds are to be taught to prate. 
And women are the teachers. 


With what vermin else infest 
Every dish, and spoil the best ; 






Frisking thus before the fire, 


THE THRACIAN. 


Thou hast all thine heart's desire. 






Thr.ician parents, at his birth. 

Mourn their babe with many a tear, 


Though in voice and shape they be 


Form'd as if akin to thee, 


But, with undissembled mirth. 


Thou surpassest, happier far. 


Place him breathless on his bier, 


Happiest grasshoppers that are ; 




Theirs is but a summer's song. 


Greece and Rome, with equal scorn. 


Thine endures the winter long, 


" the savages !" exclaim. 


Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 


'• Whether they rejoice or mourn, 


Melody throughout the year. 


Well entitled to the name!" 

1 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 



721 



But the cause of this concern 
And this pleasure would they trace, 

Even they might somewhat learn 
From the savages of Thrace. 



RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIM.\RY 
LAW OF NATURE. 

Androcles, from his injured lord, in dread 
Of instant death, to Lyhia's desert lied, [heat, 
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with 
He spied at length a cavern's cool retreat ; 
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame. 
When, hugcst of his kind, a lion came : 
He roar'd approaching : but the savage din 
To plaintive murmurs changed — arrived within, 
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw 
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. 
The fugitive, through terror at a stand. 
Dared not awhile afl'ord his trembling hand ; 
But bolder grown, at length inherent found 
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
The cure was wrought ; he wiped the sanious 

blood, 
And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day 
Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared. 
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. 
But thus to live — still lost — sequcster'd still — 
Scarce seent'd his lord's revenge a heavier ill. 
Home ! native home ! O might he but repair I 
He must — he will, though death attends him 

there. 
He goes, and, doom'd to perish, on the sands 
Of the full theatre unpitied stands : 
When lo ! the selfsame lion from his cage 
Flies to devour him, famisb'd into rage. 
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey 
The man, his healer, pauses on his way. 
And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet 
And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 

Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze: 
But why, ye Romans 1 Whence your mute 

amaze *? 
All this is natural : nature bade him rend 
An enemy : she bids him spare a friend. 



A MANUAL, 

MORE ANCIENT THAN THE AHT Or PRINTING, AND 
NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE. 

There is a book, which we may call 

(Its excellence is such) 
Alone a library, though small; 

The ladies thumb it much. 

Words none, things numerous it contains : 
And things with words compared. 

Who needs be told, that has his brains, 
Which merits most regard 1 

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue 

A golden edging boast ; 
And open'd, it displays to view 

Twelve pages at the most. 

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind, 
Adorns its outer part ; 



But all within, 'tis richly lined, 
A magazine of art. 

The whitest hands that secret hoard 

Oft visit ; and the I'air 
Preserve it in their bosoms stored, 

As with a miser's care. 

Thence implements of every size, 

And form'd for various use, 
(Thny need but to consult their eyea), 

They feadily produce. 

The largest and the longest kind 

Possess the foremost page ; 
A sort most needed by the bUnd, 

Or nearly such, from age. 

The full charg'd leaf which next ensues, 

Presents in bright array 
The smaller sort, which matrons use, 

Not quite so blind as they. 

The third, the fourth, the fifth supply 

What their occasions ask. 
Who with a more discerning eye 

Perform a nicer task. 

But still with regular decrease, 

From size to size they fall. 
In every leaf grow less and less ; 

The last are least of all. 

! what a fund of genius, pent 

In narrow space is here ! 
This volume's method and intent 

How luminous and clear I 

It leaves no reader at a loss 

Or posed, whoever reads : 
No commentator's tedious gloss, 

Nor even index needs. 

Search Bodley'sraany thousands o'er! 

No book is treasured there. 
Nor yet in Granta's numerous store, 

That may with this compare. 

No l^rival none in either host 

Of this was ever seen. 
Or, that contents could justly boast, 

So brilliant and so keen. 



AN ENIGMA. 

A NEEni.E, small as small can be, 
In bulk and use surpasses me, 

Nor is my purchase dear; 
For little, and almost for nought, 
As many of my kind are bought 

As days are in the year. 

Yet though but little use we boast. 
And are procured at little cost 

The labor is not light ; 
Nor few artificers it asks, 
All skilful in their several tasks, 

To fashion us aright. 

One fuses metal o'er the fire, 
A second draws it into wire. 

The shears another plies ; 
Who clip.-^ in length the brazen thread 
P^rom him who. chafing every shred, 

Gives all an equal size. 
46 



732 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



A fifth prepares, exact and round, 

The knob with which it must be crown 'd ; 

His tbilower malies it fast : 
And witli his mallet and Ids file 
To shape the point, employs awhile 

The seventh and the last. 

Now, therefiire, CEdipus ! declare 
What creature, wonderful, and rare, 

A process that obtains 
Its purpose with so much ado 
At last produces ! — tell me true, 

And take me for your pains ! 



SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN 
TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

None ever shared the social feast. 
Or as an inmate or a guest, 
Beneath the celebrated dome 
Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
Who saw not (and with some delight 
Perliaps he vicw'd the novel sight) 
How numerous at the tables there, 
The sparrows be^ their daily fare. 
For there in every nook and cell 
Where such a tamily may dwell, 
Sure as the vernal season comes 
Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs. 
Which kindly given, may serve with food 
Convenient their unfeather'd brood ; 
And otl. as with its summons clear 
The warning bell salutes their ear. 
Sagacious listeners to the sound, 
Tliey flock from all the fields around. 
To reach the hospitable hall. 
None more attentive to the call. 
Arrived, the pensionary band. 
Hopping and chirping, close at hand, 
Solicit what they soon receive, 
The sprinkled, plenteous donative. 
Thus is a multitude, though large. 
Supported at a trivial charge ; 
A single doit would overpay 
The expenditure of every day. 
And who can grudge so small a grace 
To suppliants, natives of the place 7 



FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS. 

As in her ancient mistress' lap 

The youthful tabby lay. 
They gave each other many a tap, 

Alike disposed to play. 

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, 
And with protruded claws 

Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm. 
Mere wantonness the cause. 

At once, resentful of the deed. 
She shakes her to the ground 

With many a threat that .she shall bleed 
With still a deeper wound. 

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest : 

It was a venial stroke : 
For she that will with kittens jest 

Should bear a kitten's joke. 



INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. 

Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains — 

And seldom another it can — 
To seek a retreat while he reigns 

In the well-sbelter'd dwellings of man, 
Who never can seem to intrude. 

Though in all places equally free, 
Come oft as the season is rude. 

Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 

At sight of the first feel)le ray 

That pierces tlie clouds of the east, 
To inveigle thee every day 

My windows shall show thee a fbast, 
For, taught by experience, I know, 

Thee mindful of benefit long ; 
And that, thankful for all I bestow. 

Thou wilt pay me with many a song. 

Then, soon as the swell of the buds 

Bespeaks the renewal of spring, 
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods. 

Or where it shall please thee to sing : 
And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost, 

Come again to my window or door, 
Doubt not an affectionate host. 

Only pay as thou paid'st me before. 

This music must needs be confess'd 

To fiow from a fountain above ; 
Else how should it work in the breast 

Unchangeable friendship and love 1 
And who on the globe can be found, 

Save your generation and ours. 
That can be delighted by sound, 

Or boasts any musical powers 1 



STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE. 

The shepherd touch'd his reed ; sweet Philomel 
Essay 'd, and otl essay'd to catch the strain. 

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell. 
The numbers, echo'd note for note again. 

The peevish youth, who ne'er had tbund before 
A rival of his skill, indignant heard. 

And soon (for various was his tuneful store) 
In loftier tones defied the simple bird. 

She dared the task, and rising as he rose, 

WUth all the tbrce that passion gives inspired. 

Return 'd the sounds awhile, but in the close 
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired. 

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife. 
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun ; 

And, O sad victory, which cost thy life. 
And he may wish that he had never won ! 



ODE ON THE DE.\TH OF A LADY, 

WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON 
HER BIRTHDAY, 17"2S. 

Ancient dame, how wide and vast 

To a race like ours appears. 
Rounded to an orb at last, 

All thy multitude of years ! 

We, the herd of human kind, 
Frailer and of feebler powers ; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. 723 


We, to narrow bounds conlined, 


Though till his growing time be past 


Soon exhaust the sum of ours. 


Scarce ever is he seen to fast. 




That hour arrived, his work begins. 


Death's delicious banquet— we 


He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins; 
Till circle upon circle, wound 


Perish i vin from the womb, 


Switlrr tliaii a shadow flee. 


Careless around him and around, 


Nourishd hut to feed the tomb. 


Conceals him with a veil, though slight, 


Seeds of merciless disease 


Impervious to the keenest sight. 


Lurk in all th.it we enjoy ; 

Some that waste us hy degrees, 

Some that suddenly destroy. 


Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask. 

At length he finishes his task : 

And, though a worm when he was lost, 

Or caterpillar at the most, 


And, if life o'erleap the bourn 


When next we see him, wings he wears. 


Common to the sons of men, 


And in papilio pomp appears ; 


What remains, but that we mourn, 


Becomes oviparous ; supplies 


Dream, and dote, and drivel then 1 


With future worms and future flies 




The next ensuing year — and dies ! 


Fast as monns can wax and wane 


Well were it lor the world, if all 


Sorrow comes ; and. while we groan. 


Who creep about this earthly ball, 


Pant with anguish, and complain, 


Though shorter-lived than most he be. 


Half our years are fled and gone. 


Were useful in their kind as he. 


If a few (to few 'tis given), 

Lingennp; on this earthly stage, 


* 




Creep and halt with steps uneven 


THE INNOCENT THIEF. 


To the period of an age, 


Not a flower can be found in the fields, 


Wherefore live they, but to see 


Or the spot that we till lor our pleasure, 


Cunning, arrogance and force, 


From the largest to the least, but it yiehU 


Sights lamented much by thee. 


The bee, never wearied, a treasure 


Holding their accustom'd course 1 






Scarce any she quits unexplored 


Oft was seen, in ages past. 


With adilligence truly exact; 


All that we with wonder view; 


Vet, steal what she may for her hoard 


Often shall be to the la.st ; 


Leaves evidence none of the fact. 


Earth produces nothing new. 


Her lucrative task she pursues. 


Thee wc gratulate, content 


And pilfers with so much address, 


Should propitious Heaven design 


That none of their odor they lose. 


Life for us as calmly spent. 


Nor charm by their beauty the less. 


Though but half the length of thine. 






Not thus inoffensively preys 




The cankerworm, in-dwelling foe ! 
His voracity not thus allays 




THE C.l.U.'SE WOX. 


The sparrow, the tinch, or the crow. 


Two neighbors furiously dispute ; 


The worm, more expensively fed. 
The pritle of the garden devours; 


A field — the subject of the suit. 


Trivial the spot, yet such the rage 


And birds peck the seed from the bed. 


With which the combatants engage, 


Still less to be spared than the flowers. 


'Twere hard to tell who covets most 




The prize— at whatsoever cost. 

The pleadings swell. Words still suffice ; 

No single word but has its price. 

No term but yields some fair pretence 


But she with such delicate skill 
Her pillage so fits for her use. 


That the chemist in vain with his still 
Would labor the like to produce. 


For novel and increased expense. 


Then grudge not her temperate meals, 


Defendant thus becomes a name. 


Nor a benefit blame as a theft ; 


Which he that bore it may disclaim. 


Since, stole she not all that she steals. 


Since both in one description blended. 


Neither honey nor wax would be left. 


Are plaintiffs— when the suit is ended. 


DENNER'S OLD WOMAN. 




THE SILKWORM. 






In this mimic form of a matron in years, 


TriE beams of .'Vpril. ere it goes. 


How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! 


A worm, scarce visible, disclose ; 


The matron herself in whose old age we see 


All winter long content to dwell 


Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! 


The tenant of his native shell. 


No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low. 


The same prolific season gives 


No wrinkle, ordecp-furrow'd trown on the brow! 


The sustenance by which he lives. 


Her forehead indeed is here circled around 


The mulberry leaf a simple store, 

That serves him— till he needs no more ! 


With locks like the ribbon with which they are 


bound ; 


For, his dimensions once complete. 


While glos.sy and smooth, and as soft as the skin 


Thenceforth none ever sees him eat ; 


Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin ; 



724 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, 
Or that indicates life in its mnter — is here. 
Yet all is express'd with fidelity due. 
Nor a pimple or freckle conceal'd from the view. 

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a 
taste 
For the labors of art, to the spectacle haste. 
The youths all agree, that could old age inspire 
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire. 
And the matrons with pleasure confess that 

they see 
Ridiculous nothing or hideous in thee, [decline, 
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a 
O wonderful woman ! as placid as thine, [engage 

Strange magic of art ! which the youth can 
To pursue, half enamour'd, the features of age ; 
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair. 
That she when as old shall be equally foir ! 
How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd, 
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain 'd. 



THE TEARS OP A PAINTER. 

Apelles, hearing that his boy 
Had just expired — his only joy ! 
Although the sight with anguish tore hun. 
Bade place his dear remains before hiui. 
He seized his brush, his colors spread ; 
And — "Oh! my child, accept," — he said, 
" ('Tis all that I can now bestow,) 
This tribute of a father's woe !" 
Then, faithful to the twofold part, 
Both of his feelings and his art. 
He closed his eyes with tender care, 
And form'd at once a fellow pair. 
His brow with amber locks beset. 
And lips he drew not livid yet. 

And shaded all that he had done 

To a Just image of his son. 
Thus far is well. But view again 

The cause of thy paternal pain! 

Thy melancholy task fulfil ! 

It needs the last, last touches still. 

Again his pencil's powers he tries. 

For on his lips a smile he spies : 

And still his cheek unfadcd shows 

The deepest damask of the rose. 

Then, heedful to the finish'd whole, 

With fondest eagerness he stole. 

Till scarce himself distinctly knew 

The cherub copied from the true. 

Now, painter cease ! Thy task is done. 

Long lives this ijnage of thy son ; 

Nor short-lived shall thy glory prove 

Or of thy labor or thy love. 



THE MAZE. 

Phom right to lefl, and to and fro, 

Caught m a labyrinth you go. 

And turn, and turn, and turn again, 

To solve the mystery, but in vain ; 

Stand still, and breathe, and take from me 

A clue, that soon shall set you free ! 

Not Ariadne, if you met her. 

Herself could serve you with a better. 

You enter'd easily — find whore — 

And make with ease your exit there ! 



NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUF- 
FERER. 

The lover, in melodious verses, 
His singular distress rehearses ; 
Still closing with a rueful cry, 
" Was ever such a wretch as J !" 
Yes! thousands have endured before 
All thy distress ; some, haply, more. 
Unnuinber'd Corydons complain, 
And Strephons, of the like disdain ; 
And if thy Chloe be of steel. 
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel ; 
Not her alone that censure fits. 
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits. 



THE SNAIL. 

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, 
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
As if he grew there, house and all 
Together. 

Within that house secure he hides, 
When danger imminent betides 
Of storm, or other harm besides 

Of weather. 

Give but his horns the slightest touch. 
His self-collecting power is such, 
He shrinks into his house with much 
Displeasure. 

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone. 
Except himself has chatties none, 
Well satisfied to be his own 

Whole treasure. 

Thus, hermit-hke, his life he leads. 
Nor partner of his banquet needs. 
And if he meets one, only feeds 

The faster. 

Who seeks him must be worse than blind 
(He and his house are so combined,) 
If, finding it, he fads to find 

Its master. 



THE CANTAB. 



With two spurs or one, and no great matter 
which, [switch, 

Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a 
Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast. 
Paid part into hand ; — you must wait for the rest. 
Thus equipt, Acadeniicus climbs up his horse. 
And out they both sally for better or worse ; 
His heart void of fear, and as light as a feather ; 
And in violent haste to go not knowing whither. 
Through the fields and the towns ; (see !) he 
scampers along : [yountr. 

And is look'd at and laugh'd at by old and by 
Till, at length overspent, and his sides smear'd 

with blood, 
Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud. 
In a wagon or chaise, shall he finish his route ^ 
Oh ! scandalous fate ! he must do it on foot. 

Young gentlemen, hear! — I am older than you! 
The advice that I give I have proved to be true, 
Wherever your journey may be. never doubt it. 
The faster you ride, you're the longer about it. 



] 



TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. 



FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS. 

A Spartan, his companion slain, 

Alone from battle fled ; 
His mother, kimi ling with disdain 

That she had borne hiiu, struck him dead ; 
For courage, ami not birth alone, 
In Sparta, testifies a son ! 

ON THE SAME BY PALLADAS. 

A Spartan 'scaping from the fight, 

His mother met him in his flight. 

Upheld a falchion to his breast, 

And thus the fugitive address'd : 

" Thou canst but live to blot with shame 

Indelible thy mother's name, 

While every breath that thou shalt draw 

Offends against thy country's law ; 

But if thou perish by this hand, 

Myself indeed, throughout the land. 

To my dishonor, shall be known 

The mother still of such a son ; 

But Sparta will be safe and free 

And that shall serve to comfort me." 

AN EPITAPH. 

My name — my country — what are they to thee ! 
What, whether base or proud my pedigree! 
Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — 
Perhaps I fell below them all — what then! 
Suffice it, stranger ! that thou seest a tomb — 
Thou know St its use — it hides — no matter whom. 

ANOTHER. 

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain 
With much hard labor in thy service worn ! 
He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain, 
And he these olives that the vale adorn. 
He fill'd with grain the glebe; the rills he led 
Through this green herbage, ami those fruitful 

Dowers ; 
Thou, therefore, earth ! lie lightly on his head. 
His hoary bead, and deck his grave with flowers. 

ANOTHER. 

Painter, this likeness is too strong. 
And we shall jnourn the dead too long. 

ANOTHER. 

At threescore winters' end I died 
A cheerless being sole and sad ; 
The nuptial knot I never tied, 
And wish my father never had. 

BY CALLni.\CHUS. 

At morn we placed on his funeral bier 
Young Mclanippus ; and, at eventide, 



Unable to sustain a loss so dear, 
By her own hand his blooming sister died. 
Thus Aristinpus mourn'd his noble race. 
Annihilated by a double blow,- [brace, 

Nor son could hope nor daughter more to em- 
And all Cyrene sadden'd at his woe. 

ON MILTIADES. 

Mii.TiADES ! thy valor best 
(Although in evei-y region known) 
The men of Persia can attest. 
Taught by thyself at Marathon. 

ON AN INFANT. 

Bewail not much, my parents ! me, the prey 
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here. 
An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, 
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay, 
Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew 
Not many joys, my griefs were also few. 

BY HERACLIDES. 

In Cnidus bom, the consort I became 
Of Euphron. .^rctimias was my name. 
His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride, 
But bore two children at a birth, and died. 
One child 1 leave to solace and uphold 
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old. 
And one, for his remembrance' sake, I bear 
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there. 

ON THE REED. 

I WAS of late a barren plant. 
Useless, insignificant, 
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore, 
A native of the marshy snore ; 
But, gather'd for poetic use. 
And plunged into a sable juice. 
Of wliich my modicum I sip 
With narrow mouth and slender lip. 
At once, although by nature dumb. 
All eloquent I have become. 
And apeak with fluency untired, 
As if by Phoebus' self inspired. 

TO HEALTH. 

Eldest born of powers divine! 
IJIess'd Hygeia ! be it mine 
To enjoy what thou canst give, 
And henceforlh with thee to live: 
For in power if pleasure be. 
Wealth or numerous progeny, 
Or in amorous embrace. 
Where no spy infests the place ; 



Or in aught that Heaven bestows 
To alleviate human woes, 
When the wearied heart despairs 
Of a respite from its cares ; 
These and every true delight 
Flourish only in thy sight ; 
And the sister graces three 
Owe, themselves, their youth to thee 
Without whom we may possess 
Much, but never happiness. 

ON INVALIDS. 

Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they 
Who look for death, and tear it every day. 

ON THE ASTROLOGERS. 

The astrologers did all alike presage 
My uncle's dying in extreme old age ; 
One only disagreed. But he was wise, 
And spoke not till he heard the funeral cries. 

ON AN OLD WOMAN 

MYCir.L.4 dyes her locks, 'tis said : 

But 'tis a foul aspersion i 
She buys them black ; they therefore need 

No subsequent immersion. 

ON FLATTERERS. 

No mischief worthier of our fear 

In nature can be found 
Than friendship, in ostent sincere, 

But hollow and unsound. 
For luU'd into a dangerous dream 

We close infold a foe. 
Who strikes, when most secure we seem, 

The inevitable blow. 

ON A TRUE FRIEND. 

Hast thou a friend 1 thou hast indeed 

A rich and large supply, 
Treasure to serve your every need, 

Well managed, till you die. 

ON THE SWALLOW. 

Attic maid ! with honey fed, 

Bear'st thou to thy callow brood 

Yonder locust from the mead, 
Destined their delicious food ^ 

Ye have kindred voices clear, 

Ye ahke unfold the wing. 
Migrate hither, sojourn here. 

Both attendant on the spring ! 

Ah, for pity drop the prize ; 

Let it not with truth be said 
That a songster gasps and dies. 

That a songster may be fed. 

ON LATE ACaUIRED WEALTH. 

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes 
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour, 

Who nought enjoy'd while young, denied the 

means ; [power. 

And nought when old enjoy'd, denied the 



BATH, BY PLATO. 

Did Cythcrea to the skies 

From this pellucid lymph arise 1 

Or was it Cytlierea's touch. 

When bathing here, that made it such? 

ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS. 

With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air, 
Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare. 
No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss 
Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss. 
Thrice thirty years he lived, ami to his heirs 
His seeds bequeath 'd, his birdlime, and his snares. 

ON NIOBE. 

Charon ! receive a family on board, 
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl, 

Apollo and Diana, for a word 

By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. 

ON A GOOD MAN. 

Traveller, regret not me ; for thou shalt find 

Just cause ot" sorrow none in my decease, 
Who, dying, children's children left behind, 

And with one wife lived many a year in peace ; 
Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters 
three, 

And oft their infants in my bosom lay, 
Nor saw I one of all derived from me, 

Touch'd with disease, or torn by death away. 
Their duteous hands my funeral rites bestow'd. 

And me, by blameless manners fitted well 
To seek it, sent to the serene abode 

Where shades of pious men forever dwell. 

ON A MISER. 

They call thee rich — I deem thee poor, 
Since, if thou darest not use thy store, 
But savest it only for thine heirs. 
The treasure is not thine, but theirs. 

ANOTHER. 

A MISER traversing his house. 

Espied, unusual there, a mouse. 

And thus his uninvited guest 

Briskly inquisitive address'd : 

" Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it 

I owe this unexpected visit ?" 

The mouse her host obliquely eyed, 

And, smiling, pleasantly replied: 

'' Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard! 

I come to lodge, and not to board." 

ANOTHER. 

Art thou some individual of a kind 
Long-lived by nature as the rook or hind 1 
Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such. 
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too 
much. [breast 

But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy 
This lust of treasure — folly at the best ! 
For why shouldst thou go wasted to the tomb. 
To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom f 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK. 



727 



ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY. 

Rich, thou hailst innny lovers — poor, hast none. 
So surely want extinguishes the flame, 

And slie who ciili'd thee once her pretty one. 
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name. 

Where wast thou horn^ Soeicrates, and where, 
In what strange country can thy parents live, 

Who seem'st, hy thy comphiints, not yet aware 
That want's a crime no woman can forgive 1 

ON THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Hapi'Y songster, perch'd ahovc, 
On the suminit of I he grove. 
Whom a dewilrop cheers to sing 
With the freedom of a king, 
From thy jjereh survey the flelds 
Wiiere prohfic nature yields 
Nought that, willingly as she, 
Man surrenders not to thee. 
For hostility or hate 
None thy pleasures can create. 
Thee it satisfies to sing 
Sweetly the return of spring, 
Herald of th(t genial hours, 
Harming neither herbs nor flowers. 
Therefore man thy voice attends 
Gladly — ihou and he arc friends; 
Nor thy never-ceasing strains, 
Phoebus or the muse disdains 
As too simple or too long, 
For themselves inspire the song. 
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaymg, 
Ever singing, sporting, playing 
What has nature else to show 
Godlike in its kind as thou '! 

ON HERMOCRATIA. 

Hermocrati.* named — save only one — 
Twice firteen births I bore, and buried none; 
For neither Phofbus pierced my thriving joys, 
Nor Dian^she my girls, or he my hoys. 
But Dian rather, when my daughters lay 
In p.irturition, chased their pangs away. 
And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared 
A vigorous youth, by sickness unimpair'd. 
O Niobe ! far less prolific ! see 
Thy boast against Latona shamed by mc ! 

FROM MENANDER. 

Fond youth ! who dream'st that hoarded gold 

Is neeilful not alone to pay 
For all thy various items sold, 

To serve the wants of every day ; 

Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat, 
For s.-ivory viands season 'd high ; 

But somewhat more important yet — 
I tell thee what it cannot buy. 

No treasure hadst lliou more amass'd 
Than fame to Tantalus assign'd. 

Would save tiiee from a tomb at last, 
But thou must leave it all behind. 

I give thee, therefore, counsel wise; 

Confide not vainly in thy store, 
However large — much less despise 

Others comparatively poor ; 



But in thy more exalted state 

A just and equal temper show 
That all who see thee rich and great. 

May deem thee worthy to be so. 

ON PALLAS B.ITHING, FROM A HYMN 
OF CALLIMACHU.S, 

Nor oilsf of balmy scent produce, 
Nor mirror for Minerva's use. 
Ye nymiihs who lave her ; she, array'd 
In genume beauty, scorns their aid. 
Not even when they left the skies. 
To seek on Ida's head the prize 
From Paris' han<i, did Juno deign, 
Or Pallas in the crystal plain 
Of Simois' stream her locks to trace. 
Or in the mirror's polished face. 
Though Venus ort with anxious care 
Adjusted twice a single hair. 

TO DEMOSTHENES. 

It flatters and deceives thy view. 

This mirror of ill-polish'd ore; 
For, were it just, and told thee true. 

Thou wouldst consult it never more. 

ON A SIMILAR CHARACTER. 

You give your cheeks a rosy stain. 

With washes dye your hair; 
But paint and washes both arc vain 

To give a youthful air. 

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil, 

No labor will efl'aee 'em. 
You wear a mask of smoothest oil, 

Yet still with ease we trace 'em. 

An art so fruitless then forsake. 
Which though you much excel in, 

You never can contrive to make 
Ohl Hecuba young Helen. 

ON AN UGLY FELLOW. 

Bewark, my friend ! of crystal brook. 
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook. 

Thy nose, thou chance to see; 
Narcissus' fate would then lie thine, 
And self-detested ihou wouldst pine, 

As self-enamour'd he, 

ON A B.ITTERED BEAUTY. 

Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth you buy, 

A multifarious store ! 
A mask at once would all supply 

Nor would it cost you more. 

ON A THIEF. 

Whk\ .\u1us, the nocturnal thief made prize 
Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies, 
Hermes, .Vrcadia's king, the thief divine. 
Who when an infant stole Ajiollo's kinc, 
And whom, as arbiter and overseer 
Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here; 
" Hermes," he cried, ' you meet no new disaster; 
Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond the master." 



728 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ON PEDIGREE. 



FROM EPICHARMCS. 



My mother ! if thou love mc, name no more 
My noble birth ! Sounding at every breath 
My noble birth, thou kill'st me. Thither fly, 
As to their only refuge, all from whom 
Nature withholds all good besides ; they boast 
Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
Of their forefathers, and. from age to age 
Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race : 
But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name, 
Derived from no forefathers'? Such a man 
Lives not ; for how could such be born at all 1 
And, if it chance that, native of a land 
Far distant, or in infancy deprived 
Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace 
His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
Prom baser ancestry than theirs who can 1 
My mother ! he whom nature at his birth 
Endow'd with virtuous qualities, although 
An .£thiop and a slave, is nobly born. 

ON ENVy. 

Pity, says the Theban bard, 
From my wishes I discard ; 
Envy, let me rather be, 
Rather far, a theme for thee. 
Pity to distress is shown, 
Envy to the great alone — 
So the Theban — But to shine 
Less conspicuous be mine ! 
I prefer the golden mean. 
Pomp and penury between ; 
For alarm and peril wait 
Ever on the loftiest state 



And the lowest to the end 
Obloquy and scorn attend. 

BY MOSCHUS. 

I SLEPT when Venus enter'd : to my bed 
A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, 
A basnful seeming boy, and thus she said : 

" Shepherd, receive my little one ! I bring 
An untaught love, whom thou must tcacn to 

sing." 
She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought, 
Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, 
: How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound, 
i How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound. 
How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire 
Of Phojbus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre. [he, 
Such were my themes ; my themes nought heeded 
But ditties sang of amorous sort to me, 
The pangs that mortals and immortals prove 
From Venus' influence and the darts of love. 
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught; 
His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot. 

BY PHILEMON. 

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent. 
And give them bulk beyond what nature meant 
A parent, brother, friend deceased, to cry — 
'■ He's dead indeed, but he was born to die" — 
Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
And burden of the loss ; is just and wise. 
But to exclaim, " Ah ! wherefore was I born, 
Tlius to be left forever thus forlorn V' 
Who thus laments his loss invites distress, 
And magnifles a woe that might be less. 
Through dull despondence to his lot resign'd, 
And leaving reason's remedy behind. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF GAY. 



LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS. 

Lusus amicitia est, uni nisi dedita, ceu fit, 

SimpUce ni nexus foedere, lusus amor. 
Inccrto genitore puer, non saepe paternie 

Tutamen novit, deliciasque domiis : 
Quiquc sibi fldos fore multos sperat, amicus 

Mirum est huic misero si ferat ulius opem. 
Comis erat, mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus 

Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus. 
Ille, quot in sylvis et quot spatiantur in agris 

Q.uadrupedes, norat conciliare sibi ; 
Etquisqueinnocuo.invitiquelacesserequenquam 

Labra tenus saitem lidus amicus erat. 
Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit, 

Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens, 
Vcnatorum audit clangores pone sequentem, 

Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit. 
Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedel, erigit aures, 

Respicit, et sentit jam prope adesse necem. 
Utque canes fallat late circumvagus, illuc, 

Unde abiit, mu-a calliditate redit ; 



Viribus at fractis tandem se projicit ultro 

In media miserum semianimeuique via. 
Vix ibi stratus, equi sonitura pedis audit, et, oh spe 

Quam liEta adventu cor agitatur equi ! 
Dorsum (inquit) mihi, chare, tuum concede, 
tuoque 

Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum. 
Me mens, ut nosti, pes prodit — fidus amicus 

Fert quodcunque, lubcns, nee grave sentit, 
onus. 
Belle, miselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) amara 

Omnia qutc tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi. 
Verum age — sume animos — multi, me pone, 
bonique 

Advcniunt, quorum sis cito salvus ope. 
Proxiums armenti dominus bos soHcitatus 

Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat : 
Quando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullus 
amicum 

Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, 
Libertate aequus, quam cedit amicus amico, 

Utar, et absque metu nc tibi displiceam; 



TRANSLATIONS FROM OWEN. 



729 



Hinc mc mandat amor. Juxta istiim messis 
acervum 

Me mca, pra; ounctis cliara, juvenca manet ; 
Et quis non ultro quaecunque ncgotia linquit, 

Parent ut ilominae cum vocat ipsa sua; ^ 
Nee me cruileleiu dicas — disccdo — sed hircus, 

Cujus ope cll'ugias integer, liircus adest. 
Febrcui (ait hireus) liabes. Hcu, sicca ut lumina 
languent ! 

Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet ! 
Hirsutuiu luihi tergum ; et Ibrsan iseserit ajgrum, 

Vellere cris melius fultus, ovisque vcnit. 
Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis in(juit, anliclans 

Sustineo lana; pondera tanta mere ; 
Me nee velocem nee ibrtem jaeto, solentquc 

Nos etiam sa?vi dilacerarc canes. 
Ultimus accedit vitulus, vituluaique precatur, 

Ut periturum alias ocyus cripiat. 
Remne ergo, rcspondet vitulus, suscepero tantam, 

Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri ? 
Te, quern maturi canibus validique relinquunt, 

Incolumem potero reddcre parvus ego ? 
PriEtcrca tollens quetn illi aversantur. amicis 

Forte parum vidcar cunsuluissc meis. 
Ignoseas oro. Fidissima dissociantur 

Corda, et talc tibi sat liquet esse meum. 
Ecce autem ad calces canis est I te quanta 
perempto 

Tristitia est nobis ingruitura ! — Vale ! 

AVARUS ET PLUTUS. 

IcT.t fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus 

Ex somno trepidus surgit. opumque memor. 
Lata silenter huaii ponit vestigia, quemque 

Respicit ad sonitum, respiciensque treniit; 
Angustissima qua'que Ibramina lampade visit, 

Ad vectes. obices, fertque refertquc manum. 
Dein rescrat crebris junctam compagibus arcum 

Exultansque oinnes conspicit intus opes. 
Sed tandem turiis ultricibus actus ob artes 

Queis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum. 
Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora 
pulsans 

Aurum execratur, perniciemque vocat ; 
mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset, 

Hoc cclasset adhuc si modo terra malum ! 



Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum 

Quid contra vitii tormina saeva valet t 
Oinimicuiu aurum 1 O hominiinfestissimapestis; 

Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas 1 
Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid hon- 
estum est, 

Et prffiter nomen nil retinere boni. 
Aurum eunota mali per terras seinina sparsit ; 

Aurum nocturnis luribus arma dedit. 
Bella docet tbrtes, timidosque ad pessima ducit, 

Focdifragas artes, multipliccsque dolos, 
Nee vitii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum 

Ex malcsuada auri sacrilcgaque fame. 
Dixit, et inijemuit i Plutusque suum sibi numen 

Ante oculos, ira lervidus, ipse stetit. 
.'Vrcam clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis 

Ostendens ; tremulum sic Deus increpuit. 
Questibus his raueis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis 
auresi 

Ista tui similis tristia quisque canit. 
Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe ■! 
Culpa, 

Dum rapis, et captas omnia, culpa tua est. 
Mene execrandum censes, quia tarn pretiosa 

Criminibus tiunt perniciosa tuis 7 
Virtutis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus 

Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tcwit, 
Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum 

Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium. 
Hinc, nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam. 

Idem aurum latet in pectore pcstis cdax, 
Nutrit avaritiam et fastum. suspendere adunco 

Suadet naso inopcs, et vitium omne docet. 
.luri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar 

Roris dilapsi ex lethere cuncta beat : 
Tum, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat 
orbos, 

Et viduas lacrymis ora rigare vetat. 
Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus, 

Aurum animte pretium qui cupit atque capit 1 
Lege pari gladium incuset sicarius atrox 

Ca;so homine, et ferrum judicet esse ream. 

PAPILIO ET LIMAX. 

Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit, 
Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur, olet. 



EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. 



ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT. 

Thou mayst of double ignorance boast. 
Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st. 

PRUDENT SIMPLICITY. 

That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be, 
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee! 

SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
Contemplate, when the sun declines, 

Thy death with deep reflection ! 
And when again he rising shines, 

The day of resurrection ! 



TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. 

I WISH thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend ; 
For when at worst, they say, things always mend. 

RETALIATION. 
The works of ancient bards divine, 

Aulus, thou seorn'st to read ; 
And should posterity read thine, 

It would be strange indeed ! 

When little more than boy in age, 
I deem'd myself almost a sage: 
But now seem worthier to be styled, 
For ignorance, almost a child. 



TRANSLATIONS 



VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND HOMER. 



THE SALAD, BY VIRGIL. 

The winter night now well nigh worn away 
The wakeful cock proclaim'd approaching day, 
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm 
Of narrowest lijnits, heard the shrill alarm, 
Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to pro- 
vide 
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, 
By slow degrees his tattcr'd bed forsook. 
And, poking in the dark, explored the nook 
Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around, 
And with burnt fingers' ends the treasure found. 

It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose, 
Sure proof of latent fire some smoke arose ; 
When, trimming with a pin the encrusted tow, 
And stooping it towards the coals below. 
He toils with cheeks distended, to excite 
The lingering flame, and gains at length a light. 
With prudent heed he spreads his hand before 
The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door. 
Small was his stock, but taken for the day 
A measured stint of twice eight pounds away. 
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, 
Fix'd in the wall, affords his lamp a stand : 
Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat 
He girds, the rough exuviie of a goat : 
And with a rubber, for that use design'd, 
Cleansing his mill within — begins to grind ; 
Each hand has its employ ; laboring amain. 
This turns the winch, while that supplies the 

grain. 
The stone, revolving rapidly, now glows, 
And the bruised corn a mealy current flows ; 
While he. to make his heavy labor light, 
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right; 
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile 
His cea.seless toil, as rude a strain the while. 
And now. ■' Dame Gybale, come forth !" he cries ; 
But Cybale. still slumbering, nought rephes. 

Prom Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid. 
Whose face and fbnu alike her birth betray'd. 
With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin. 
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin. 
Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet, 
Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. 
Such, summon'd oil. she came ; at his command 
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, 
And made in haste her simmering skillet steam, 
Replenish'd newly from the neighboring stream. 

'The labors of the mill perform'd, a sieve 
The mingled flour and bran must next receive. 
Which shaken oft shoots Ceres through refined, 
And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. 



This done, at once his future plain repast 
Unleaven'd on a shaven board he cast. 
With tepid lymph first largely soak"d it all. 
Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball. 
And spreading it again with both hands wide. 
With sprinkled salt the stiflen'd mass supplied ; 
At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought. 
Takes from his palms impress'd the shape it 

ought, 
Becomes an orb — and quarter'd into shares, 
The faithful mark of just division bears. 
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space, 
For Cybale before had swept the place, 
And there, with tiles and embers overspread. 
She leaves it — reeking in its sultry bed. 

Nor .Simulus, while Vulcan thus alone 
His part perform'd, proves heedless of his own. 
But sedulous, not merely to subdue 
His hunger, but to please his palate too, 
Prepares more savory food. His chiainey side 
Could boast no gammon, salted well and dried 
And hook'd behind him ; but sufficient store 
Of bundled anise and a cheese it bore ; [strung 
A broad round cheese, which, through its centre 
With a tough broom twig, in the corner hung; 
The prudent hero, theretbre, with address 
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess. 

Close to his cottage lay a garden ground, 
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around ; 
Small was the spot, but liberal to produce. 
Nor wanted aught to serve a peasant's use ; 
And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow 

thence, 
Although its tillage was its sole expense. 
For oft as from his toils abroad he ceased. 
Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, 
His debt of culture here he duly paid. 
And only left the plough to wield the spade. 
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs. 
To drill the ground and cover close the seeds ; 
And could with ease compel the wanton rill 
To turn and wind obedient to his will. [beet, 
There flourish'd star-%vort, and the branching 
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet. 
The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind. 
The noxious poppy — quencher of the mind ! 
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board. 
The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd ; 
But these (tor none his appetite controll'd 
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold ; 
With broom twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, 
He bore them ever to the public mart ; 
Whence laden still, but with a lighter load. 
Of cash well earn'd, he took his homeward road. 



Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, 
His gains in flesh meat for a feast at home. 
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red, 
Or the curl'd endive's hitter leaf he fed : 
On scatlions sliceil, or, with a sensual gust, 
On rockets — foul provocatives of lust ! 
Nor ever shunn'd with smarting guras to press 
Nasturtium — puoLicnt face-distorting mess ! 

Some such regale now also in his thought, 
With hasty sle|)S his garden ground he sought ; 
There, delving with his hands he first displaced 
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast ; 
The tender tops of parsley next he culls, 
Then the old rue bush shudders as he pulls ; 
And coriander last to these succeeds, [seeds. 

That hangs on slightest threads her trembling 

Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands 
The mortar at his sable servant's hands ; 
When, stripping all his garliek first, he tore 
The exterior coats, and oust them on the floor, 
Then cast away with Uke contempt the skin. 
Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. 
These, search'd, and perfect found, he one by one 
Rinsed, and disposed within the hollow stone. 
Sah added, and a lump of sailed cheese, 
With his injected herbs he covcr'd these, 
And, tucking with his let^ his tunic tight, 
And seizing t'ast the pestle with his right. 
The garlick bruising first he soon express'd, 
.4nd nuxed the various juices of the rest. 
He grinds and by degrees his herbs below, 
Lost in each other, their own powers forego. 
And with the cheese in compound to the sight 
Nor wholly green appear nor wholly white. 
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent, 
He cur.sed full oft his dinner for its scent; 
Or, with wry faces, wiping as he spoke 
The trickling tears, cried, " Vengeance on the 

smoke !'' 
The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now 
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow ; 
With cautious hand, that grudses what it spills, 
Some drops of olive oil he next instils. 
Then vinegar with caution scarcely less. 
And gathering to a ball the medley mess, 
Last, with two fingers frugally applied. 
Sweeps the small remnant I'rom the mortar's side. 
And, thus complete in figure and in kind. 
Obtains at length the salad he de.sign'd. 

And now black Cybale before him stands. 
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands, 
He glads receives it, chasing far away 
All fears of famine for the passing day; 
His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head 
In its tough casque of leather, i'orth he led 
And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair. 
Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed 
share. 
June, 1799. 



TRANSL.\TION FROM VIRGIL. 

SNEID, BOOK VIM. Ll.VE 18. 

Thus Italy was moved — nor did the chief 
-Eneas in his mind less tumult feel. 
On every side his anxious thought he turns. 
Restless, unfix'd. not knowing which to choose. 
And as a cistern that in brim of brass 
Confines the crystal tlood. if chance the sun 
Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb, 



The quivering light now flashes on the walls, 
Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof: 
Such were the wavering motions of his minil. 
'Twas night — and weary nature sunk to rest. 
The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no 

more. 
At length, on the cold ground, beneath the damp 
And dewy vault fast by the river's brink. 
The father of his countr)' sought repose. 
When lo ! among the spreading j)oplar boughs. 
Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious rose 
The god of Tiber: clear transparent gauze 
Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are 

crown'd : 
And these his gracious words to soothe his care : 
" Heaven-born, who Iwing'st our kindred home 

again. 
Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy, 
Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains 
Expected thee ; behold thy fix'd abode. 
Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past, 
The gods appeased. For proof that what thou 

hcar'st 
Is no vain forgery or delusive dream. 
Beneath the grove that borders my green bank, 
A milk-white swine, with thirty miUc-vvhite young, 
Shall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the 

place ; 
For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils: 
There, twice ten years elapsed, fair .Elba's walls 
Shall rise, fair Albn, by .-Vscanius' hand. 
Thus shall it be — now listen, while I teach 
The means to accomplish these events at hand. 
The Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung, 
Following Evander's standard and his fate. 
High on these mountains, a well chosen spot, 
Have budt a city, for their grandsire's sake 
Named Pallanteum. These perpetual war 
Wage with the Latians : ioin'd in faitht'u! league 
.ind arms confederate, add them to your camp. 
Myself between my winding banks will speed 
Vour well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide. 
I Rise, goildess born, arise ; and with the first 

Declining stars seek Juno in thy prayer, 
! And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows. 
When conquest crowns thee, then remember me. 
i I am the Tiber, whose cserulean stream 
Heaven favors ;. I with copious flood divide 
These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meads. 
My mansion, this — and lofly cities crown 
My fountain head." — He spoke and sought the 

deep, 
And plunged his form beneath the closing flood. 
j-Encas at the morning dawn awoke, 
.Vnd, rising, with uphtied eye beheld 
The orient sun, then dipped his palms, and 

scoop'd 
The brimming stream, and thus addres.s'd the 

skies : 
" Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the 

source 
Of many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood, 
O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford. 
At length afford, a shelter from my woes. 
Where'er in secret cavern under ground 
Thy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light, 
Since thou hast jiily for a wretch lik<; me, 
My offerings and ray vows shall wait thee still : 
Great horned Father of Hesperian floods, 
Be gracious now, and ratify thy word. " 
He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet, 
Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms. 



732 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



When lo ! astonishing and pleasing sight, 
The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood, 
Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove. 
To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee 
Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed. 
That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood, 
And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to stand 
Motionless as a pool, or silent lake, 
That not a billow might resist their oars. 
With cheerful sound of exhortation soon 
Their voyage they begin ; the pitchy keel 
Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream 
Admires the unwonted burden that it bears, 
Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay. 
Beneath the shade of various trees, between 
The umbrageous branches of the spreading 

groves. 
They cut their liquid way, nor day nor night 
They slack their course, unwinding as they go 
The long meanders of the peaceful tide. 

The glowing sun was in meridian height, 
When from afar they saw the humble walls, 
And the lew scatter'd cottages, which now 
The Roman power has equalfd with the clouds ; 
But .such was then Evander's scant domain. 
They steer to shore, and hasten to the town. 

It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day. 
Before the walls, beneath a shady grove, 
Was celebrating high, in solemn feast, 
Alcides and his tutelary gods. 
Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chief 
Of all his youth ; with these, a worthy tribe. 
His poor but venerable senate, burnt [blood. 
Sweet incense, and their altars smoked with 
Soon as they saw the towering masts approach, 
Shding between the trees, while the crew rest 
Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose. 
Not without fear, and all forsook the feast. 
But Pallas undismay'd, his javelin seized, 
Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground 
Forbade them to disturb the sacred rites. 
"Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to 

explore 
This untried way 1 and whither do ye steer 1 
Whence, and who are ye 1 Bring ye peace or 

war'!" 
.Eneas from his lofty deck holds forth 
The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies : 
" Trojans and enemies to the Latian state. 
Whom they with unprovoked hostihties [der — 
Have driven away, thou seest. We seek Evan- 
Say this — and say beside, the Trojan chiefs 
Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid." 
Pallas with wonder heard that awful name. 
And " Whosoe'er thou art," he cried, " come forth : 
Bear thine own tidings to ray father's ear. 
And be a welcome guest beneath our roof" 
He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast: 
Then led hiai I'rom the river to the grove. 
Where, courteous, thus iEneas greets the king; 
" Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow 
(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth 
In sign of amity this peaceful branch, 
I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee well 
A Grecian leader, born in Arcady, 
And kinsman of the Atridffi. Me my virtue, 
That means no wrong to thee — the Oracles, 
Our kindred families allied of old. 
And thy renown diffused through every land. 
Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee, 
And send me not unwilling to thy shores. 
Dardanus, author of the Trojan state, 



(So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son ; 
Electra boasted Atlas for her sire, 
Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs. 
Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore. 
Sweet Maia, on Cylene's hoary top. 
Her, if we credit aught tradition old. 
Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'd 
His daughter. Thus united close in blood, 
Thy race and ours one common sire confess. 
With these credentials fraught, I would not send 
Ambassadors witii artful phrase to sound 
And win thee by degrees — but came myself— 
Me, therefore, me thou seest ; my life the stake : 
'Tis I, .Eneas, who iuiplore thine aid. 
■Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee, 
Prevail to conquer us, nought then, they think, 
Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs, 
All theirs, from the upper to the nether sea. 
Take then our friendship, and return us thine. 
We too have courage, we have noble minds. 
And youth well tried, and exercised in arms." 

Thus spoke .Eneas. — He with fix'd regard 
Survey 'd him speaking, features, form, and mien. 
Then briefly thus — '• 'i'hou noblest of thy name, 
How gladly do I take thee to my heart. 
How gladly thus confess thee for a friend ! 
In thee I trace Anchises ; his thy speech, 
Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well remember 
Many a day since, when Priam journey'd forth 
To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt 
Hesione, his sister, he push'd on 
E'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then 
The bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek ; 
Much I admii-ed the Trojan chiels, and much 
Their king, the son of great Laomedon, 
But most .Anchises, towering o'er them all. 
A youthful longing seized me to accost 
The hero, and embrace him ; I drew near, 
And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus. 
Departing, he distintinguis'd me with gifts, 
A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, 
A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'd 
Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now. 
The friendly league thou hast solicited 
I give thee, theretbre, and to-morrow all 
My chosen youth shall wait on your return. 
Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come. 
Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate 
These annual rites, which may not be delay'd, 
.And be at once familiar at our board." 

He said, and bade replace the feast removed j 
Himself upon a grassy bank disposed 
The crew ; but lor .Eneas order d forth 
A couch spread with a lion's tawny shag, 
.Ind bade him share the honors of his throne. 
The appointed youth with glad alacrity 
Assist the laboring priest to load the board 
With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves. 
Well kneaded bread and mantling bowls. Well 

pleased, 
.'Eneas and the Trojan youth regale 
On the huge length of a well pastured chine. 

Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd, 
Thus spake Evander : '■ Superstition here, 
In this old solemn feasting, has no part. 
No, Trojan friend, trom utmost danger saved, 
In gratitude this worship we renew. 
Behold that rock which nods above the vale. 
Those bulks of broken stone dispersed around. 
How desolate the shatter'd cave appears, 
And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plain. 
Within this pile, but far within, was once 



TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL. 



733 



The lien of Cncus; dire his hnteful form 
That shunn'd theday.halfmonsteranil half man. 
Blood newly shed slreum'd ever on the ground 
Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan 
Nail'd at his gale, hung hideous to the sight. 
Vulcan begot the brute : vast was his size, 
And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires. 
But the day came that brought us what we 

wish'd. 
The assistance and the presence of a God. 
Flush d with his victory, and the spoils he won 
From triple-form'd Gcryon lately slain, 
The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd. 
Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd 
His herds along the vale. But the sly thief 
Cacus. that nothing might escape his hand 
Of villainy or fraud, drove from the stalls 
Four of the lordliest of his bulls, and four 
The lairest of his heifers : by the tail 
He dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd, 
No footsteps might betray the dark abode. 
And now. his herd with provender sulHccd, 
Alcidcs would be gone : they as they went 
Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods 
And distant hills resound : when, hark ! one ox, 
lmj)rison'd close within the vast recess, 
Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope. 
Then fury seized .\lcidcs, and his breast 
With indignation heaved ; grasping his club 
Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain top 
He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen 
To tremble, anil his eyes bespoke his fears. 
Switl as an eastern blast, he sought his den, 
And dread, increasing, wing'd him as he went. 
Drawn up in iron shngs above the gate,' 
A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste, 
He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door. 
Then grappled it with iron work within 
Of bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived. 
Scarce was he last, when, panting for revenge, 
Came Hercules ; he gnash'd his teeth with rage, 
An\\ quick as lightning glanced his eyes around 
In quest of entrance. Fiery red and stung 
With indignation, thrice he wheel'd his course 
About the mountain ; thrice, hut thrice in vain, 
He strove to force the quarry at the gate. 
And thrice sat down, o'erwearied in the vale. 
There stood a pointed rock abrupt and rude, 
That high o'eriook'd the rest, close at the back 
Of the fell monst'!rs den, where birds obscene 
Of ominous note resorted, choughs and daws. 
This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left. 
Threatening the stream below, he from the right 
Push'd with his utmost strength, and to and fro 
He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base ; 
Then shoved it from its seat ; down fell the pile j 
Sky thunder'd at the fall ; the banks give way, 
The alTrighted stream flows upward to his source. 
Behold the kennel of the brute exposed. 
The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance 
Earth yawning to the centre should disclose 
The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead, 
Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear, 
And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day. 
The monster braying with unusual din 
Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed 
To see such sudden inroads of the light, 
Alcides press'd him close with what at hand 
Lay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments huge 
Of millstone size. He. (for escape was none), 
Wondrous to tell ! forth from hi.^ gorge discharged 
A smoky cloud tlial darken'd all the den ; 



Wreath after wreath he vomited amain, 
The smothering vapor mix'd with fiery sparks. 
!S'o sight could penetrate the veil obscure. 
The hero, more provoked, endured not this, 
But with a headlong leap he rush'd to where 
The thickest cloud enveloped his abode. 
There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires. 
Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster shows 
His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard. 
And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears 

down 
The barricade-of rock, the dark abyss 
Lies open ; and the imprison'd bulls, the theft 
Ho had with oaths denied, are brought to light ; 
By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth, 
His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breast 
Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws 
Are view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd. 
Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence 
This festal day Potitius first enjoind 
Posterity : these solemn rites he first. 
With those who bear the great Pinarian name, 
To Hercules devoted ; in the grove 
This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest 
By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd, [brows 
Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful 
In praise of such deliverance, and hold forth 
The brimming cup ; your deities and ours 
Are now the same, then drink, and freely too." 

So saying, he twisted round his reverend locks 
A variegated poplar wreatli, and fill'd 
His right hand with a consecrated bowl. 
At once all pour libations on the board. 
All ofi"er prayer. And now. the radiant sphere 
Of day descending, eventide drew near. 
When first Potitius with the priests advanced. 
Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands. 
High piled with meats of savory taste, they 

ranged 
The chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast. 
Then came the .Salii, crown'd with poplar too. 
Circling the blazing altars; here the j-outh 
Advanced, a choir harmonious, there were heard 
The reverend seers responsive ; praise they sung, 
Much praise in honor of Alcides' deeds ; 
How first with infant gripe two serpents huge 
He strangled, sent from Juno ; next they sung, 
How Troja and ffichalia he destroy "d. 
Fair cities both, and many a toilsome task 
Beneath Eurystheus (so his stepdame will'd) 
Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair, 
HyliBus fierce and Pholus, monstrous twins, 
Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete, 
And the vast lion of the Nemean rock. 
Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd, 
Stretch'd in his den upon his halt-gnaw'd bones. 
Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vast 
TyphcBus could appal, though clad in arms. 
Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the gods 
At length enroll'd, nor least illustrious thou, 
Haste thee propitious and approve our songs. 
Thus hymn d the chorus ; above all they sing 
The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed. 
The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound. 

The rites perform'd. all hasten to the town. 
The king, bending with age, held as he went 
-Eneas and his Pallas by the hand. 
With much variety of pleasing talk 
Shortening the way. -Bneas, with a smile, 
Looks round him. charm'd with the delightful 

scene. 
And many a question asks, and much he learns 



Of heroes far renown'd in ancient times. 

Then spake Evander. These extensive groves, 

Were once inhabited by founs and nymphs, 

Produced beneath their shades, and a rude race 

Of men, the progeny uncouth of ehns 

And knotted oaks. They no refinement knew 

Of laws or manners civilized, to yoke 

The steer, with forecast provident to store 

The hoarded Rrnin, or manage what they had, 

But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs. 

Or fed voracious on their hunted prey. 

An exile from Olympus, and e.xpell'd 

His native realm by thunder-bearing Jove, 

First Saturn came. He from the mountains 

drew 
This herd of men untractable and fierce, 
And gave them laws : and eall'd his liiding-place, 
This growth of forests, Lalium. Such the peace 
His land possess'd, the golden age was then, 
So famed in story ; till by slow degrees 
Par other times, and of far different hue, 
Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood. 
Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts 
Prom Sicily, and Latium often changed 
Her master and her name. At length arose 
Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form 
Was chief: and we Italians since have call'd 
The river by his name ; thus Albula 
(So was the country call'd in ancient days) 
Was quite forgot. iMe from my native land 
An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven, 
Resistless fortune and relentless fate 
Placed where thou seest me. Phoebus, and 
The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care 
Attendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here. 



His tunic, and the sandals on his feet, 
And,his good sword well girded to his side, 
A panther's skin dependent from his left. 
And over his right shoulder thrown aslant, 
Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him, 
His whole retinue and his nightly guard. 



OVID, TRIST. BOOK V. ELEG. XXL 
Scribis, ut oblectem. 



[Ten lines omilled.] 

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock. 
And the rude spot where now the Capitol 
Stands all magnificent and bright with gold, 
Then overgrown with thorns. And yet ten then 
The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe ; 
The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear. 
This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty top 
Of this fair hill, some deity, wc know, 
Inhabits, but what deity we doubt. 
The Arcadians speak of .lupiter himself 
That they have often seen him, shaking here 
His gloomy ^Bgis, while the thunder storms 
Came roUing all around him. Turn thine eyes, 
Behold that ruin : those dismantled walls, 

Where once two towns, Janiculum , 

By Janus this, and that by Saturn built, 
Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath 
The roof of poor Evander; thence they saw. 
Where now the proud and stately forum stands, 
The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field. 
Soon as he cnter'd— Hercules, he said, 
Victorious Hercules, on this thresholil trod. 
These walls containd hiai, humble as they are. 
Dare to despise magnificence, my friend. 
Prove thy divine descent by worth divine, 
Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode. 
So saying, he led .Eneas liy tlii' hand. 
And placed him on a cushion stuft'dwith leaves. 
Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear. 

[The Episode of Veuus and Vulcan omitted.] 

While thus in Lcmnos Vulcan was employ'd, 
Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day. 
And the shrill song of birds beneath the caves 
Of his low mansion, old Evander rose. 



Vnn bid me write to amuse the tedious hours, 

And save from withering my poetic powers; 

Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow 

Prom the free mind, not fettcr'd down by woe ; 

Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost, 

Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, 1 have most. 

Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain, 

Or childless Niobc from tears refrain, 

Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train 1 

Does grief or study most befit the mind 

To this remote, this barbarous nook confined! 

Could you iaipart to my unshaken breast 

The fortitude by Socrates possess'd. 

Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine. 

For what is human strength to wrath divine 1. 

Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so. 

My sufferings would have laid that wistlom low. 

Could I tbrget my country, thee and all, 

And e'en the ofl'ence to which I owe my fall. 

Yet fear alone would freeze that poet's vein. 

While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain. 

Add that the fatal rust of long disuse 

Unfits me for the service of the muse. 

Thistles and weeds are all we can expect 

From the best soil impoverisb'd by neglect ; 

Unexercised, and to his stall confined, 

The fleetest racer would be left behind ; 

The best built bark that cleaves the watery way, 

Laid useless by, would moulder and decay — 

No hope remains that time sliall me restore 

Mean as I was, to what I was belbre. 

Think how a series of desponding cares 

Benumbs the genius and its Ibrce impairs. 

How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet. 

My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet. 

Reluctant and laborious limps along. 

And proves itself a wretched exile's sonir. 

What is it tunes the most melodious lays 1 

'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise, 

A noble thirst, and not unknown to me. 

While smoolhly wafted on a calmer sea. 

But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame 1 

No, rather let the world forget my name. 

Is it because that world approved my strain, 

You prompt me to the same pursuit airain 1 

No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse, 

I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse, 

.And like Pcrillus. meet my just desert, 

The victim of my own pernicious art: 

Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain. 

And. shipwrecked once, to tcmiit the deep again. 

Ill fares the bard in this unlettcr'd land, 

None to consult, and none to understand. 

The purest verse has no admirers here. 

Their own rude language only suits their ear. 

Rude as it is, at length lamiliar grown, 

I learn it, and almost unlearn my own — 

Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains 

Confinement, and attempts her Ibimer strains. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 



735 



But finds the strong desire is not the power, 
Anil whiit hor taste condemns the flames devour. 
A p:irt perhaps, hkc lliis. escapes the doom. 
And lliough unworthy, finds a friend at Rome; 
But oh ! the cruel art that coulil undo 
Its votary thus ! would that could perish too ! 



HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IX. 

Vides, ut ali:\ stet nive candiduni 
Soriicte; 

Sr.EST thou yon mountain laden with deep snow, 
The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow, 

The streams, confTeal'd, fori^et to flow, 
Come, thaw the cold and lay a cheerful pile 

Of fuel on the hearth ; 
Broach the best cask and make old winter smile 

With seasonable mirth. 

This be our part — let Heaven dispose the rest ; 
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, 
That now wage war upon the foamy ifeep. 

And gentle gales spring from the balmy west. 

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may, 
^Vhen to-morrow's passed away. 
We at least shall have to say. 
We have lived another day; 
■your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er. 
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no 
more. 



HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII. 

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus. 

Boy, I hate their empty shows, 

Persian garlands I detest, 
Bring not me the late-blown rose. 

Lingering after all the rest. 
Plainer myrtle pleases me, 

Thus outstretch'd beneath ray vine; 
Myrtle more becoming thee. 

Waiting with thy master's wine. 



HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVJII. 

Bov ! I detest all Persian fopperies, 
Fillet-boun<l garlands are to me disgusting ; 
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee. 

Where latest roses linger. 
Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) 
Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking 

Beneath my vine's cool shelter. 



HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X. 

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach, 
So shalt thou live beyond the reach 

Of adverse fortune's power; 
Not always tempt the distant deep. 
Nor always timorously creep 

Along the treacherous shore. 

He tint holds fiist the golden mean. 
And lives contentedly between 
The httlc and the great. 



Feels not the wants that pinch the poor. 
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 
Iinbittering all his state. 

The tallest pines feel most the power 
Of wintry blasts ; the loftiest tower 

Comes heaviest to tlie ground ; 
The bolts that spare the mountain's side 
His cloudcapt eminence divide, 

.■Vnd spread the ruin round. 

The well-inform'd philosopher, 
Rejoices with a wholesome fear. 

And hopes in sjjite of pain ; 
If Winter bellow from the north. 
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth, 

And Nature laughs again. 

What if thine heaven be overcast ■? 
The dark appearance will not last; 

F..\'peet a brighter sky. 
The God that strings the silver bow 
Awakes sometimes the muses too, 

-Vnd lays his arrows by. 

If hindrances obstruct thy way, 
Thy magnanimity display, 

.\nd let thy strength be seen : 
But O I if Fortune fill thy sail 
With more than a propitious gale, 

Take half thy canvas in. 



A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING 
ODE. 

And is this all 1 Can Reason do no more 
Then bid me shun the deep and dread the shore 1 
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea. 
The Christian has an art unknown to thee : 
He holds no parh y with unmanly fears; 
Where Duty bids he confidently steers. 
Faces a thousand dangers at her call, 
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all. 



HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI. 

Olium Divos rogat in patent!. 

Ea.se is the weary merchant's prayer. 
Who ploughs by night the ^Egean flood. 

When neither moon nor stars appear, 
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud. 

For ease the Mode with quiver graced. 
For ease the Tracian hero sighs. 

Delightful ease all pant to taste, 
A blessing which no treasure buys. 

For neither gold can lull to rest, 
Nor all a (I^onsul's guard beat ofT 

The tumults of a troubled breast. 
The cares that haunt a gilded roof. 

Happy the man whose table shows 
.'V t'ew clean ounces of old plate, 

No I'ear intrudes on his repose. 
No sordid wishes to be great. 

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay ! 

Ah. v^■hy forsake our native home ^ 
To distant climates speed away ; 

For self sticks close where'er we roam. 

Care follows hard, and soon o'crtakcs 
The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed ; 



736 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes — 
Not the wind flies with half her speed. 

From anxious fears of future ill 

Guard well the cheerful, happy now ; 

Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, 
No blessing is unmLx'd below. 

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds, 
Thy numerous flocks around thee graze, 

And the best purple Tyre affords 
Xhy robe magnificent displays. 

On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd 
A rural mansion, neat and small ; 

This lyre ; — and as for yonder crowd, 
The happiness to hate them all. 



THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST 
BOOK OF HORACE. 

A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOK's 
JOURNEY FROM HOME TO BRUNDDSIUM. 

'TwAS a long journey lay before us, 
When I and honest Heliodorus, 
Who far in point of rhetoric 
Surpasses every living Greek, 
Each leaving our respective home, 
Together sallied forth from Rome. 

First at Aricia we aliglit, 
And there refresh, and pass the night, 
Our entertainment rather coarse 
Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse. 
Thence o'er the causeway sofl; and fair 
To Appii Forum we repair. 
But as this road is well supplied 
(Temptation strong !) on either side 
With inns commodious, snug, and warm. 
We split the journey, and perform 
In two days' time what's often done 
By brisker travellers in one. 
Here, rather choosing not to sup 
Than with bad water mix my cup. 
After a warm debate in spite 
Of a provoking appetite, 
I sturdily resolved at last 
To balk it, and pronounce a fast. 
And in a moody humor wait, 
While my less dainty comrades bait. 

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere 
Difl'used the starry train appear, 
When there arose a desperate brawl ; 
The slaves and bargemen, one and all. 
Rending their throats (have mercy on us !) 
As if they were resolved to stun us. 
" Steer the barge this way to the shore ; 
I tell you we'll admit no more ; 
Plague ! will you never be content 1" 
Thus a whole hour at least is spent. 
While they receive the several fares. 
And kick the mule into his gears. 
Happy, these difticulties past. 
Could we have fallen asleep at last! 
Rut, what with humming, croaking, biting, 
Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting. 
These tuneful natives of the lake 
Conspired to keep us broad awake. 
Besides, to make the concert full, 
Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, 



The bargeman and a passenger, 
Each in his turn, essay'd an air 
In honor of his absent fair. 
At length the passenger, opprest 
With wine, left ofl", and snored the rest. 
The weary bargeman too gave o'er. 
And, hearing his companion snore, 
Seiz'd the occasion, fix"d the barge, 
Turn'd out his mule to graze at large, 
And slept forgetful of his charge. 
And now the sun o'er eastern nill 
Discovcr'd that our barge stood still ; 
When one, whose anger vex'd him sore. 
With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore ; 
Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack 
Assails the mule and driver's back. 

Then slowly moving on with pain, 
At ten Feronia's stream we gain, 
And in her pure and glassy wave 
Our hands and faces gladly lave. 
Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height 
We reach, with stony quarries white. 
While here, as was agreed, we wait. 
Till, charged with business of the state, 
Mfficenas and Cocceius come. 
The messengers of peace from Rome. 
My eyes, by watery humors blear 
And sore, I with black balsam smear. 
At length they join us, and with them 
Our worthy friend Fonteius came ; 
A man of such complete desert, 
Antony loved him at his heart. 
At Fundi we refused to bait, 
And laugh'd at vain .\ufidius' state, 
A prietor now, a scribe before, 
The purpie-border'd robe he wore. 
His slave the smoking censor bore. 
Tired, at Munena's we repose. 
At Formia sup at Capito's. 

With smiles the rising morn we greet. 
At Sinuessa pleased to meet 
With Plotius, Varius, and the bard 
Whom Mantua first with wonder heard. 
The world no purer spirits knows ; 
For none my heart more warmly glows. 
O ! what embraces we bestow'd. 
And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd ! 
Sure, while my sense is sound and clear. 
Long as I live, I shall prefer 
A gay, good-natured, easy friend 
To every blessing Heaven can send. 
At a small village, the next night. 
Near the Vulturnus we alight ; 
Where, as employ'd on state aff'airs. 
We were supplictl by the purveyors, 
Frankly at once, and without hire. 
With food for man and horse, and fire. 
Capua next day betimes we reach, 
Where Virgil and myself who each 
Labor'd with different maladies, 
His such a stomach, mine such eyes. 
As would not bear strong exercise. 
In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; 
Mfecenas to the tennis-court. 
Next at Cocceius' i'arm we're treated. 
Above the Caudian tavern seated; 
His kind and hospitable board 
With choice of wholesome food was stored. 

Now, ye Nine, inspire my lays ! 
To nobler themes my fancy raise ! 
Two combatants, wtio scorn to yield 
The noisy, tongue-disputed field. 



TRANSLATIONS PROM HORACE. 



737 



Sarmentus and Cicimis, claim 

A poet's tribute to tlieir fiiinc ; 

Cioirrus ot' true Oscian breed, 

Sarmentus, who was never freed, 

Hut ran away. \Vc don't defame him ; 

His lady lives, ami still may claim him. 

Thus illirnified, in harder fray 

These cnamiiions their keen wit diiiplay 

And first Sarmentus led the way. 

'■ Thy locks," quoth he, •■ so rough and coarse. 

Look like the mane of some wild horse." 

We laugh ; Cicirrus undismay'd — 

" Have at you !'' — cries, and shakes his head. 

"'Tis well," Sarmentus says, "you've lost 

That horn your forehead once could boast ; 

Since, niaim'il and mangled as you arc, 

Vou seem to butt." A hideous scar 

Improved, 'tis true, with double grace 

The native horrors of his face. 

Well, after much jocosely said 

Of his grim front, so fiery red, 

(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er 

As usual on Campania's shore,) 

" Give us," he cried, '■ since you're so big, 

A sample of the Cyclops jig ! 

Your shanks methinks no buskins ask, 

Nor does your phiz require a mask." 

To this Cicirrus : " In return 

Of you, sir, now I tain would learn, 

When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, 

Your chains you to the Lares gave ^ 

FiiT though a scrivener's right you claim. 

Your lady's title is the same. 

Hut what could make you run away. 

Since, pigmy as you are, each day 

A single pound of bread would quite 

O'erpower your puny appetite 1" 

Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd, 

And many a cheerful bumper quaff 'd. 

To Beneventum next we steer ; 
Where our good host by over care 
In roasting thrushes lean as mice 
Had almost I'allen a sacrifice. 
The kitchen soon was all on fire, 
.■\nd to the roof the flames aspire ; 
There might you see each man and master 
Striving, amidst this sad disaster, 
To save the supper. Then they came 
With speed enough to <juench the flame. 
From hence we first at distance see 
The Apulian hills, well known to me, 
Parch'd by the sultry western blast; 
And which we never should have past. 
Had not Trivicius by the way 
Receiveil us at the close of day. 
But each was forced at entering here 
To pay the tribute of a tear. 
For more of smoke than fire was seen — 
The hearth was piled with logs so green. 
From hence in chaises we were carried 
Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried 
At a small town, whose name my verse 
(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse. 
Know it you may by many a sign. 
Water is dearer far than wine ■, 
There bread is deem'd such dainty fare, 
That every prudent traveller 
His wallet loads with many a crust ; 
For at Canusium you might just 
As well attempt to gnaw a stone 
As think to get a morsel down : 
That too with scanty streams is fed ; 



Its founder was brave Diomed. 

Good Varius (ah. that friends must part !) 

Here left us all with aching heart. 

At Rubi we arrived that day, 

Well jaded by the length of way, 

And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter : 

Next day no weather could be better ; 

No roiids so bati ; we scarce could crawl 

Along to fishy Barium's wall. 

The F.gnatians next, who by the rules 

Of common sense arc knaves or fools. 

Made all our sides with laughter heave, 

Since we with them must needs believe 

That incense in their temples burns, 

Ami without fire to ashes turns. 

To circumcision's bigots tell 

Such tales ! for me, I know full well 

That in high heaven, unmoved by care, 

The gods eternal quiet share : 

Nor can 1 deem tticir spleen the cause, 

While fickle Nature breaks her laws. 

Brundusium last we reach ; and there 

Stop short the muse and traveller. 



THE NINTH SATIRE OP THE FIRST 
BOOK OF HOR\CE. 

DESCRIPTION OP AN IMPERTINENT. ADAPTED TO 
PREaENT TIMES, 1759. 

Sauntering along the street one day, 

On trifles musing by the way — 

Up steps a free familiar wight, 

(I scarcely knew the man by sight). 

" Carlos," he cried, '■ your hand^ my dear; 

Gad. I rejoice to meet you here ! 

Pray Heaven I see you well 1" " So, so ; 

E'en well enough as times now go : 

The same good wishes, sir, to you." 

Finding he stUl pursued mc close — 

" Sir, you have business I suppose." 

" My business, sir. is quickly done, 

'Tis but to make my merit known. 

Sir, I have read ' — ■ O learned sir, 

You and your learning I revere." 

Then sweating with anxiety, 

.^nd sadly longing to get free, 

Gods, how I seampcr'J, scuflled for't. 

Ran. halted, ran again, stopp'd short, 

Hcckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near, 

And whisper'd nothing in his car. 

Teased with his loose unjointcd chat — 
'• What street is this ! What house is that V 

Harlow, how I envied thee 
Thy unabash'd effrontery. 

Who darest a foe with freedom blame, 

And call a coxcomb by his name ! 

When I return'd him answer none. 

Obligingly the tool ran on, 

" I sec you're dismally distress'd. 

Would give the world to be released. 

But by your leave, sir, I shall still 

Stick to your skirts, do what you will. 

Pray which way docs your journey tend V 

" O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend ; 

Across the Thames, the Lord knows where, 

1 would not trouble you so far." . 
" Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." 

" Arc you 1" thought I, " the De'il befriend you." 
No ass with double panniers rack'd. 
Opprcss'd, o'erladcn, brokcn-back'd, 
47 



738 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull 

As I, nor half so like a fool. 

" Sir, I know little of myself, 

(Proceeds the pert conceited elf) 

If Gray or Mason you will deem 

Than me more worthy your esteem. 

Poems I write by folios 

As fast as other men write prose ; 

Then I can sing so loud, so clear, 

That Beard cannot with me compare. 

In dancing too I all surpass, 

Not Cooke can move with such a grace." 

Here I made shill with much ado 

To interpose a word or two. — 

" Have you no parents, sir, no friends, 

Whose welfare on your own depends T' 

" Parents, relations, say you 1 No. 

They're all disposed of long ago." — 

" Happy to be no more perplex'd ! 

My fate too threatens, I go next. 

Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late, 

Alas ! to struggle with my ftite ! 

Well, I'm convinced my time is come — 

When young, a gipsy told my doom. 

The beldame shook her palsied head, 

As she perused my palm, and said : 

Of poison, pestilence, and war. 

Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh, 

You have no reason to beware. 

Beware the coxcomb's idle prate; 

Chiefly, my son, beware of that. 

Be sure, when you behold him, fly 

Out of all earshot, or you die." 

To Rul'us' Hall we now draw near 
Where he was summoned to appear, 
Refute the charge the plaintiff brought, 
Or suffer judgment by default. 
" For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait 
One moment! I'll be with you straight." 
Glad of a plausible pretence — 
" Sir, I must beg you to dispense 
With my attendance in the court. 
My legs will surely suffer for't." 
" Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile !" 
" Faith, sir, in law I have no skill. 
Besides, I have no time to spare, 
I must be going you know where." 
" Well, I protest I'm doubtful now 
Whether to leave my suit or you !" 
" Me without scruple I" I reply, 
" Me by all means, sir !" — '■ No, not I 
Allons, Monsieur I" 'Twas vain, you know, 
To strive with a victorious foe. 
So I reluctantly obey. 
And follow where he leads the vfay, 

" You and Newcastle are so close. 
Still hand and glove, sir— I suppose." 
"Newcastle, let me tell you, sir. 
Has not his equal everywhere." 
" Well. There indeed ycmr fortune's made ; 
Faith, sir, you understand your trade. 
Would you but give me your good word : 
Just introduce me to my lord, 
I should serve charmingly by way 
Of second fiddle, as they say: 
What think you, sir f 'twere a good jest. 
'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." 
" Sir, you mistake the matter far, 
We have no second fiddles there — 
Richer than I some folks may be ; 
More learned, but it hurts not me. 



Friends though he has of different kind, 

Each has his proper place assign'd." 

'■ Strange matters these alleged by you !" 

" Strange they may be, but they are true." 

" Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever, 

Now I long ten times more than ever 

To be advanced extremely near 

One of his shining character. 

Have but the will — there wants no more, 

'Tis plain enough you have the power. 

His easy temper (that's the worst) 

He knows, and is so shy at first." — 

" But such a cavalier as you — 

Lord. sir. you'll quickly bring him to !" 

'■ Well ; if I fail in my design. 

Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. 

If by the saucy servile tribe 

Denied, what think you of a bribe 1 

Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, 

But try my luck again to-morrow ; 

Never attempt to visit him 

But at the most convenient time ; 

Attend him on each levee day, 

-And there my humble duty pay — 

Labor, like this, our want supplies; 

And they must stoop who mean to rise." 

While thus he wittingly harangued. 
For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd, 
Canipley, a friend of mine, came by — 
Who knew his huaior more than I ; 
We stop, salute, and — " Why so fast, 
•Friend Carlos "? Whither all this haste V 
Fired at the thought of a reprieve, 
I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve, 
Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout. 
Do everything but speak plain out : 
While he, sad dog, from the beginning 
Determined to mistake my meaning, 
Instead of pitying my curse. 
By jeering made it ten times worse. 
" Campley, what secret (pray !) was that 
You wanted to communicate !" 
" I recollect. But 'tis no matter. 
Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. 
E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell 
Another time, sir, just as well." 

Was ever such a dismal day 1 
Unlucky cur, he steals away, 
And leaves me. half bereft of life, 
At mercy of the butcher's knife ; 
^Vhen sudden, shouting from afar, 
See his antagonist appear ! 
The bailiff seized him quick as thought, 
" Ho, Mr. Scoundrel ! Are you caught 1 
Sir. you are witness to the arrest." 
" .'\y, marry, sir, I'll do my best." 
The mob huzzas. Aw.iy they trudge. 
Culprit and all before the judge. 
Meanwhile I luckily enough 
(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off. 



TRANSLATION OF AN EPIGRAM FROM 
HOMER.* 

P.iY me my price, potters ! and I will sing. 
Attend, O Pallas ! and with lifted arm 

» No title is prefixed to this piece, l)iit it appears In be 
a tr^inslatioii of one of theErTiypa/ifutra of IJoraer called 
O Ka/iii'o?. or The Furnace. Herodotus, or whoever 
was the author of the Life of Homer ascribed to him. 



HIS LATIN POEMS. 



739 



Protect their oven ; let the cups and all 
The sacred vessels blacken well, and, baked 
With good success, yield them both fair renown 
And jirofit. whether in the market sold 
Or strcrts, and let no strife ensue between us. 
But, oh ye potters ! if with shameless front 
Ve falsify your promise, then I leave 
No mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong. 
(Jome, Syntrips, Siiiaragus, Sabactcs, come, 
And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread, 
Omodajnus, delay ! Fire seize your house, 
May neither house nor vestibule escape, 
May ye lament to see confusion mar 

ob.^Tves, " certain putters, while they were busied in 
bukin£: their wure, seeing Homer at a small distance, arut 
having heard much said of his wisdom, called to hi[n, 
and priimisfd him a present of their commodity, and of 
such other lhin:.'3 as they could atford, if he would sing 
to thera, when tie sang us follows." 



And mingle the whole labor of your hands, 

Anil may a sound lill all your oven, such 

As of a horse grinding his provender. 

While all your pots and flagons bounce within. 

Come hither, also, daughter of the sun, 

Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugs 

Poison themselves, and all that tliey have made I 

Come, also, Chiron, witli tliy numerous troop 

Of centaurs, as well those who died beneath 

The club of Hercules, as who escaped, 

And stamp their crockery to dust ; down fall 

Their chimney ; let them see it with their eyes, 

And howl to see the ruin of their art. 

While I rejoice ; and if a potter stoop 

To peep into his furnace, may the fire 

Flash m his face and scorch it, that all men 

Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith. 

October, 1790. 



COWPER'S LATIN POEMS. 



MONTES GL.\CIALE.S, IIV OCEANO GER- 
MAIVICO NATANTES. 

En, qua; prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, 
Oras adveniunt pavefacta per aequora nostras! 
Non equidem prisca; sreclum rediisse videtur 
Pyrrha;. cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes 
Et sylvas. egit. Sed tempora vix leviora 
Adsunt. evuisi quando radicitus alti 
In mare desccndunt montes, fluctusque percr- 

rant. 
Quid vcro hoc monstriest magis et mirabilc visu 1 
Splcndentes video, ecu pulchro ex are vel auro 
Conflatos, rutiiisque accinctos undique gemmis, 
Baeca ca^rulea. et flammas iinitante pvropo. 
Ex orientc adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus 
Parturitomnigenas quilms teva per omnia sumptu 
Ingenli finxere sibi diademata rcgcs 7 
Vix hoc crediilerim. .\on fallunt talia acutos 
Mercatorum oculos : prius et quam httora Gangis 
Liquissent, avidis grntissima prscda fuissent. 
Ortos undo putemus ? An illos Ves'vius atrox 
Protulit, ignivomisve cjecit faucihus -Etna 1 
Luce micant propria, Phcebive, per aiira purum 
Nunc stiinulantis equoa. argcntea tela retorqucnt 1 
Pho^hi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altis 
.'\ppulsi. et rapidis siibler currentibus undis, 
Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre 

est 
MuUa oncrata nive et canis conspersa pruinis, 
Ca;tera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma 

fere omnes 
Contrislat menses, portcnta hiEC horrida nobis 
Ilia slrui voluit. Quotiys dc culinine summo 
Clivorum fluercnt in littora prona, soluta; 
Sole, nivcs, propcro tendentes in mare cursu. 
Ilia gclu fixit. Paulatim attollcre sese 
3Iiruin ctcpil opus ; glacieque ab origine rcrura 
In glaciem aggcsta sublimes vertice tandem 
-Equavit montes, non cresccre nescia moles. 



Sic immcnsa diu stctit, ffiternumque stetisset 
Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte, 
Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset. 
Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum 
,\iitra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, 
Duin ruit in pelagum, tanquain studiosc natandi, 
Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim. 
Insula, in .Egaeo fluitasse erratica ponto. 
Sed non ex glacie Delos ; neque torpida Delum 
Hruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. 
Sed veslita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunqutun 
Decidua lauro ; et Delum dilexit Apollo. 
At vos, erroncs horrendi, et caligine digni 
Cimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vsetra, 
Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri 
Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite ccelum ! 
Ite ! Redite! Timete moras: ni leniter austro 
Spirante, et nitidas Phoebo jaculante sagittas 
Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti ! 
March 11, 1799. 

ON THE ICE ISLANDS SEEN FLO.^TING 
IN THE GERMAN OCEAN. 

What portents, from what distant region, ride. 
Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide 1 
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves 
Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the 

groves. 
But now, descending whence of late they stood, 
Themselves the mountains seem to rove the 

flood. 
Dire times were they, full charged with human 

woes ; 
And these, scarce less calamitous than those. 
What view we now 1 More wondrous still ! 

Behold ! 
Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold ; 
And all around the pearl's pure splendor show. 
And all around the ruby's fiery glow. 



740 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Come they from India, where the burning earth, 
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; 
And where the costly gems, that beam around 
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found 1 
No. Never such a countless dazzUncr store 
Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore. 
Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes. 
Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the 

prize. 
Whence sprang they then t Ejected have they 

come 
From Vesuvius', or from .Etna's burning womb 1 
Thus shine they self illumed, or but dis'Jilay 
The borrow'd splendors of a cloudless day'! 
With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that 

breathe 
Now landward, and the current's force beneath, 
Have borne them nearer ; and the nearer sight. 
Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. 
Their lofty summits crested high they show, 
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. 
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe. 
Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year, 
Their infant growth began. He bade arise 
Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. 
Oft as dissolved by transient suns, tlie snow 
Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below; 
He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast 
The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile. 
And long successive ages roll'd the while; 
Till, ceaseless m its growth, it claiin'd to stand. 
Tall as its rival mountains on the land. 
Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill 
Or force of man, had stood the structure still. 
But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yet 
By pressure of its own enormous weight, 
It left the shelving beach— and, with a sound 
Thel shook the bellowing waves and rocks 

around, 
Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 
As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 
Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old 
How Delos swam the iEgean deep have told. 
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore 
Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd 

laurel, wore. 
E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile ; 
And Delos was Apollo's favorite isle. 
But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you 
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. 
Your hated birth he deign 'd not to survey. 
But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. 
Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dare 
The darts of Phoebus and a softer air; 
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, 
In no congenial gulf forever lost ! 
March 19, 179S. 



with 



MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION TO WIL- 
LIAM NORTHCOT. 

Hic sepultus est 
Inter suorum lacrymas 

GULIEI.MUS NORTHCOT, 

Gni,IELMI et MAH1.E fihus 

Unicus, unice dilectus, 

Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis. 

Aprilis die septimo. 

1780. iEt. 10. 



Care, vale! Sed non sEternum, care, valeto! 

Namque iterum tecum, siin modo diornus, ero. 
Tum nihil amplexus potcrit divellere nostros. 

Nee tu marcesces, nee lacrymabor ego. 

TRANSLATION. 

Farewell I "But not forever," Hope replies. 
Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies ! 
There nothing shall renew our partino- pain. 
Thou shall not wither, nor I weep aiiain. 



IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM 

CORRirpTELfS GALLICIS, CT FERTfR, LONDINl 
NUPER EXOBTAM. 

Perfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore, 

Non arniis, laurum Gallia fraude petit. 
Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit 

Undique privatas patriciasque domos. 
Nequicquam conata sua, fcedissima spcrat 

Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. 
Gallia, vanastruis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces, 

Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus. 

TRANSLATION. 

False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart. 
France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part. 
To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys. 
Bids the low street aiid lofty palace blaze. 
Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone. 
She hires the worst and basest of our own. 
Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with 

ease. 
We always spare a coward on his knees. 



MOTTO ON A CLOCK. 

WITH A TRANSLATION BY HAYLEY. 

Q,viE lenta accedit. quam velox prreterit hora ! 
Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto viiril ! 

Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how 

great ! 
Waiting to seize it — vigilantly wait ! 



A SIMILE LATINIZED. 

SoHS adversa geril stimulum, sed tendit et alas: 
Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 

WRITTE.N WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. 

To the March in Scipio. 

Toll for the brave! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 



HIS LATIN POEMS. 



741 



A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And slie was overset ; 
Diiwn went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Keinpcnlelt is gone ; 
His last sea-(ii;lit is fought; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

No tempest gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak. 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath ; 

His fingers held the pen. 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up. 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound. 

And she may float again, 
Full charged with England's thunder, 

And plough the distant main. 

But Kempenfelt is gone. 
His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the wave no more. 
Sept. lTe-3. 

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, GUI GEOR- 
GIUS REGALE NOMEN INDITUM. 

Planim.mus fortes. Periere fortes, 
Patrium propter periere littus 
Bis quatcr centum ; subito sub alto 
-Equore mersi. 

Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat, 
Malus ad summas trepidabat undas. 
Cum levis, funcs quatiens. ad imum 
Depulit aura. 

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam 
Fortibus vilaai voluere parcffi, 
Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes 
Nectere laurus, 

Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, 
Traditum ex mullis atavis tulisti ! 
At tuos olim mcmorabit levum 
Omne triuinphos. 

Non hyenis illos furibunda mersit, 
Non inari in clauso scopuli latentes, 
Fissa non rimis abics. nee atrox 
Abstulit ensis. 

Navila; scd turn nimium jocosi 
Voce fallibant liilari laborem, 
Et quiescclutt, calaaioquc dcxtramim- 
plevcrat heros. 

Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, 
Humidum ex alto spolium levate, 
Et putresccntes sub aquis amices 
Reddile amicis ! 

Hi quidcm (sic dis placuit) fuere: 
Scd ratis, nonduni putris. ire possit 
Rursus in helium, liritonunique noraen 
Tollere ad astra. 



IN BREVITATEM VIT.E SPATII HOMI- 
NIBUS CONCESSI. 

BY DR. JORTIN. 

Hki mihi ! lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 
Lunaque mutata; rcparat dispendia forms, 
.^strac|uc, purpurci telis extincta diei, 
Rursus nocte vigcnt. Huuiilcs telluris alumni. 
Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago, 
Quos crudelis hycms lethali tabe peredit, 
Cum Zephyri vox blanda vocat, rediitque sereni 
Temperics anni. foecundo e cespite surgunt. 
Nosdomini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati, 
Cum breve ver vitie robustaque transiit a!tas, 
Deficimus ; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras [vit. 
Reddit in iethereas, tumuli neque claustra rcsol- 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 

TRANSLATION OF THE POREGOINO. 

Sl'ns that set, and moons that wane, 
Rise and are restored again ; 
Stars, that orient day subdues. 
Night at her return renews. 
Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth 
Of the genial womb of earth, 
Suffer but a transient death 
From the winter's cruel breath. 
Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
We, alas! earth's haughty kings, 
We, that promise mighty things. 
Losing soon life's happy prime. 
Droop, and lade, in little time. 
Spring returns, but not our bloom ; 
Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 
Jan., 1784. 



THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 

Thk nyniph must lose her female friend, 
If more admired than she — 

But where will fierce contention end, 
If flowers can disagree "! 

Within the garden's peaceful scene 

Appear'd two lovely foes, 
Aspirmg to the rank of queen. 

The Lily and the Rose. 

The Rose soon redden'd into rage. 

And, swelling with disdain, 
Appeal'd to many a poet's page 

■Po prove her right to reign. 

The Lily's height l)cspoke command, 

A fair imperial flower; 
She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand, 

The sceptre of her power. 

This civil bickering and debate 
The goddess chanced to hear. 

And flew to save, ere yet too late, 
The pride of the parterre. 

Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, 
And yours the statelier mien ; 

Anii, till a third surpasses you. 
Let each be deem'd a queen. 



742 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks 

The fairest British f;iir ; 
The seat of empire is her cheeks, 

They reign united there. 

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 

Heu inimicitiiis quoties parit osmula forma, 
Quam raro pulchrffi pulchra placere potest! 

Sed fines ultra soUtos discortiia tendit, 
Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent. 

Hortus ubi dulces prffibet tacitosque reocssus, 
Se rapit in partes gens aniraosa duas ; 

Hie sibi regales Amaryllis Candida cultus, 
Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa. 

Ira Ro.sam et meritis qucesita superbia tangunt, 
Multaque ferventi vi.\ coliibenda sinu, 

Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatum, 
Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat. 

Altior emicat ilia, et celso vertice nutat, 
Ceu flores inter non habituru parem, 

Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usus 
Imperii, sceplrum. Flora quod ipsa gerat. 

Nee Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixae, 
Cui curiE est pictas pandere runs opes. 

Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri, 
Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest. 

Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus, inquit, 
Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color, 

Et donee vincat qufedam formosior ambas, 
Et tibi reginffi nomen, et esto tibi. 

His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham, 
Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit; 

Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius, 
Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis. [hujus 



THE POPLAR FIELD. 

Thr poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade. 
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; 
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, 
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. 

Twelve years had elapsed since I last took a view 
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they 

grew; 
And now in the grass behold they are laid. 
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. 

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, [heat, 
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the 
And the scene where his melody charm'd me 

before 
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 

My fugitive years are all hasting away, 
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, 
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, 
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 

Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, 
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
Have a being less durable even than he.* 

* Cowper afterwards altered this last stanza in the fol- 
lowing mannct': — 
The chan£!:e both my heart and my fancy employs, 
I retlect on the frailty of man, and his joys ; 
Short-lived a3 wc are, yet our pleasures, we see. 
Have a still shorter date, aud die sooner than we. 



IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 

PopuLE* cecidit gratissima copia silvoe, 
Conticuere susurri, omnisque evanuit umbra. 
Nullce jam levibus se miscent frondibus aurs, 
Et nulla in fluvio ramorum ludit imago. 

Hei mihi ! bis .senos dum luctu torqueor annos. 
His cogor silvis suetoque carere recessu. 
Cum sero rediens, stratasque in gramine cemens, 
Insedi arboribus, sub quels crrare solebam. 

Ah ubi nunc merulse cantus 1 Felicior ilium 
Silva tegit, durcE nondura permissa bipenni; 
.Scilicet exustos colles camposque patentes 
Odit, et indignans et non rediturus abivit. 

Sed qui succisas doleo succidar et ipse, 
Et prius huic parilis. qu.\m creverit altera silva, 
Flebor, et, cxeqiiiis parvis donatus, habebo 
Defixum lajjidem tumulique cubantis acervum. 

Tarn subito periisse videns tam digna manere, 
Agnosco hunianas sortes et tristia fata — 
Sit licet ipse brevis, volucrique simillimus umbrae ! 
Est homini brevior citiiisque obitura voluptas. 



VOTUM. 



O MATiTTiNi rores, auraeque salubres, 
O nemora, et Isetse rivis felicibus herba;, 
Graminei colles, et amoenae in vallibus umbrae. 
Fata modo dederint quas olim in rure paterno 
Delicias. procul arte, procul formidine novi, 
Quam vellem ignotus, quod mens mea semper 
avebat, [nectam. 

Ante larem proprium placidam expectare se- 
Tum demum, exactis non in feliciter annis, 
Sortiri taciturn lapidem, aut sub cespite condi ! 



TRANSLATION OF PRIOR'S CHLOE 
AND EUPHELIA. 

Mercator, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit, 
Nomine sub ficto trans mare mitit opes ; 

Lene sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis, 
Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chloe. 

Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines, 
Cum dixit, mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. 

Namque lyram juxta positam cum carmine vidit, 
Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram. 

Fila lyrte vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt, 
Et miscent numeris murmura moesta raeis, 

Dumque tuae memoro laudes, Euphelia, formae, 
Tola anima intere.\ pcndet ab ore Chloes. 

Subrubet ilia pudore, et contrahit altera frontem, 
Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo; 

Atque Cupidinea dixit Dea cincta corona, 
Heu I fallendi artem quam didicere paium. 



VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. 
LLOYD. 

SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT 
AFTER HIS DECEASE. 

Our good old friend is gone ; gone to his rest. 
Whose social converse was itself a feast. 



HIS LATIN POEMS. 



743 



O ye o( riper years, who recollect 
How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, 
Both in the lirnwuss of his better day, 
While yet he ruled you with a father's sway, 
And when, iinpair'd hy time, and f^lad to rest, 
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest. 
He took his annual scat, and mniglcd here 
His sprightly vein with yours — now drop a tear ! 
In morals blameless as in manners meek. 
He knew no wish that he mii^ht lilush to speak, 
lint, happv in whatever state below, 
Arn\ richer than the rich in being so, 
Oblaind the hearts of all. an<l such a meed 
At length from one* as made him rich indeed. 
Hence then, ye titles, henec, not wanted here ! 
Go ! garnish merit in a higher sphere, 
The brows of those, whose more exalted lot 
He could congratulate, but envied not ! 
Light lie the turf good senior, on thy breast ; 
Anil tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest, 
Tliough, living thou hadst more desert than fame. 
And not a stone now chronicles thy name ! 

Abut senex. Periit senex amabilis, 

Ciuo non fuit jucundior. 
Lugete vos, jctas quibus maturior 

Senem colendum prrcstitit ; 
Seu quando, viribus valentioribus 

Firmoque fntus pectore, 
Florentiori vos juvcntutc excolens 

Curil fovebat patria ; 
Seu quando, fractus, jamque donatus rude 

Vultu sed usque blandulo, 
Miscere gaudel>at suas facetias 

His annuls Icporibus, 

* He was usher nml ander-masler of Westminster, near 
fifty years, and retired from his uccupution when lie was 
near seventy, with a handsome pension from the king. 



Vixit probus, puriiquc simplex indole, 

Blandisque comis moribus, 
Et dives .xqua mentc, charus omnibus, 

Unius auctus muncre. 
Ite, tituli! Meritisbeatioribus 

Ajitate laudes debitas ! 
Nee invidebat ille, si quibus favcns 

Fortuna plus arriserat. 
Placide senex. levi quiescas cespite, 

Etsi superbum nee vivo tibi 
Decus sit inditum, nee mortuo 

Lapis notatus nomine ! 



As Cowper's Version of Homer is not included 
in this Edition of his Works, it seems necessary 
to assign the reasons which have led to the omis- 
sion. 

Distinguished as this Version unquestionably 
is, beyond any preceding attempt, for its fidelity 
and close adherence to the Grecian Bard, as 
well as for other excellences which have already 
been specified, it hasstill failed in securing an 
adequate reception from the British public. In 
the religious portion of the community it i^ well 
known that a very general sentiment of regret 
exists that the author of the Task, whose muse 
was capable of such high moral flights, should 
have consumed so many years in this laborious 
enterprise. Under these circumstances, its re- 
publication here, appeared to be undesirable, es- 
pecially as it would have added unc-third lo llic 
cost of the present Edition, and as editions of 
Cowper's Homer are already before the public, 
and accessible to all who attach an interest to 
this portion of the Poet's Works, 



THREE PAPERS, BY COWPER, 

INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 



"During Cowper's visit to Eartham, lie 
liindly pointed out to me," Hayley observes, 
"three of Iiis papers in the last volume of 
the 'Connoisseur.' — I inscribed tliem with his 
name at the time ; and imagine th.at the read- 
ers of his Life may be gratified in seeing 
them inserted here. I find other numbers of 
that work ascribed to him, but the thuee fol- 
lowing I print as his, on his own e.\plieit 
autliority. Number 119, Thursday, May 6, 
1756 — Number 134, Thursday, August 19, — 
Number 138, Thursday, Sept. 16." 



No. CXIX. 

Plenua runai-um sum, hue et illuc perfluo. 

Ter. 

Leaky at bottom ; if those chinks you stop. 
In vuiu — the secret will run o'er at top. 

There is no marii of our confidence taken 
more kindly by a friend than the entrusting 
him with a secret, nor any whicli he is so 
likely to abuse. Confidants in general are 
like crazy firelocks, which are no sooner 
charged and cocked than tlie spring gives 
way, and the report immediately follows. 
Happy to have been thought worthy the con- 
fidence of one friend, they are impatient to 
manifest their importance to another ; till, 
between tliem and tlieir friend and their 
friend's friend, the whole matter is presently 
known tn all our friends round the Wrekin. 
The secret catclies as it were by contact, and 
like electrical matter breaks forth from every 
link in the chain, almost at the same instant. 
Tlius the whole E.xchange may be thrown 
into a buzz to-morrow, by what was whis- 
pered in tlie middle of JMarlborough Downs 
tliis morning; and in a week's time the streets 
may ring with the intrigue of a woman of 
fashion, bellowed out from the foul mouths 
of the hawkers, though at present it is known 
to no creature living but her gallant and her 
waiting m.aid. 

As the talejit of secrecy is of so great im- 
portance to society, and the necessary com- 



merce between individuals cannot be securely 
carried on without it, that this deplorable 
weakness should be so general is much to be 
lamented. You may as well pour water into 
a funnel or sieve, and expect it to be retained 
there, as commit any of your concerns to so 
slippery a companion. It is remarkable that, 
in tho.se men who have thus lost tlie faculty 
of retention, the desire of being communica- 
tive is always most prevalent where it is least 
justified. If they are entrusted with a matter 
of no great moment, affairs of more conse- 
quence will perhaps in a few hours shufHe it 
entirely out of their thoughts ; but if any- 
thing be delivered to them with an earnest- 
ness, a low voice, and the gesture of a man 
in terror for the consequence of its being 
known ; if the door is bolted, and every pre- 
caution taken to prevent surprise, however 
they may promise secresy, and however they 
may intend it, the weight upon their minds 
will be so extremely oppressive, that it will 
certainly put their tongues in motion. 

This breach of Iru.st, so universal amongst 
us, is perhaps, in great measure owing to 
our education. The first lessons our little 
masters and misses are taught is to become 
blabs and tell-tales: they are bribed to divulge 
the petty intrigues of the l^miily below stairs 
to papa and mamma in tlie parlor, and a doll 
or hobby-horse is generally the encourage- 
ment of a propensity which could scarcely be 
atoned for by a whipping. As soon as chil- 
dren can lisp out the little intelligence they 
have picked up in the hall or the kitchen, 
they are admired for their wit; if the butler 
has been caught kissing the housekeeper in 
his pantry, or the footman detected in romp- 
ing with the chamber-maid, away Hies little 
Tommy or Betsy with the news; the parents 
are lost in admiration of the pretty rogue's 
understanding, and reward sucli uncommon 
ingenuity with a kiss or a sugar-plum. 

Nor does an inclination to secrecy meet 
with less encouragement at school. The 
gouvernantes at the boarding-school teach 
miss to be a good girl, and tell them every- 
thing she knows : thus, if any young lady is 



PAPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 



745 



unfortunately discovered eiiting a green apple 
in a eorner : if she is heard to pronounce a 
naughty word, or it caught picking the letters 
out of another miss's sampler : away runs 
the chit who is so happy as to get the start 
of the rest, screams out her information as 
she goes; and the prudent matron chucks 
her under the chin, and tells her tliat she is 
a good girl, and everybody will love her. 

Tlie management of our young gentlemen 
is equally absurd; in many of our schools, if 
a lad is discovered in a scrape, the impeach- 
ment of an .accomplice, as at the Old ]iailey, 
is made the condition of a pardon, i remem- 
ber a boy, engaged in robbing an orchard, 
who was unfortunately taken prisoner in an 
apple-tree, .and conducted, under the strong 
guard of the farmer and his dairy-maid, to 
the master's house. Upon his absolute re- 
fusal to discover his associates, the peda- 
gogue undertook to lash him out of his 
fidelity; but finding it impossible to scourge 
the secret out of him, he .at last gave him up 
for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his 
father, who told him he was ruined, and was 
going to disinherit him for not betraying his 
school-fellows. 

I nnist own I am not fond of thus drubbing 
our youths into treachery ; and am much 
pleased with tlie request of Ulysses, when he 
went to Troy, who begged of tiiose who were 
to have the care of young Telemachus, that 
they would above all things teach him to be 
ju.st, sincere, faitliful, and to keep a secret. 

Every man's experience must have fur- 
nished him with instances of confidants who 
are not to be relied on, and friends who are 
not to be trusted ; but few perhaps have 
thought it a character so well worth their 
attention, as to h.ave m.arked out the dW'erent 
degrees into which it may be divided, and the 
different methods by which secrets are com- 
municated. 

Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a very singular 
kind. Having some sense of his duty, he 
hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he 
engages never to utter a syllable, he most 
punctually performs his promise ; but then 
he has the knack of insinuating by a nod, 
and a shrug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, 
as much as others can convey in express 
terms. It is dilKcult, in short, to determine 
whether he is more to bo admired for his 
resolution in not mentioning, or his ingenuity 
in disclosing, a secret, lie is also excellent 
at a doubtful plirase, as Hamlet calls it, or 
ambiguous giving out, and his convcr.sation 
consists chiclly of such broken iinu'udocs as 
— "well I know — or I could — and if I would 
— or, if I list to speak — or there be, and if 
there might," &c. 

Here he generally stops ; and leaves it to 
his hearers to draw proper inferences from 
these piecemeal premises. With due en- 



couragement however he may be prevailed 
on to slip the padlock from his lips, and im- 
mediately overwhelms you with a torrent of 
secret history, which rushes forth with more 
violence for having been so long confined. 

Poor llcanwcjl, though he never fails to 
transgress, is rather to be pitied than con- 
demned. To trust him .with a secret is to 
spoil his appetite, to break his rest, and to 
deprive him for a time of every earthly enjoy- 
ment. Like a man who travels with his whole 
fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you 
approach him, and immediately suspects thiit 
you come with a felonious intention to rob 
liim of his charge. If he ventures abroad, it 
is to walk in some unfrequented place, where 
he is least in danger of an attack. At home, 
he shuts himself up from his family, paces to 
and fro in his chamber, and has no relief but 
from muttering over to himself what he longs 
to publish to the world: and would gl.adly 
submit to the office of town-crier, for the 
liberty of proclaiming it in the market-place. 
At length, however, weary of his burden, and 
resolved to bear it no longer, he consigns it 
to the custody of the first friend he meets, 
and returns to his wife with a cheerful as- 
pect, and wonderfully altered fur the better. 

Careless is perhaps eiiually undesigning, 
though not equally cxcu.sable. Entrust him 
with an affair of the utmost importance, on 
the concealment of which your fortune and 
happiness depend, he hears you with a kind 
of half attention, whistles a favorite air, and 
.accompanies it with the drumming of his fin- 
gers upon the table. As soon as your nar- 
ration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of 
it, he asks your opinion of his swordknot — 
condems his tailor for having dressed him in 
a snuff-colored coat instead of a pompadour, 
and leaves you in haste to attend an auction, 
where, as if he meant to dispose of his in- 
telligence to the best bidder, he divulges it 
with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's; and, 
when you tax him with having played you 
false, he is heartily sorry for it, but never 
knew that it was to be a secret. 

To these I might add the character of the 
open and unreserved, who thinks it a breach 
of friendship to conceal anything from his 
intimates; and the impertinent, who, having 
by dint of observation made himself master 
of your secret, imagines he may lawfully 
l)ublish the knowledge it cost him so much 
labor to obtain, and considers that privilege 
as the rev\ard due to his industry. Kut I 
shall leave these, with many other characters 
which my reader's own experience may sug- 
gest to him, and conclude w-ith prescribing, 
as a short remedy for this evil, that no man 
m.'iy betray the counsel of his friend — let 
every man keep his own. 



746 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



No. CXXXIV. 

Delicta raajorum immeritus lues, 
Romane, dont'C templa refeceris 
^desque labentes Deorura, et 
P^ceda nigra simulacra fumo. — HoR. 

The tott'ring tow'r, and mould^rins wall repair, 
And fill with decency the hous^e of prayV ; 
(iuick to the needy ciu-ate brini; relief. 
And deck the parish-church without a brief 

MR. VILLAGE TO MR. TOWN. 

Dear Cousin, — The countfy at present, no 
less than the metropolis, abounding with 
politicians of every kind, I begin to despair 
of picking up any intelligence tliat miglit 
possibly be entertaining to your readers. 
However, I have lately visited some of the 
most distant parts of the kingdom with a 
clergyman of my acquaintance : I shall not 
trouble you with an account of the iiuprove- 
ments tliat have been made in the seats we 
s.aw, according to the modern taste, but pro- 
ceed to give you some reflections which oc- 
curred to us in observing several country 
churches, and the behavior of their congre- 
g.itions. 

The ruinous condition of some of these 
edifices gave me great offence; and I could 
not help wishing that the honest vicar, in- 
stead of indulging his genius for improve- 
ments, by enclosing his gooseberry-bushes 
with a Chinese rail, and converting half an 
acre of his glebe land into a bowling-green, 
would have applied part of liis income to the 
more laudable purpose of sheltering his 
parishioners from the weather during their 
attendance on divine service. It is no un- 
common thing to see the parsonage-house 
well thatched, and in exceeding good repair, 
while the church, perhaps, has scarce any 
other roof than the ivy tliat grows over it. 
The noise of owls, bats, and magpies, makes 
the principal part of the church music in 
many of these ancient edifices ; and the walls, 
like a large m.ap, seem to be portioned out 
into capes, seas and promontories, by the va- 
rious colors by which the damps have stained 
them. Sometimes, the foundation being too 
weak to support the steeple any longer, it 
hits been found expedient to pull down that 
part of tlie building, and to hang the bells 
under a wooden shed on the ground beside 
it. This is the case in a parish in Norfolk, 
through which I lately passed, and where the 
clerk and the sexton, like the two figures of 
St. Dunstan's, serve the bells in the cap.acity 
of clappers, by striking them alternately with 
a hammer. 

In other churches, I have observed that 
nothing unseemly or ruinous is to be found, 
except in the clergyman, and the appendages 
of his person. The 'squire of tlie parish, or 
his ancestors, perhaps to testify tlieir devo- 
tion and leave a lasting monument of their 
magnificence, have adorned the altar-piece 



with the richest crimson velvet, embroidered 
with vine-leaves and ears of wheat: and have 
dressed up the pnlpit with the same splendor 
and expense ; while the gentleman who tills 
it, is exalted in the midst of all this finery, 
with a surplice as dirty as a larmer's frock, 
and a periwig that seems to have transferred 
its faculty of curling to the band which ap- 
pears in full buckle beneath it. 

But if 1 was concerned to see several dis- 
tressed pastors, as well as many of our 
country churches in a tottering condition, I 
was more offended with the indecency of 
worship in others. I could wish that the 
clergy would inform their congregation.s, 
that there is no occasion to scream them- 
selves hoarse in making their responses ; 
that tlie town-crier is not the only person 
qualified to pray with true devotion; and 
that lie who bawls the loudest, may never- 
theless be the wickedest fellow in the parish. 
The old women too in the aisle might be 
told, that their time would be better em- 
ployed in attending to the sermon, th.an in 
fumbling over their tattered Testaments till 
they have found the text ; by which time the 
discourse is near drawing to a conclusion: 
while a word or two of instruction might not 
be thrown away upon the younger part of 
the congregation, to teach them that making 
posies in summer-time, and cracking nuts in 
autumn, is no part of the religious ceremony. 
The good old practice of psalm-singing is in- 
deed wonderfully improved in many country 
churches, since the days of Sternliold and 
Hopkins ; and there is scarce a parish clerk 
who has so little taste as not to pick his 
staves out of the new version. Tliis has 
occasioned great complaints in some places, 
where the clerk has been forced to bawl by 
himself, because the rest of the congregation 
cannot find the psalm at the end of their 
prayer books ; while others are higlily dis- 
gusted at the innovation, and stick as obsti- 
nately to the old version as to the old style. 

The tunes themselves have also been new 
set to jiggish measures, and the sober drawl, 
which used to accompany the two first staves 
of the hundredth psalm, with the 'Gloria 
Patri,' is now split into as many quavers as 
an Italian air. For this purpose there is in 
every county an itinerant band of vocal mu- 
sicians, who make it their business to go 
round to all the churches in their turns, and, 
after a prelude with a pitch-pipe, astonish the 
audience with hymns set to the new Win- 
chester measure, and anthems of their own 
composing. 

As these new-fashioned pstilmodists are 
necessarily made up of young men and maids, 
we may naturally suppose that there is ;i per- 
fect concord and symphony between them ; 
and, indeed, I have known it happen that 
these sweet singers have more than once 



been brought into disgrace by too close a uni- 
son between the thorough-base and the treble. 

It is a dillioult matter to decide wliich is 
looked upon as the greatest man in a country 
church, the parson or his clerk. The latter 
is most certainly held in the higher venera- 
tion, where the former happens to be only a 
poor curate, who rides post every sabbath 
IVora village to village, and mounts and dis- 
mounts at the church door. The clerk's of- 
fice is not only to tag the prayers with an 
amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave, 
but he is also the universal father to give 
away the brides, and the standing god-father 
to ail tlie new-born bantlings. But in many 
places there is still a great<"r man belonging 
to the church than either the parson or the 
clerk himself. The person I mean is the 
'stpiire : who, like the king, may be styled 
the head of the church in his own parish. If 
the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his 
creature, and of consequence entirely at his 
devotion: or, if the care of the church be left 
to a curate, the Sunday fees, roast beef and 
plum-pudding, and the liberty to shoot in the 
manor, will bring him .as much under the 
'squire's command as his dogs and horses. 

For this reason the bell is often kept toll- 
ing, and the people waiting in the church- 
yard an hour longer than tbe'usual time ; nor 
must the service begin till the 'squire has 
strutted up the aisle and seated himself in 
the great pew in the chancel. The length of 
the sermon is also measured by the will of 
the 'squire, as formerly by the hourglass, and 
I know one parish where the preacher has 
always the complaisance 1o conclude his dis- 
course, however abrnptly, the minute that the 
'squire gives the signal by rising up after liis 
nap. 

In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or 
the vicar's wife, are perhaps the only females 
that are stared at for their finery ; but in the 
large cities and towns, where the newest 
fashions are brought down weekly by the 
stage-coach or wagon, all the wives and 
daughters of the most topping tradesmen 
vie with each other every Sunday in the elc- 
g.ance of their apparel. I could even trace 
their gradations in their dress according to 
the opulence, the extent, and the distance of 
the place from London. I was at a church 
in a populous city in the north, where the 
mace-bearer clcired the way for Jlrs. M.ayor- 
ess, who came sideling after him in an enor- 
mous fan-hoop, of a pattern which had never 
been seen before in tiiosc [larts. At another 
church in a corporation town, I saw several 
T^'i'gl indies, with furbelowcd aprons, which had 
long disputed the prize of superiority; but 
these were most wofully eclipsed by a bur- 
gess's daughter just come from London, who 
appeared in a Trnllojie or Slammerkin with 
treble ruffles to the cull's, pinked and gimpcd, 



and the sides of the petticoat drawn up in 
festoons. In some lesser borough towns, 
the contest I found lay between three or four 
black and green bibs and aprons ; at one, a 
grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a new- 
fashioned cap called a Joayi, and at another, 
they were wholly taken up by a mercer's 
datigbter in a nun's hood. 

1 need not say anything of the behavior of 
the congregation in tliese more polite places 
of religious resort; as the s.ame genteel cer- 
emonies are practised there as at the most 
fashionable churches in town. The ladies, 
immediately on their entrance, breathe a pious 
ejacuKation through their fan-sticks, and the 
beaux very gravely address themselves to the 
haberdaslK'r.s' bills, glewed upon tlie lining of 
their hats. This pious duty is no sooner per- 
formed, than the exercise of bowing and 
courtseying succeeds: the locking and un- 
locking of the peW'S drowns the reader's 
voice at the beginning of the service ; and 
the rustling of silks, .added to the whispering 
and tittering of so much good company, ren- 
ders him totally unintelligible to the very end 
of it. 

I am, dear cousin, yours, &c. 



No. CXXXVIIL 

Servaia semper lege et rationc loquendi.— Jcv. 

Your talk to decency and reason suit. 

Nor prate like foots, or gabble like a brute ! 

In the comedy of " The Frenchman in 
London," which, we are told, was acted at 
Paris with universal applause for several 
nights together, there is a character of a 
rough Englishman, who is represented .is 
quite unskilled in the graces of conversation, 
and his dialogue con.sists almost entirely of 
a repetition of the common .salutation of — 
" How do you do '. — How do you do ?" Our 
nation has, indeed, been generally supposed 
to be of a sullen and uncommunicative dis- 
position ; while, on the other liand, the lo- 
qu.acious French have been allowed to pos- 
sess the art of conversing beyond all other 
people. The Englishman requires to be 
wound up frequently, and stops very soon ; 
but the Frenchm.an runs on in a continual 
alarum. Yet it must be acknowledged, that, 
as the English consist of very difterent hu- 
mor.s, their manner of discourse admits of 
great variety ; but the whole French nation 
converse alike, and there is no diflerence in 
their address between a marquis and a valet- 
dc-chainbre. We may frequently see a couple 
of French barbers accosting each other in 
the street, and paying their compliments with 
the same volubility of speech, the same gri- 
mace and action, as two courtiers in the 
Tuilcrics. 

1 shall not attempt to lay down any par- 



748 



COWPER'S WORKS. 



ticuhir rules for conversation, but rather 
point out suc'li faults in discourse and be- 
havior as render the company of half man- 
kind rather tedious than amusing. It is in 
vain, indeed, to look for conversation, where 
we might expect to tind it in the greatest 
perfection, among persons of fashion ; there 
it is almost annihilated by universal card- 
playing ; insomuch that I have heard it given 
as a reason why it is impossible for our pres- 
ent writers to succeed in the dialogue of 
genteel comedy, that our people of quality 
scarce ever meet but to game. All their dis- 
course turns upon the odd trick and the four 
honors, and it is no less a maxim with the 
votaries of whist than with those of Bacchus, 
that talking spoils company. 

Every one endeavors to make himself as 
agreeable to society as he can ; but it often 
happens that those who most aim at shin- 
ing in conversation overshoot their mark. 
Though a man succeeds, he should not (as 
is frequently the case) engross the whole 
talk to himself; for that destroys the very 
essence of conversation, which is talking to- 
gether. We sliould try to keep up conver- 
sation like a ball bandied to and fro from 
one to another, rather than seize it ourselves, 
and drive it before us like a football. We 
should likewise be cautious to adapt the 
matter of our discourse to our company, and 
not talk Greek before ladies, or of the last 
new furbelow to a meeting of country 
justices. 

But nothing throws a more i-idiculous air 
over our conversations than certain peculiar- 
ities, easily acquired, but very difficultly con- 
quered and discarded. In order to display 
these absurdities in a truer light, it is my 
present purpose to enumerate such of them 
as are most commonly to bo met with ; and 
first to take notice of those butfoons in so- 
ciety, the attitudinarians and fiice-makers. 
These accompany every word with a peculiar 
grimace or gesture ; they assent with a shrug, 
and contradict with a twisting of the neck ; 
are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in 
a caper or a minuet step. They may be con- 
sidered as .speaking harlequins, and their 
rules of eloquence are taken from the pos- 
ture-master. These should be condemned 
to converse only in dumb show with their 
own person in tiie looking-ghiss : as well as 
the smirkers and smilers, who so prettily set 
off their faces, together with tlieir words, by 
a je-ne-srai-quoi between a grin and a dim- 
ple. With these we may likewise rank the 
affected tribe of mimics, who are constantly 
taking off fhe peculiar tone of voice or ges- 
ture of their acquaintance; thougli they are 
such wretched imitators, that (like bad paint- 
ers) they are frequently forced to write the 
name under the picture, before we can dis- 
cover any likeness. 



Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed 

in action, and who converse chiefly with their 

arras and legs, we may consider the professed 

speakers. And first, the empliatical ; who 

squeeze, and press, and ram down every syl- 

j lable with excessive vehemence and energy. 

These orators are remarkable for their distinct 

[ elocution and force of expression ; they dwell 

on the important particles o/'and Ihe, and the 

significant cojijunctive and, which they seem 

I to hawk up with much difficulty out of their 

; own throats, and to cram them with no less 

pain into the ears of their auditors. 

These should be suffered only to syringe, 
as it were, the ears of a deaf man, through a 
hearing-trumpet; though I must confess, that 
I am equally otlended witli whisperers or low 
speakers, who seem to fancy all their ac- 
quaintance deaf, and come up so close to you, 
that they may be said to measure noses witli 
you, and frequently overcome you with the 
exhalations of a powerful breath. I would 
have these oracular gentry obliged to talk 
at a distance through a speaking-trumpet, or 
apply their lips to the walls of a whispering- 
gallery. The wits who will not condescend 
to utter anything but a bon-mot, and the 
whistlers or tunehummers, who ne\'er arti- 
culate at all, may be joined very agreeably 
together in coneert; and to these tinkling 
cymbals I would also add the sounding brass 
— the bawler, who inquires after your health 
with the bellowing of a town-crier. 

The tattlers, whose pliable pipes are .admi- 
rably adapted to the " soft parts of conversa- 
tion," and sweetly " prattling out of fashion," 
make very pretty music from a beautiful face 
and a female tongue ; but from a rough 
manly voice and coarse features, mere non- 
sense is as harsh and dissonant as a jig from 
a hurdy-gurdy. The swearers I have spoken 
of in a former paper ; but the half-swearers, 
who split, and mince, and fritter their oaths 
into Gad's bid, ad's fish, and demme, the 
Gothic humbuggers, and those who '• nick- 
name God's creatures," and call a man a cab- 
bage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and 
an unaccountable jtiuskin, should never come 
into comi)any without an interpreter. But I 
will not tire my readers patience by pointing 
out all the pests of conver.sation ; nor dwell 
particularly on the sensibles, who pronounce 
dogmatically on the most trivial points, and 
speak in sentences ; — the wonderers, who are 
always wondering what o'clock it is, or won- 
dering whether it will rain or no, or wonder- 
ing when the moon changes; the phraseol- 
ogists, who explain a thing by all thai, or 
enter into particulars with iliis, that, and 
t'other; and lastly, the silent men, who seem 
afraid of opening their niouth.s lest they 
should catch cold, and literally observe the 
precept of the go.spel, by lettuig their con- 
versation be only yea, yea, and n.iy, nay. 



PAPERS INSERTED IN THE CONNOISSEUR. 



749 



The rational intercourse kept up by con- 
versation is one of our priiicii)al distinctions 
from brutes. We sliould, tijerolbre, endea- 
vor to turn tliis peculiar talent to our ad- 
vantage, and consider tlie organs of speech 
as the instruments of understanding. We 
should be very careful not to use them as the 
weapons of vice, or tools of folly, and do our 
utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous 
habits which tend to lessen the value of such 
an inestimable prerogative. It is indeed im.i- 
gined by some philosophers, that even birds 
and beasts (though without the power of 
articulation) perfectly understand one an- 
other by the sounds they utter; and th.at 
dogs and cats, &c., have each a particular 
language to themselves, like different notions. 
Thus it may be supposed that the nightin- 
gales of Italy have as fine an ear for their 
own native wood notes, as any signer or 
signora for an Italian air; that the boars of 
Westphalia gruntle as expressively through 
the nose as the inhabitants in High German; 
and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland 
croak as intelligibly as the n.itives jabber their 
Low Dutch. However this may be, we may 
consider those whose tongues hardly seem 



to be under the influence of reason, and do 
not keep up the proper conversation of 
luinian creatures, as imitating tlie language 
of different animals : thus, for instance, the 
alHnity between chatterers and monkeys, and 
praters and parrots, is too obvions not to oc- 
cur at once : gruntcrs and growlers may be 
justly compared to hogs; snarlcrs are curs; 
and the xpiijlre passionate are a sort of wild 
cats, that will not bear stroking, but will purr 
when they are pleased. Complainers are 
screech-owls; and story-tellers, always re- 
peating the same dull note, arc cuckoos. 
Poets that prick uj) their ears at their own 
hideous braying arc no better than asses; 
critics in general are venomous serpents that 
delight in hissing; and some of thcni, who 
have got by heart a few techm'cal terms, with- 
out knowing their meaning, are no other than 
magjiies. 1 myself, who have crowed to 
the wliole town for near three years past, 
may perhaps put my readers in mind of a 
dunghill cock ; but as I must acquaint them 
that they will hear the last of me on this day 
fortnight, I hope they will then consider me 
.as a swan, who is supposed to sing sweetly 
in his dying moments. 



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